#open piano for refugees

[cmonbartender]

Amanda Palmer performing at Open Piano for Refugees (2019) - Manfred Werner

[zara-renata]

Before you came, things were as they should be | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: You spend a lot of time wrestling with questions of morality, there's more poetry because the author has no self control, you may or may not burn out Mephisto's eye optics with your antics trying to provoke Sylus, Noah and the twins drag you to the club.

Notes: Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, second person POV This story contains: profanity, alcohol use, mc with self esteem issues, nudity

This is how it goes.

You watch Sylus as he moves around the kitchen, the dark marble counters gleaming in the soft light, the fire crackling in the huge fireplace, his fortress a yacht in a sea of desolation.

His hands are strong, sure, as they slice vegetables, as they slice meat, as they flip colorful medleys of ingredients in the carbon steel wok.

He leans over the corner of the island, where you’re perched on one of the black leather barstools, offering you his pinky dripping with sauce. “Taste.”

You watch him as you lean forward, wrap your lips around his finger, let your tongue run along his skin, obeying him and tasting the sauce. When you’ve sucked it clean, you continue watching him, the sweep of his soft white hair, the flush in his pale cheeks, his eyes on your lips, your lips wrapped around his finger.

You’ve been focusing on all the wrong things. You’ve been paying attention to all the wrong things.

Sylus has all but admitted that you are his beloved. That you are the one he adores, the one he has been trying to win over. You would be mad about his manipulation, if you didn’t also recognize that you wouldn’t have believed him, three days ago, that you are who he wants to convince of the sincerity of his intentions. You wonder if Sylus’s evol can manipulate time—every second here in his home feels like the equivalent of a year in the outside world. You wonder if the changes you feel in yourself, the changes in the way you’re looking at him, are a result of time being sped up somehow without you realizing it. 

You’ve been so wrapped up in your pain, in your fear, that you’ve let your fear of the end, your fear of rejection, your guilt, your unworthiness—you’ve let all these things distract you. It’s easy to wallow. It’s much, much harder to open your eyes and look.

You should have died when Caleb died.

You probably should have died before your memories begin—who knows what caused you to lose your childhood? What accident led to you being taken in by your grandmother’s lab, your heart fodder for experimentation, because you shouldn’t have lived anyway?

Expendable. Your whole life, expendable—your mangled heart the byproduct of that expendability—and yet Caleb is the one who is dead.

But you didn’t die. You didn’t die in whatever calamity took your parents. And if they weren’t killed, then you didn’t die when your parents abandoned you—what do you know? You know only fear, guilt, a lack of memory, and now—with Sylus playing records for you, playing the piano for you, providing you with poetry in his library—now you’re full of, if not memory, then familiarity. What do you know? 

Nothing. Too much. Not enough.

You watch Sylus. You want to see him, without fear, without awe, without judgment. He said he’d give you time. You weren’t ready to acknowledge that you are who he wants, despite the mounting evidence that he has never lied to you. But he also hasn’t told you the whole truth, has he? Sylus, the master of the fine print.

The question is: if you are Sylus’s beloved, why?

And if you are Sylus’s beloved, what are you willing to accept in order to return his feelings?

You think of the executioners singing their joyful songs.

The refugees going nowhere.

The ships whose fate is salty oblivion.

You watch Sylus, whose lovely finger slips from between your lips. You watch his big hands, and think of them letting blood diamonds carelessly clatter to the floor as so much of the world starves.

What does it mean to love a man like Sylus Qin? What does it make you, if you want to be loved by a man like Sylus Qin?

You watch him as he pops his finger into his own mouth, despite it being clean from your tongue. His nostrils flair. “The verdict?” he asks.

“It’s good. Not too salty. Nice umami,” you murmur, honestly. Sylus is a good cook. You wonder where his chef is. Why you haven’t seen any other staff that he has to have in order to maintain a house of this size in the clean, meticulously kept state that it’s currently in. Not like when you first met him, with dust coating everything.

“Oh, nice umami, huh?” he teases you.

“You’re not the only one who can say pretentious shit.” You lean over the counter, stretching your body, resting your cheek on the cool marble. You watch him watching you, his eyes tracking your chest, your waist, before they slide back up to meet your eyes.

You don’t feel worthy of his eyes on you. This feeling is compounded by the fact that this man is opposed to everything you’ve spent your career working to fight. You aren’t worthy of the man and wanting the man, makes you more unworthy still.

What would Caleb say, if he saw you with Sylus’s fingers in your mouth? His wealth wrested from the hands of the dead, clothing your body, filling your belly, soothing your tired, hurting soul?

But Caleb’s dead too. He doesn’t have anything to say at all, anymore.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Sylus says, watching you watching him. He must see something in the expression of your face.

“Only a penny? Why are the rich the stingiest fuckers of all?” you ask without heat.

“I don’t know the value of your thoughts. What if I offer my heart in payment, only to find out that you’re thinking about indigestion, or the latest plot twist in Super Hunters?” he asks, turning away, spooning fluffy, fragrant rice into a pretty little black bowl, heaping the stir fried meat and vegetables, with the delicious sauce, over the rice.

“I would hope that even my most inane thoughts are worth more than a penny to a person who properly values me,” you say, taking the bowl and the chopsticks he offers you. You say this, while not believing it. You don’t dare hope for the knowledge of your indigestion to be of value to anyone but yourself. But for the people you care about—you would want to get Xavier Tums if he had a stomachache. Get Tara a hangover remedy if she’s too hungover to move. Make Rafayel a snack while he whines melodramatically on the couch in his studio after having been so wrapped up in completing a painting that he forgot to eat.

Sylus pours sake into little cups, slides one over to you before turning and plating food for himself. “Ah, kitten is in a contemplative, belligerent mood tonight. How about I offer you a tour of my favorite part of the greenhouse in exchange for your current thoughts?” he asks serenely, joining you at the counter. 

“You already promised me that,” you say, just to vex him.

“Driving a hard bargain tonight, darling.” He sips the sake, closes his eyes, savors. “What can I do to cheer you up?”

“Just tolerate me when I’m like this,” you say honestly. It’s not his fault that he is who he is. That his wealth, his manner of approaching the world, his appreciation of the mutilated world poses such a conundrum for you. You suspect that he has his reasons for doing what he does, for how he does it. You think of the sense of loss you felt hearing The long and winding road. The piano piece he composed. The sense of familiarity that his touch brings when his fingers are gliding along your skin.

You wonder again what he was like as a little boy. What he must have survived to be this bored, cynical, cruel man.

You already feel unworthy of the good things in life. Of the accolades of being a successful hunter. Of having lived, when Caleb died. It’s not Sylus’s fault that you look at everything he has to offer and wonder what you will have to sacrifice in order to fully accept him. You're unworthy, and ungrateful.

As you watch him watching you, as you revel in the glow of his eyes, the uneven slope of his nose, his big lovely mouth—but more importantly, the softness in his gaze as he watches you watching him—you already know how it ends.

This is how it goes.

You sleep the sleep of the dead. One of the things you cruelly, unfairly, envy Caleb for. Because he’s at peace. He’s not hurting anymore. All the sorrows and cruelty of surviving in this world are behind him. Or they had better be. You can’t bear to believe in a universe cruel enough that even the dead know no peace.

You sleep the sleep of the dead. Sylus provides this for you, most nights. Wrapped in his arms. Underneath him. Spooning his big body, your arm thrown over his waist, when you wake in the middle of the night and find that he's too far away. You fall back asleep almost instantly.

As the days pass, as Sylus follows you like a shadow, and the nights which are actually days slip by without another night terror, without the endless hallways of your gran’s house, without falling to your death, you feel that you’re steadily growing stronger. Rested. Your broken pieces knitting back together, if a little jaggedly.

You know that there are some wounds that will never heal.

Your guilt that Caleb died, while you survived. Your jealousy that Caleb died, while you have to live. Your jagged pieces still rub against each other unpleasantly at times, even as you physically heal. But you feel more alert. Physically, you are stronger than you’ve been in months.

You’ve only been here a week, but already you feel like you’ve been gone from your normal life for months, years.

Your feet heal. Whatever balm Sylus rubs along your soles each night must contain something priceless with how quickly your skin knits back together.

You try to give Sylus space. You don’t want him to tire of you too quickly, after all.

Every time he gets a phone call, you leave the room. You wander to other parts of the house. Mephisto follows you each time. And each time, Sylus finds you again. No matter what you’re doing, he joins you. In the theater room, starting a film that you plucked from his collection. He stretches out on the couch, pulls you alongside him, spoons you from behind. The film is in black and white, and it takes its time telling the story. You don’t mean to, but you fall asleep. He’s there when you wake up.

One time, you drift to the gym and find the twins in the boxing ring, pummeling the shit out of each other. You have a feeling the twins chose the decor in the gym, because it looks like a video game streamer’s ideal setup in terms of lighting. The twins are shirtless, well-muscled torsos slick with sweat reflecting the LED lighting ringing the edges of the ceiling which changes colors every few minutes, a constantly morphing rainbow. Screens line the walls showing various athletic competitions as well as video game tournaments. 

You turn and find Noah on a stair stepper facing the boxing ring. She’s sweating, her braids pulled back and up and held in place with a wide colorful cloth headband.

“Wanna join? Are your feet up for it?” she asks, eyes flicking between you and the twins. Kieran lands a punch to Luke’s stomach that has him doubling over, laughing breathlessly.

“Nice,” he pants, before wrapping his arms around Kieran’s torso and ramming him into the ropes. Kieran shoves him to the mat, and they wrestle for a while, grunting and laughing. They sound like they’re having the time of their lives.

“My feet may be, but not the rest of me. How are you not bored out of your mind on that thing?” you ask her. You’ve always hated cardio machines like the stair stepper, the treadmill, the elliptical. You’d rather run outside, Caleb at your side. Or lift weights, loud music and the strain on your muscles distractions from the monotony of the workout.

“Knowing my fine ass is only getting finer keeps me going,” she grins at you. She glances back at the twins. “The view isn’t awful, either. Not that I’d tell them that again though.”

“Oh?” 

“Luke’s ace, and I don’t wanna creep him out.”

You stare at her.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m a car thief, not a creep. I'm appreciating art now, nothing else.”

“I didn’t say anything,” you laugh. You watch Kieran and Luke for a while longer when a thought occurs to you. “Will you tell me now what you meant by not doing Sylus’s work for him?”

“Oh, yeah, I guess it doesn’t matter if you know now.” She pants a little, adjusts the speed of the stair stepper. “I’m not Sylus’s driver. Can you imagine that man letting anyone else drive his big ass around?”

The way she worded that sentence makes you imagine a driver just carting Sylus’s ass, and only his ass, around in a wagon. It could use its own zip code, so you don’t think the imagery is that absurd but you still have to stifle a laugh. “Not really, no. I can’t see him trusting someone enough to do the job as well as he thinks he can,” you say drily.

“Yeah, exactly.”

You gaze up at her. “So?” You prompt, when it’s clear that she’s gotten a little distracted by Kieran downing a water bottle, the water spilling over his mouth and down his broad chest and splattering onto the sweaty mat.

She looks back at you, not looking at all ashamed at being caught gawking. “You’re supposed to be a detective or some shit. So detect. Who do you think I’m supposed to be driving around?”

You think back to the argument she and Luke had while you were having a mounting anxiety attack about the bet. On standby in case the hunter wants to go anywhere.

“Sylus hired you to drive me around?” you ask, stunned.

“Ding ding ding, there’s hope for you yet.” She rolls her eyes. 

“When?” you ask, trying to wrap your mind around this fact. Sylus only ever came to your place, before the night he asked you to Amnesia. You’re perfectly capable of driving yourself anywhere, on either two or four wheels. Why would he think you need a driver?

“The other night at Amnesia.”

“So he had just hired you when I saw you for the first time?”

She nods serenely, back to looking at the twins. 

“But why?”

“I’m just the driver, ask your scary boyfriend,” she says distractedly.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you protest. 

She looks down at you incredulously. “Does he know that?”

“What?”

“The way that man carries you around like a damned koala is not friendly. It’s boyfriendly. Or like, obsessively. Also, he hired me and hasn’t made me do anything at all. I am getting paid more than I ever have in my life, I have paid holiday, insurance, holiday bonuses, and all he asks is that I’m available anytime you need a ride or a getaway driver. Would the scary-ass motherfucking leader of Onychinus do that for just anyone?”

You just gawk at her. 

At the look on your face, she snorts. “That poor bastard must have the worst case of blue balls in the history of men who love clueless idiots. Truly, the duality of man. Sinister overlord of the N109 Zone on the one hand, a helpless simp on the other.”

“Okay, okay, no need to call anyone names,” you mumble, reeling from this information. Why Sylus thinks you would trust anyone to drive your ass around any more than he would allow anyone to drive him around is beyond you. But the thought is so fucking sweet, even if you don’t understand what he’s thinking at all.

After a few minutes of sitting with Noah in companionable silence, Sylus finds you in the gym. He nods to Noah and opens his arms. “Come, I’m hungry.” You stare at him for a moment, thinking about what Noah just told you.

You have no idea how long I’ve already waited.

But why won’t he kiss you? What if Noah is wrong too?

You walk into his arms, let him lift you and carry you out of the gym. Noah mouths Boyfriend at you as you meet her amused look over Sylus’s broad shoulder.

This is how it goes.

Another day, after yet another phone call, you wander back to the library, pull out more poetry. You stare at the twisting wrought-iron staircase. He told you to explore, didn’t he?

Before you take the first step, you test a theory. “Fire,” you order, and the fireplace roars to life. You stare into the flames. The house recognizes your face. It recognizes your voice. Mephisto watches you from a perch in the corner of the library, ruby eyes glittering. You watch him in return. You think about Sylus watching you through all those long weeks after he released you from his home after the auction, through Mephisto, through the twins. What did he see when he looked at you? The dark circles under your eyes. Your clumsiness in battle from the endless insomnia, the injuries. Your solitude, even when surrounded by people. What do you have to offer such a man? Why was he looking then, and why is he looking now?

You approach Mephisto, clutching the book in one hand. “May I?” you ask. He caws softly, a terrible little sound. You run your hand along the soft feathers along his back and he lets you. 

You step back, and he tilts his head.

The library is warm. Warmer than the rest of the cold hallways. It wasn’t this warm when Sylus first showed you the space. 

You stare at Mephisto, who stares at you in return. Sylus will use him to find out where you are, when he’s done with his phone call. As he found you in the pool.

He licked cinnamon and sugar from the side of your mouth. He bit your lip. He pushed your hand away when you touched the tie of his pants. His body responds to you, but he does not acknowledge it.

If you’re his beloved, what is stopping him, when you can’t hide your emotions from him at all? Surely he can see the want all over you when he’s near.

You think about his hands, soaked in blood. Blood diamonds clinking on a cold marble floor. His signature bombs bringing down buildings while people are inside, the collateral damage a price he’s willing to pay with other peoples’ lives.

You reach down with one hand, clumsily lift the hem of your sweater, pull it over your head. You’re wearing a tight tank top underneath.

You turn, set the book on a table in the soft pool of light from one of the colorful stained glass lamps. You shimmy out of your sweat pants. You place your sweater and your pants on the table, neatly. You turn and face Mephisto again, watch him watching you, as you stand in your underwear in the warmth of the library.

After a moment, you turn again, and softly pad up the winding wrought-iron staircase.

At the top, it’s warm. Heat rises. It’s a sort of crow’s nest, a lighthouse, a lookout. Windows in a three-hundred-sixty-degree circle, a pinnacle of Sylus’s home. You see the greenhouse sprawling into the distance below. The barren N109 Zone wasteland in one direction, its cityscape in the other. Lining the little circular room under the windows is a soft bench seat, almost all the way around. Pillows and blankets. This is a reading room at the top of the world. You can breathe. The red moon is waning, less full than when you first arrived, but its light still fills the room, blankets everything in softly sinister light. The flap of Mephisto’s wings alert you to the fact that he has followed as you knew he would. You watch him for a moment, wondering if Sylus is looking yet, and then stretch out on your stomach along the curving window seat, resting on your elbows, your legs bent and crossed at the ankles in the air. You begin to read.

You lose yourself in the poetry.

After a while—it could be a few minutes, it could be hours, time feels like it has no meaning here after all—Mephisto flutters his wings and suddenly a swirl of scarlet and ink flows up the stairs and winds around your ankles, cuffing them together. The mist flows under your elbows and stomach, and you’re gently lifted until the tendrils solidify underneath you. Where before you were leisurely reading on your stomach, now you’re draped across Sylus’s lap and he has both of your ankles in one big hand.

You just drop your head onto your open book and laugh a little helplessly.

“Well, are you going to read to me or just continue to laugh?” Sylus asks, as if him appearing underneath you is perfectly normal and requires no further comment.

“And if I’m just going to keep laughing at your theatrics?” you tease him.

He rests one big hand on the back of your naked thigh, runs his palm up, up, until it rests just under your ass. “I don’t mind this position at all. Keep laughing, see what happens.”

You laugh again, and wiggle on his lap. “Empty threats,” you taunt him. He grunts, softly, and then squeezes your thigh almost to the point of pain, in what seems to be an attempt to get you to stop moving.

Your heart sinks a little. He doesn’t want this flirtation from you. You all but invited him to slap your ass, to do something. Noah is wrong. Maybe his idea of a beloved is someone on a pedestal, whom he simply wants to admire like an interesting accessory, a collectible that he never takes out of the box. What the fuck do you know?

You give up. 

“Do you want me to read to you?” you ask, trying to crane your neck so you can look back into his face.

“Don’t strain yourself,” he scolds you, lifting you with his evol. You’re weightless, suspended before him, before you’re gently turned, spun from your stomach until you’re floating on your back. His evol sets you down again, this time with your head in his lap, and you can look up into his face comfortably. He graces you with a slight smile, one corner of his mouth lifted. “And yes. Read to me.”

You watch him, watching you. He makes no comment about the fact that you’ve taken off half your clothes. You wonder what he sees when he looks at you.

You think of how warm his lap is underneath you. How he now rests one of his hands on your bare thigh, caresses it with a calloused thumb.

You think about his trigger finger along your skin, and wonder how many people he’s killed with it.

What kind of person does it make you, that you want his hand with its calloused thumb and trigger finger to drift up, up, to where your thighs meet, and have them live there. Despite all evidence pointing to the fact that he does not want to touch you in that way.

You think about Noah saying that Luke is asexual. You wonder if Sylus is too. If he cares for you, but will never be interested in physical intimacy, can you live with that?

And how do you return to your job hunting men like him, with the memory of his hands on your skin?

What would Caleb say if he saw you now, spread out along this most wanted criminal’s lap, yearning for more of his hands, for his mouth, for his everything?

You begin to read.

Before you came, things were as they should be: the sky was the dead-end of sight, the road was just a road, wine merely wine. 

You stop. You have never read Faiz before. You wonder what the original language sounds like to a native speaker, if it’s different from the translation you’re now reciting. The translation itself is gorgeous in its simplicity.

This time, Sylus doesn’t tease. He doesn’t rush you. He just watches you as you read, as you pause, as you let the words soak into your skin.

You continue, Now everything is like my heart, a color at the edge of blood: the grey of your absence, the color of poison, of thorns, the gold when we meet, the season ablaze, the yellow of autumn, the red of flowers, of flames, and the black when you cover the earth with the coal of dead fires.… You have to stop again. You’ve never read this poem before. It’s not familiar to you in a way that the Zagajewsky collection was. But this poem speaks to you in a way that all good poetry does—describing a universal experience in ways that render the experience new to you again. You continue for a few more lines— And the sky, the road, the glass of wine? The sky is a shirt wet with tears, the road a vein about to break, and the glass of wine a mirror in which the sky, the road, the world keep changing.

The more you read, the more your heart hurts. Sylus seems to sense your distress. He begins to caress your hair.

Don't leave now that you're here — Stay. So the world may become like itself again: so the sky may be the sky, the road a road, and the glass of wine not a mirror, just a glass of wine.

“The end,” you whisper. You set the book down on your chest and just stare up into Sylus’s face.

“Are you a fan of Faiz?” he asks, still caressing your hair. You turn your face into his stomach and breathe in the scent of his warm skin, the softness of his sweater.

“I had never even heard of him until I found his book on your shelf today.”

“Do you like what you’ve read so far?”

You think about what a vein feels like when it’s about to break—you know that feeling all too well. You think about what it feels like when Sylus is not in the same room with you, not touching you with his blood-soaked hands. You think about how, no matter how this ends, you’ll never be able to drink another glass of wine without seeing him, the sky with the blood moon looming, the road littered with corpses that leads to and away from him, in its reflection.

“I do, very much.”

He just smiles down at you, faintly, watching you watching him.

“And you? Is this one you’ve read, or one for the future?”

“One of my favorites.”

“What other poems from him do you like? I can read them to you.”

Instead of agreeing like you expect, he turns his head, gazes through the windows with the night spilling into this crow’s nest at the top of the world. He squints, continues to run his hands along your hair, the curve of your cheek, and starts to recite in his low, soft voice.

When whatever you want to do cannot be done,

When nothing is of any use;

—At this hour when night comes down,

When night comes, dragging its long face,

dressed in mourning...

He shifts his gaze, looks down into your face,

Be with me,

My tormenter, my love, be near me.

He grows quiet, but his fingers still drift along your skin. “I have them memorized. You can ask me to recite them for you in the future, if you’d like.”

“I'd like that," you whisper. Clear your throat. "Is that the whole poem?" you ask.

He shakes his head a little. "No, just the last few lines."

"More surprises from the boogeyman of the N109 Zone,” you say, instead of surging up and kissing him, sucking his poetry-soaked tongue into your mouth, feasting on him, your tormenter, your—

He ignores your taunt, and probably the look of naked want all over your face. “I’m pleased, though not surprised that you like his work.” He smirks a little, as if daring you to ask why he’s not surprised.

Kindred spirits.

You don’t need to ask. 

“Did your phone call end okay?” you ask instead.

“Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate.  “Did we get bored with our clothes, kitten?” he asks instead, eyes drifting from your face to your chest, your bare legs.

“It was warm in here,” you say, watching, watching. “Problem?”

His eyes flick back to your face. He runs his fingers up, just as you had imagined, but right as they reach the edge of your underwear, they reverse direction, drift down again.

If you are his beloved, why won’t he take what you are clearly offering? He has already taken so much without asking, without permission. You are still here. You can’t bring yourself to take from him first—or to offer first, any more obviously than this. What if you’re wrong?

“No,” he says, simply.

 You stare into his eyes, and he stares back. You want him. You want more than his hands on your skin. More than his eyes on you. More than his voice in your ears. You want to be inside him. You want him inside you. You remember a kiss that never happened, and you can taste it. Your mouth waters.

He leans down, his soft hair falling over his forehead, and you resist the urge to lean up, to meet him. “Do you want to keep reading?” he asks.

You shake your head.

He leans down even further, his big body curved over you, his breath warm—coffee and toothpaste. “What, then?”

Kiss me. Swallow me. Don’t turn me away.

“Your favorite part of the greenhouse,” you say, arching your back, suppressing a whine of irritation that he’s so close, that he’s asking you what you want to do, instead of doing what you’re clearly asking him to do.

“Still not ready to go out?” he murmurs, slipping a hand underneath the arch of your back, big palm splayed over and across your spine, pulling you up. The movement brings your face up, up, and he runs his nose against yours.

“Why? Getting bored?” Your heart stutters at the thought. Not yet. He can’t be bored yet. You haven’t had enough. Not nearly enough.

“Far from it.” With his hand on your back, he straightens, pulling you with him, against his chest, until you’re drawn into his lap, until his other hand slides up the back of your thigh, holds you right under one ass cheek. 

He’s hard. 

He stands, guiding your other leg around his waist, pulling you up his body, so that you’re no longer pressed against the hard length of him. You want to scream.

“You’ll want your clothes again, for the trip to the greenhouse,” he says, carrying you down the spiraling staircase.

He sets you on the table where you had set your clothes. You reach for your sweater, but he picks it up first. He spreads it in his hands, opening the bottom hem. You stare at him, and he stares back. You take the hint and lean forward—he settles it gently over your head, pulls it down your torso, adjusts the cuffs after you’ve slipped your arms through.

He then takes your sweatpants and lifts one of your legs, his hand wrapped around your calf. You lean back on your hands to support yourself. He watches your face as he works one pant leg over your foot, as he slowly drags it up your outstretched leg, as he repeats the motion with your other leg. He then steps between your legs, slides one hand under your ass, lifts you, and lifts the waistband with his other hand until the pants are settled around your waist properly. When he’s done, you are dressed again, your hips are flush with his, and you can feel his still-hard length against you.

You watch him, watching you. His cheeks and ears are pink. But other than that, you can’t see a change in his expression. You want to lean forward and bite one of his nipples faintly outlined by his thin v-neck sweater. 

You shake the thought from your head and wrap your legs around him. You told him when you first arrived that you didn’t need to be carried everywhere, but he offers every time you move from one room to another, and you can’t bring yourself to say no, to deny yourself this constant embrace.

“There’s no hurry for you to want to go somewhere,” he says as he takes you into the hallway, as the chill settles through your clothes. “But there is something I’d like to do with you, in a couple days. It’s in the heart of the Zone. Interested?”

Even if you weren’t interested, how could you deny him anything? But you are interested. You’re curious. Your feet feel better. You can’t hide in his home forever. “Yes.”

“It’s a date,” he says, pleased.

In the greenhouse, he follows one of the slate pebbled paths that leads away from the garden fuck-bed, the fountain, the bar. The heavy foliage gradually gives way to a little clearing and a smaller building, nestled within the larger greenhouse. He sets you on your feet as his phone begins to vibrate.

His brow furrows and his mouth hardens, the tension rolling off of him palpable. You turn without thinking, grab one of his hands and put it on your cheek, your own hand against the back of his.

He exhales, slowly, and he seems to relax. He lifts his other hand and traces your eyebrow with his finger. When he speaks, his voice is calm.“Go in. I’ll make this quick. Don’t touch or eat anything.”

You nod into his palm and let go, stepping back, out of his reach. His hand drops, and he flexes it at his side, before turning away and reaching for the phone in his pocket.

The greenhouse within a greenhouse's door swings shuts behind you. 

It’s much cooler in here than in the main part of the greenhouse. A tall arching trellis overgrown with what looks like ivy forms a long tunnel leading further into the building. You walk for a few minutes, admiring the fairytale feel of the tunnel, until it opens into a space that is surprisingly not so large. Slate stones, flower beds filled with plants and flowers. There are several  you recognize—foxglove, with its lovely little spotted flowers drifting down the thick stem, purple and white autumn crocus, oleander with its pinwheel petals. There are also many bushes and other flowers that you don’t recognize, but which don’t look particularly striking. Along with the vegetation, there are a couple benches, torches giving off soft light—they circle a reasonably sized, but not gigantic, still pond, ringed with stones. You can’t see anything particularly spectacular about the space, or why Sylus would favor it compared to the riotous life of the tropical part of the main greenhouse. It’s quiet. Maybe he likes it for the same reasons he likes the solitude of his library. You walk to the edge of the pond and see large koi fish swimming leisurely in the serene water.

You wonder who maintains this space, along with all the others of his sprawling home.

You turn again, and spot what you now know is a bush of datura flowers. You wander over to them, let your fingertip caress one of their sharp little pointed petals. It feels like a lifetime ago that you found a pot of datura on your kitchen island and had no idea who it could be from.

It occurs to you that you need to ask Sylus if it’s possible to have someone water your plants while you’re gone. You suddenly can’t bear the thought of them dying in your absence. You will have to return to them, and your real life, probably sooner than you’d like. You can’t neglect everything, even as you still refuse to check your phone. Your friends may survive without you, but your plants won’t.

You don’t want to think about that right now.

You turn back to the datura plant, and then look at the other plants. You recall the threatening aura of the datura before you knew what it was, what it could be used for. Hallucinogen. Poison. Aphrodisiac. Your eyes drift over the other plants you recognize—foxglove, crocus, oleander. He told you not to eat anything in here. You suddenly know that the other plants in here, like the datura, are not random, or innocuous.

Sylus’s favorite part of his greenhouse is his poison garden. Because of course the edgy bastard would have a poison garden. You don’t recognize many of the plants because they’re not common houseplants that you’ve ever looked into adding to your own collection.

You huff a laugh, put your hands on your hips. An idea occurs to you.

You walk to one of the benches near the koi pond, stretch out on your back. You let your head roll, gaze wandering over the pretty, deadly flowers. Your mind drifts to the poem you read him earlier. Before you came, things were as they should be: the sky was the dead-end of sight, the road was just a road, wine merely wine.

You think of how flowers are no longer simply flowers, but threats. Promises. Reassurances. Tools. 

A pomegranate is no longer a pomegranate, but the feel of his body underneath yours before you throw him off a bed.

A cinnamon roll is no longer a sweet treat, but the taste of Sylus’s finger in your mouth.

Feathers, wine, the poetry of your youth, a bomb exploding, Caleb’s absence, a motorcycle revving its engine, the grip of a pistol in your hand, blood dripping from your wounds.

Now everything is like my heart, a color at the edge of blood: the grey of your absence, the color of poison, of thorns.

This is how it goes.

You already know how this ends. 

You huddled in Sylus’s gem vault and bemoaned the blood diamonds piled high, and then you rolled over to him in the night, wrapping an arm around his waist, breathing in his skin, and slept like the dead.

He said that his favorite stone was whatever you’re wearing, and your heart thrilled and despaired—stones from him come at the cost of someone else’s pain. And he’ll give you as many as you want, and revel in your wearing them, and you’ll soak in his admiration like the vast desert that you are. You’ll bloom like these poison flowers under his care, your feet and hands covered in the same blood as his.

Don't leave now that you're here — Stay. So the world may become like itself again: so the sky may be the sky, the road a road, and the glass of wine not a mirror, just a glass of wine.

Even if you were to leave right this second—even if you were to move to the arctic and cut every tie to him from your life, you’d be tearing out your own veins, carving out chunks of your own flesh, in an effort to remove his talons from how deep they’ve dug into you, starting from the moment he found you in a crowded nightclub and drove you around all night just so you could finally sleep. Maybe from a moment even before that. The auction, with your hand in his pocket, clutching the detonator, his arms around you, his voice in your ear. Look at me. Look only at me.

And you did. And you haven’t looked away since, no matter how hard you tried.

It's already too late. You made your decision the moment you let him into your home when you found him wounded on the sidewalk near your home. You have known what, who he is, all along. The only way you can continue, the only way you can move forward without crippling yourself, is to find a balance. 

A balance between the horror that is inseparable from Sylus’s rough hands softly touching you, the horror inside of you that you’ve always known is there, and the goodness that you want to offer the world since you lived when you should have died, over and over again.

Caleb’s dead. It doesn’t matter what he’d say, because he’s dead and he’s never coming back, and you lived when you shouldn’t have, and he gets to rest and you have to move through each fucking day, one after the other, without him, without Gran, so that you can watch the sunsets for them, so that you can snatch lives back from death’s maw every time a wanderer attacks, and offer the world and Caleb and Gran these gifts because only you can.

A balance between remembering and forgetting, of living in the moment and refusing to looking away from the terrible fruit of Sylus’s labor.

A balance of walking your path in the light as the Association’s sword, of seeking refuge in the glittering night of the sanctuary Sylus is offering you.

If you are his beloved.

If he wants you at all. 

Is it so terrible, to want something just for yourself, even if that thing is a knife in the wounds of the world you struggle to save?

You huff a laugh again. You want him. You want him so much, it hurts. So what if he never touches you beyond holding you close? Biting your lip? Offering to carry you everywhere through his house, turning to you in the night and wrapping his own arm around your waist so that you mirror each other, curved towards each other. When did you become so greedy? What gives you the right to be so greedy?

You throw your arm over your eyes. Enough. Enough.  

You think about your little idea when you realized that this is Sylus’s gothy poison garden. You wonder if it’s too mean, but then you remember how mean he was to you when you first met him. You’ve forgiven him. But you haven’t entirely forgotten.

After a while—who knows how long, you hear the crunch of Sylus’s footsteps on the slate pebbled path.

You let your arm fall, your fingers uncurling against the pebbled slate path and letting a pair of little purple berries roll from your palm to the ground.

You hear his footsteps stop, and then nothing. You resist the urge to open an eye and peek, to see what he’s doing.

“Asleep again, darling?” he murmurs, quietly. So that if you really were asleep, you wouldn’t wake.

You say nothing.

A footstep, and then a creak of the bench underneath you as he settles his weight, the warmth of his thigh next to you on the bench.

He runs featherlight fingers along your neck.

“You’re not asleep,” he says, low.

You ignore him, make no move.

“I’ve been with you long enough while you sleep to know the patterns of your breathing when asleep versus awake. Feeling playful, kitten?”

You ignore him.

He walks two fingers up your neck, gently pats your cheek. “Look at me. I don’t like not having your eyes on me when you’re awake.”

You stay still.

“Sweetheart.” He pats your cheek a little harder. You let your head loll to the side. “You have terrible taste in pranks,” he tsks, but he’s starting to sound worried.

You start to hold your breath. Begin to count.

You feel one big hand come to rest heavily on your chest. There’s a pause. “Oh? Raising the stakes?” 

You’re at thirty. You keep counting.

“If you had really eaten nightshade berries, you’d be surrounded by vomit and probably would have shit your pants. You wouldn’t be lying here pristinely, looking beautifully asleep.”

You’re at sixty. Your lungs are starting to burn. You’ve never been good at holding your breath for very long.

“Your heart is starting to pound from your efforts to hold your breath, darling, you’re not fooling anyone,” he scolds, sounding increasingly irritated, but he leans over, rests his ear against your mouth.

You can’t help yourself. You lick the shell of his ear.

He jerks up like you just lit him on fire and glares down at you. You take a huge breath, struggling to both breathe and cackle at the same time.

“You were a little worried, admit it,” you pant, grinning up at his indignant expression.

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he leans down, hauls you up into his lap like a sack of potatoes, and squeezes you tightly, burying his face in your shoulder. “You can joke about anything, except the idea of you dying. It’s not amusing. It will never be amusing.”

He holds you so tightly you can hardly breathe. You feel his eyelashes flutter against your skin, his breath warm on your neck. You just sit still, not knowing what to say. You did not expect this response at all.

After a long time, he finally speaks. “What was the point of this little prank?”

“Can’t have you getting bored with me,” you murmur.

He lifts his head, looks at you with a strangely pleading expression on his face. “I will tell you as many times as it takes. I am the farthest from bored when I am with you.”

You stare at him, taken aback by his gentle reassurance even while clearly upset with your immature prank. But why are you still surprised when he is tender with you? He has been nothing but indulgent, tolerant, generous, since he secured a promise from you to use your home as a safe house. He has treated you so gently through all of your worst moments since then.

But if you say that out loud, if you acknowledge it, you won’t be able to stop yourself from asking for more. You’re so greedy. It’s not enough, to be held by him. Now you want his mouth. His tongue. His everything.

“You sent me into a poisonous garden without telling me. Rude.”

He lifts a dark silver eyebrow. “I told you not to touch or eat anything in here. Are you a pet, or a child?”

You don't know why you're arguing. “You know the fastest way to get me to do something is to tell me not to do it.” He knows this. He has used this against you before, in fact.

He finally smiles a little back at you. “A child then, I see.”

You stick your tongue out at him, remember what he has done every time you’ve done that, and immediately pull it back into your mouth.

“But you’re a quick learner,” he smiles wider, revealing one sharp tooth.

You just scowl at him.

He exhales heavily, as if letting go of a great weight, and you feel bad for making him worry. “Is everything okay with business?” you ask, trying to change the subject, to take his mind off of whatever he just went through because of you. You resolve not to prank him like that ever again.

“Business is good. Too good. Hence the constant calls. Nothing to worry about,” he says, letting you distract him. He sinks a little lower onto the bench, spreads his long legs. You lower your head, rest it on his big shoulder.

“So. A poison garden,” you say. “Your favorite part of the greenhouse. Not the lovely jungle, the fuck-bed, or whatever else you have hidden in this huge place.”

“I’ve always had a particular weakness for deadly, lovely things,” he says, running a hand soothingly up and down your back.

You feel like he’s trying to tell you something, beyond his appreciation for flowers.

My beloved is perfect to me.

The bet was about how long it will take for my beloved to realize how I feel about them. 

But how could he have waited so long for you, how could he feel so strongly for you, when you only just met? 

You think about how strongly you already feel about him, and wonder if it even matters. 

You think about his little quip, time is a construct and inherently meaningless, when you asked him about his drinking.

It was a joke, but maybe there is truth in it.

Does it even matter? Is it so bad for you to just want to take what he’s now so clearly offering? Even if he’ll never kiss you?

“Do you ever use these plants for nefarious purposes?” you ask. “Or just to admire and brood around?”

“I do not brood. I plot,” he sniffs indignantly. “And you already know that I like a more direct approach. Sometimes Luke and Kieran used plants from here for pranks, back when I had guests more often.”

Guests? More often? Do you want to know? What kind of guests? Does it matter?

You lift your head and ask a question that has been on your mind for a while now to distract yourself. “Who takes care of your house? Your greenhouse? Your pools?”

He raises his eyebrows a little in surprise at your non sequitur. “I have staff who take care of everything.”

“Where are they? I’ve not seen anyone else but the twins and Noah since I arrived.”

“I’ve asked them to adjust their schedules for the time being. They come while we’re sleeping.”

“Why?”

He gently flicks your forehead. “Why do you think?”

“Can you never just answer a question without asking another question, Socrates?” you huff.

“I’m not going to spoon feed you answers that you should already know by now,” he taunts.

“What should I already know?”

“That I know you don’t like being around people you don’t know. That you find it uncomfortable to be around people who you aren’t sure are safe. That you wouldn’t be able to prance around my library in your underwear if you feared some stranger walking in.”

You poke him in his firm stomach. “I prance about as much as you do, Mister Broody McPoisongarden.”

He laughs softly.

You close your eyes. Let his answer sink in. His thoughtfulness shouldn’t surprise you by now. But every time, the tenderness, the kindness he shows you—it hurts. What will you do, once you have to return to your real life? What will you do, if you ever fall off the pedestal he has built for you? What have you done to deserve his attentiveness?

You are trying to live in the moment. You will find a balance. Maybe it’s for the best if he doesn’t want to kiss you. If he never wants closer physical intimacy. He already has so much of you already.

Enough. Enough.

You rest your head on his shoulder again and sit with him in comfortable silence.

This is how it goes.

Another day. He receives a phone call. You wave at him, back away, his eyes tracking you as you go, until the door swings shut.

You drift to the pool room again. Its humid warmth, the bar in pale wood, the zen garden. You take a bottle from the shelf behind the bar, pour a shot. Does it matter what time it is? Not right now, in the timeless night of Sylus’s fortress. Mephisto has followed you. You toast him, holding up the shot glass, and then down it. It burns. You wonder how Sylus can drink this shit. Even the good stuff hurts.

You walk to the edge of the pool. Think about the twenty different swimsuits Sylus showed you after he found you naked in his pool the first time.

You turn, making sure Mephisto is watching. You remind yourself that he’s a robot. He doesn’t care what he sees. But the man on the other side might care. You're lying to yourself when you say you can live without Sylus ever kissing you. You remember a kiss that never happened, and the memory haunts you.

You strip out of your clothes, watching Mephisto watching you.

Look, then. You’ve been watching me since before we even met. You’re the only one I want looking, and you won’t take what I’m offering. I’m now watching you, watching me.

You don’t know what you’re hoping to achieve with your sad little provocations. Sylus has only ever responded with covering you up. You’re just being greedy. Why can’t you be satisfied with him just being near? My tormenter, my love, be near me.

You pause, watching Mephisto thoughtfully, your clothes piled at your feet. After a few moments, you turn and dive into the pool.

You enjoy the water, your empty mind as your body takes over. You feel stronger than you’ve felt in months. You enjoy the strength in your muscles, the weightlessness. You slap the edge of the pool after yet another lap, are about to turn, go again, when you glance up and see Sylus right there, standing above you.

This time, his eyes are open. He’s looking down at you, eyes fixed on your face. His thumbs are hooked in the pockets of his dark pants, the picture of relaxed, a fluffy towel hanging over one wrist.

He says nothing. He simply looks. You make no effort to conceal yourself under the water. You return his gaze, watching him watching you.

The silence stretches. You wonder what he’s thinking. “Everything okay this time?”

He frowns a little. “Worried about my business?”

“I just want you to be happy,” you say truthfully. You don’t want him to be worried about business, or your time here to cause problems for him. No matter what his business actually consists of. Balance. Balance.

“Then we’re both in luck,” he says. “I’ve been happy all week.”

You tilt your head. “Just this week?”

“Mmhmm.” He looks down at you, fondness softening his features.

You think you can live without him kissing you, if he will look at you like this every once in a while.

“Are you not happy with the swimsuits I arranged for you?” he asks, his fond look melting into a bored expression.

“I’m happy with them,” you answer, looking steadily back at him.

“And yet you won’t wear them.”

“There’s no one here.”

“Am I no one?” His gaze flicks down your body, then back to your face. 

You look at him. You look at him, and want him so terribly. You’re lying, every time you tell yourself you’ll be satisfied with a look, an almost kiss.

“You’re the only one,” you force yourself to say.

He’s too far away. You can’t see what effect, if any, what you just said has on him. His face is still impassive.

“Am I to interpret this, as well as the library the other day, as an invitation?”

Your heart is pounding. “Do you want it to be an invitation?”

He opens his mouth, only for it to snap shut again. Even from here, you can hear his phone vibrating in his pocket.

You want him to ignore it. You want him to answer your question.

He takes the towel in one hand, and reaches into his pocket with the other.

You’re already so greedy, wanting him to ignore his business for you. You suddenly feel incredibly pathetic.

You look down at yourself. Muscle and scars. What are you doing? Trying to tempt a man like Sylus Qin with what you have to offer, such as it is. A dull, scratched blade.

His beloved? 

His tormenter, his love?

It’s only been a week, and you’re this delusional.

You sink underwater, turn, launch yourself from the side of the pool, knife through the water. You haul yourself up on the other side, walk through the barroom to the door, and stride, dripping through the cold hallway.

You shower. You try to keep your mind blank. You don’t want to betray yourself, when you have to see him again. There’s nowhere to hide.

You’re relieved when you find his bedroom empty when you’re done in the bathroom.

You throw on clothes.

You slip back into the hallway. Mephisto must have stayed in the pool room with Sylus. You start to jog toward the lift leading to the underground garage. Sylus never said you had to stay in the house while you waited for him to be done with business. You’ll be back when you can trust that your face won’t give away how stupid you feel for trying to seduce him through Mephisto. 

You’ll strangle the wanting inside you like Sylus strangled you when you first met.

As you’re passing the living room, Noah steps into the hallway.

“Whoa, there. You look like you’re on a mission.”

“Maybe,” you say, trying to smile. She stares at you.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Of course.” You nod. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.

“Is this another case of we need to call the boss?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well since you ask so politely,” she smiles at you. It’s genuine. You think this is the first genuine smile she’s ever given you. “You want company?”

“I don’t even know where I’m going,” you say. 

“I’ve found that just going for a drive can make me feel better,” she says. “I am your driver, after all. Wanna put me to good use?”

You blink at her. She’s not going to call Sylus and tell on you? She’s not going to badger you with questions?

“You sure? I’m not amazing company.”

“Coulda fooled me with how Boss follows you like a lovesick puppy.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t worry about it. C’mon, let’s go.” She turns and leads the way toward the garage lift. When you pass the theater room, Luke and Kieran poke their heads out. “Going somewhere?” Kieran asks.

“We’re going for a drive. C’mon, nerds,” Noah says breezily, waving them forward.

They look at each other, seem to have a silent conversation, and then follow obediently.

“Does Boss know we’re going somewhere?” Luke asks.

“Not unless you snitch,” Noah answers.

“Is it like, a secret?”

“No. But maybe the hunter needs a little breathing room.”

Luke and Kieran turn and stare at you.

“Do you need some space from Boss?” 

You grimace. “Not because of anything he did. I just need to get a little perspective.”

“You’re not leaving him, right?” Both twins look stricken at the idea.

“Leaving him? We’re not together like that.”

“Why the fuck not?” Luke demands.

Kieran puts a hand on his shoulder and looks at you. “You don’t have to answer that.”

You squint at them. “You say that like it’s up to me if we’re together or not.”

Luke squints back. “Isn’t it?”

You shake your head. “I’m not going to discuss your boss’s private life when he’s not here.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re loyal to him, you’re nuts about him. We already like you, there’s no need to prove anything.” Luke rolls his eyes. He’s about to speak again when Kieran begins to steer him away by gently pressing on his back. “We will meet you in the garage,” he tells Noah. “We’ve got to get our masks if we’re going out.”

“Ah yes, the cosplay twins make a reappearance,” Noah grins. “See you in a few.” With that, she takes your hand like you’ve been friends forever, and swings your joined hands as she practically skips to the lift leading to the garage.

In the underground garage which is surprisingly spartan for a man of Sylus’s tastes, she drags you to the tank. You eye with longing a long row of vehicles that look like they’d be amazing to go offroading across the N109 Zone’s wastes in.

“No, nooooope,” Noah says, hurrying you along. “Boss’s orders. I have to cart you around in the Phantom anytime we’re in the Zone. It’s why he bought it.”

You let her herd you to the tank. “What?”

She opens the backseat door and makes a sarcastic sweeping gesture. “Your chariot awaits.”

You sigh. “The backseat? Really? I can’t even ride up front?”

“You’re the VIP. Get in.”

You decide not to fight her this time. You’re going to take out the beat up Toyota Hilux you saw parked amongst the other vehicles to see if you can get it to flip one of these days, and you want her on your side when you do it.

She slams the door shut after she’s ensured you’re buckled in and then swings around to the driver’s seat. She puts on some music that sounds like metal, but you have no idea what particular genre. It’s loud.

“What do you mean Sylus bought the tank because of me?” you shout over the music.

She has mercy on you, reducing the volume, then resumes tapping her long fingers on the steering wheel as you both wait for Kieran and Luke to arrive.

“What’s there not to understand? He bought something that’s advertised as being able to survive the apocalypse to protect you when you need to be in the Zone.”

You think of Sylus, vulnerable on his motorcycle. Just as vulnerable as you on yours. Okay, so he can heal quickly, but you doubt he can heal from being decapitated in an accident. “I can protect myself. That is ridiculous.”

She shrugs. “You worry about these things when you love someone. Doesn’t matter if it’s logical.”

You stare at her. She sounds like she speaks from experience.

“And the Zone is fucking dangerous. More dangerous than Linkon City. His worry is logical in this case. There’s more than just reckless driving to account for in the Zone.”

You startle when the front passenger door and the other back passenger door fly open at the same time, and both twins launch themselves in, almost in sync. They’re both wearing the masks that they were wearing when you first met them, which are probably meant to be crows but just look like plague doctor masks to you.

Noah backs out of the parking space and screeches out of the underground garage like the unwieldy tank is a rocket ship instead of a roided out SUV.

“Can we change the music?” Luke whines. “It’s so fucking… uh. Cock-cockiphinous.”

“Cacophonous,” Kieran corrects gently.

“I’m the driver, I choose the music,” Noah says, swatting Luke’s reaching hand away from the dash.

Luke just groans and then twists in his seat, poking his beak into the backseat.

“So we know you’re loyal and wanna protect our boss. Your secrets are safe with us. Blah blah. Now spill the tea, why do you need space from him?” 

You groan and cover your eyes with your hand. “Not gonna talk about it.”

“Is it because he almost kissed you and then didn’t?” Luke ignores your protest. “Or about him spying on you with Mephisto like a creep even though he claimed it was an accident?”

You drop your hand and stare at his masked face. “What?”

Kieran starts making a throat cutting gesture at Luke, as if to say Shut the fuck up NOW.

“Oops,” is all Luke says.

“Let’s talk about something else!” Noah says in a sing-song voice. She then proceeds to make a very controversial statement about the latest video game they all played together, and they argue animatedly all the way into the urban heart of the N109 Zone.

“We’re going to Amnesia?” you ask in a daze as Noah steers into the now-familiar underground garage.

Noah shrugs. “Yup. Fastest way to see how someone really feels.”

“What?” You feel like a broken record. What the fuck does she mean?

The twins look at each other and then nod in unison. “Jealousy is a powerful motivator,” Kieran says thoughtfully. “Good plan, Noah.”

“What?” you ask again, more forcefully.

“Don’t worry about it.” Noah grins. “C’mon, just get yourself a drink and dance a little. It’ll take your mind off things. I, for one, have been going stir crazy without having anything to do while you and Sylus dance around each other while simultaneously being attached at the hip.”

You’re too shocked to resist, and let yourself be dragged along by the trio of Sylus’s unruly children, past the security at the door of the lift, through the winding hallways, out into the main part of the club where the night is in full swing. The dance floor is packed, the beats organic and animalistic, and the aerial dancers still spin from the ceiling.

You can’t believe it’s only been a little over a week since you were here for the first time.

Noah pushes you to the packed bar, where you’re immediately served by one of the exceedingly attractive bartenders despite other people already waiting. “Shots!” Noah cries, handing one to you, Kieran and Luke.

“To Boss’s bizarre mating ritual!” Luke crows, and they all down their shot, the twins bringing it up to their mouths under their masks.

You look at it the neon glowing shot in your hand and grimace. Eh, what the hell. You shoot it as well.

“C’mon, let’s dance!” 

You do not want to dance. You need to think. You just wanted to get out, to find a little space to breathe away from Sylus’s overwhelming presence, and weight of your suffocating hunger for him.

“I’m fine here!” you shout.

“Fine, but don’t leave without us, got it?” Noah shouts back.

“Same for you!” 

They melt into the crowd.

You squeeze your way through the crowd to take up a spot leaning against the wall, eyes scanning the mass of dancers, the aerial artists leisurely twisting above, the lights a seizure-inducing fever dream.

You keep an eye on Noah, who finds a group of gorgeous women to dance with. The twins, who dance next to each other, are seemingly oblivious to all the attempts by various men and women to slide in and dance with them.

After a while, you head back to the bar. You’re immediately served again, as if the staff recognize you. You take your frilly cocktail and resume your place along the wall.

Mind blank. Just soaking in humanity, feeling like you have a purpose, protecting Noah and the twins in case the unlikely happens and some asshole escapes the notice of Sylus’s extensive security to fuck with them. You don’t let yourself think about anything at all.

Your meditative vigil is interrupted when a big man leans against the wall next to you, squinting out over the crowd like you are.

He’s quiet for a few minutes, and you think that maybe he’ll leave you in peace.

“What are we looking for?” His voice is deep, and close to your ear as he leans over to be heard over the deep bass of the music.

You flick your eyes up to his face, and then back over the crowd. Handsome, in a rugged way. Dark hair, dark eyes. A nose that's a little too perfect to actually be perfect. Not like Sylus's actually perfect nose.

You’re feeling loose from the drink, a little tipsy. You answer honestly.

“Possible threats.”

“You security?”

“Nah. Just a concerned citizen.”

You can hear the smile in his voice. “Those are rare in the Zone. Usually people mind their own business around here.”

You just shrug.

“Can I get you a drink?”

You look down at the drink in your hand, lift an eyebrow.

“Okay, let me try again.”

You turn, look expectantly at him. In another life, you would have found him charming. You would have responded to his obvious interest, maybe taken him home for the night. Maybe even dated for awhile, before he realized that the person he met in the club is the person you are all the time: closed off, alert, never dropping your guard even while being honest. Not like how you are with Sylus. Pliant. Affectionate. As open as you can bear to be while still not knowing what he truly wants from you.

“Dance with me?”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m okay here.”

“You come to one of the most exclusive clubs in the Zone just to decorate the wall?”

You snort. “Don’t insult this place’s interior design.”

He gives you a slow once over. “Oh, I’d say you’re the focal point here.” Before you can scoff, he tries again. “Just one dance. I promise not to step on your feet.”

You think of Sylus holding you in at the auction's banquet.  Look at me. Look only at me. Sylus holding you in the seedy BOOM BOOM ROOM. Dancing slowly while the rapid beat shook your chest, as if only you and he existed in the entire world.

“I’d rather lean on this wall and pine,” you say.

His eyebrows shoot up, but then he smirks. “I bet I have more to offer than whoever is stupid enough to make you pine for them instead of recognizing what’s right in front of them.”

“Doubt it,” you smirk back.

“Try me. What’s so great about this person?”

“I don’t think there’s enough time to list everything,” you say.

“I’ve got time for you. Unlike this person, since they’re not here with you.”

You frown. Sylus is busy as fuck, but he has always offered you his time. Even when he’s pulled away by the near-constant phone calls, he tries to come back to you as quickly as possible.

“For one, he’s gorgeous. Tall, big.”

“I’m big and tall,” he flexes a bicep. It’s respectable. But it’s not as big as Sylus’s.

“He’s bigger, and taller.”

He shrugs, concedes. “All right, but that’s just the package. What’s he got on the inside?”

“He’s perceptive. Clever. Funny. Fearless. Unbearably sweet.”

“Damn. You’re not making this easy for me.” He sounds forlorn.

“Sorry, man.” You smile at him. He seems nice. But he does nothing for you. You’re worried no one else ever will again. Despite all of your fretting, all of your wallowing, your moral dilemma, you know how this is going to end. Sylus is under your skin now. You are going to do everything in your power to satisfy your greed, to keep both your job and the man who is coming to mean as much to you as your job, formerly your sole reason for continuing to fight so hard to survive. To earn your breath, your life, your having lived while Caleb died.

“So what’s the problem? Why are you here pining, instead of with this perfect guy?”

“I can’t tell if he feels the same way.”

“Have you told him how you feel?”

“He’s perceptive, remember? I’m pretty sure it’s fucking obvious. But no matter what I do, he won’t even kiss me.”

“You tried kissing him first?”

You grimace. “Can’t bear to be rejected if he doesn’t feel the same way. I’d rather just pine.”

“Here you are, badass ready to take on an entire club if a fight breaks out, but scared of just going for it with your man?” He smiles at you, slides closer to you along the wall.

“See? I’m not as great as my packaging suggests.”

“Oh I doubt that. But now I know I have something that your man doesn’t.” He turns, leaning one shoulder against the wall, and bends down toward you.

You watch him curiously. If he gets too close, you’ll sidle away, say thanks but no thanks, again. If he doesn’t get the hint, you’ll punch him in the throat. “Oh yeah?”

“I’m here, and he isn’t. And I don’t have the same self control—how could he not kiss you when you’re standing right here outshining everyone else?”

You’re about to roll your eyes at his obvious exaggeration and move away when you feel a sudden warmth blanketing your back.

“Announcing that you have a lack of self control isn’t the flex you might think it is.” Sylus’s deep voice is next to your ear, his leather-clad arm is wrapping around your waist.

You turn your head, meet his blood-dark eyes. He tilts his head, frowns at you questioningly. “When have I denied you anything?” he asks.

You’re confused until you realize he was listening to your conversation. Oh fuck. How much did he hear?

“Kitten, don’t tell me you’ve had so much to drink that you can’t remember if I’ve ever not given you what you’ve asked for.”

It occurs to you that you’ve asked for very little from him, because he has always offered you everything you could have wanted without you having to ask in the first place. But anything you have ever asked, he has promised to give. 

“Never,” you murmur.

“So if you wanted me to kiss you, you could have just asked. No need to torture me through Mephisto.”

You feel your face flush red. “Torture you?” You want to pull away, but he holds you tightly.

“Yes. Torture me. My tormenter, my love,” he says, leaning down, his lips almost touching yours. “May I kiss you?”

You can’t get over the mortification of Sylus having heard what you said to the guy hitting on you.

“How much did you hear?” you ask, wincing.

He looks smug. “I’m big, and tall, and perceptive and—” He asked to kiss you. Surely it’s okay if you lean forward, try to brush your lips against his lips. Just to shut him up.

He leans back. “No.”

Your insides freeze. What the fuck? What kind of fucking mindgame is he playing? He asks to kiss you and then rejects you in the next breath? You try to jerk out of his hold.

“I’m not kissing you for the first time in this ridiculous nightclub,” he growls, his arm a steel bar over your waist. 

What? Because there are so many people? People who might know him? And see him with… you. 

You want to crawl out of your skin, leave it behind so that no one can recognize you when you move to the arctic to escape this feeling. This is what you get for being greedy. For reaching for what you don’t deserve.

What would Caleb say, if he saw you here, an object of embarrassment for this lord of war, the antithesis of everything you’re supposed to stand for?

It occurs to you for the first time that maybe Sylus hasn’t kissed you because he’s wrestling with the same questions that have been running through your mind since you had yet another pathetic meltdown in his gem vault. You’re a hunter. A tool of the Association. A fucked up mental case. What do you have to offer him in exchange for what he would have to risk, to give up, in order to actually be with you?

A hell of a lot of nothing, aside from all the emotional baggage.

“Because you’re ashamed that the person you’re kissing is me?” you ask, watching his face for microexpressions, for the bored mask, for anything to give away what he’s really feeling.

He scowls, his frown line deep between his eyebrows, like he’s just bitten into something foul. Well that’s fucking clear. You squeeze your eyes shut. You may not be able to escape his hold, but you don’t have to endure him looking at you like he did when you first met him. Like he can’t believe how utterly disappointing you are.

“Look at me,” he demands. You want to cry.

“Please,” he says, tone softening. You open your eyes.

Suddenly the crowd, the guy flirting with you, the lights—everything disappears as Sylus cups your cheeks in his big hands, leans down, and kisses you.

Warmth. His impossibly soft lips. You feel like you’ve been here before. You’ve tasted him before—his tongue parts your lips, filling your mouth. You open your mouth wider, trying to take more of him in. You can hear soft whining noises under the loud music, and realize that you’re the one making them. He uses his hold on your cheeks to tilt your head the way he wants as he tastes you. He takes a step forward, big thigh pushing between your legs, and backs you into the wall, blanketing you with his big body.

You suck on his silken tongue. He presses his thigh with more force between your legs, and you wrap your arms around his neck, grind back against his leg. 

It’s not enough. You wanted his mouth, and now that you have it, you want more. You’re so hungry for him, even as he’s feeding you his tongue.

He tears away from you, panting, a sloppy trail of saliva falling away from his bottom lip.

You stare at his flushed face, wide eyed. 

What now? Is he going to regret it? Tell you it was a mistake? Maybe this is another dream. Another dream you’ll only half remember. Nothing that has to be undone. Nothing that will ruin the rest of your stay in his house. You’ll be better, you promise yourself. You’ll stop being greedy. You’ll be thankful for the generosity he’s already shown you, and you’ll never hope for more again. It will be enough, him holding you in his arms, him showing you precious glimpses into his lovely, complicated mind.

You’ll wake up any minute now, and maybe you’ll forget everything, including the taste of his tongue. You’re haunted enough.

He turns to the guy who was hitting on you, the aether core in his eye glowing bright. “You’ll forget you ever met my beloved,” he orders, and the guy’s face goes blank. He then frowns and shakes his head a little, like he’s coming out of a daze. He turns and wanders back into the crowd without looking back.

You gape after the poor bastard. “What did you just do to him?”

He looks at you, looks back at the guy’s retreating back. Then looks back at you, squinting. “Isn’t it obvious? I made him forget that he ever met you, so he can’t sell intel about my biggest weakness.”

You stare at him. “Your biggest weakness?”

He hangs his head, the soft fall of his hair whispering against your cheek. “Can we leave now? I really want to keep kissing you, and I’m not doing it with an audience.”

You’ll wake up any second now, you tell yourself. You didn’t just guilt him into kissing you in public despite his better judgment. You didn’t endanger him by being an insecure freak.

He flicks your forehead gently. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s wrong. I didn’t want our first kiss to be in a nightclub. I wanted it to be somewhere romantic, like you deserve. And once I start kissing you again, I don’t want to have to stop. Any objections?”

You stare at him, feeling like you’ve just stumbled off of a goddamned roller coaster. “You want to keep kissing me?”

“Kitten. Sweetheart. Darling. Beloved. Yes, I want to keep kissing you. No, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop kissing you, and more, once I start. Any objections?” He stares into your eyes.

You find yourself shaking your head.

He closes his eyes, exhales. Opens them. All you see is red. His big hand finds yours. He clasps yours tightly. “Resonate with me,” he says.

You look at him in confusion. “Please trust me,” he says, voice strained.

“I do trust you,” you say. “I just don’t trust that this is real. Are you sure this isn’t a dream?”

He smiles. Big. Genuine. His sharp canines gleaming in the flashing lights of the club. He squeezes your hand gently. “I promise that it’s finally not just a dream,” he says.

You stare into his beautiful ember eyes. You’re so fucking scared to believe that this is real, but he promised you that it isn't. And Sylus says he always keeps his promises.

This is how it goes.

You've already known how it ends, from the first time you willingly took his offered hand in yours.

You squeeze his hand in return, and let your power flow through you.

End note: hopefully more smooches in the next part.

[littlelostmabari]

Some Galemancing fluff for @sorceresssundries and @miradelletarot and @gale-force-storm who fill my dash so reliably with the delicious wizard.

Gale x f!Reader, post-epilogue. (Reader unnamed, referred to as she/her/wife) Word Count: 2.2k

Edit: Now on AO3!

The evening sun threatens to kiss the horizon across the bay of Waterdeep as you weave your fingers through the feathery fur of your favorite four-legged companion.

Well, the closest four-legged companion, you laugh to yourself as you hear a familiar roar from a floor above where Karlach and the owlbear were no doubt tussling in the arcane arena your darling wizard had installed in the upper levels of his newly conjured tower. She arrived from Avernus a few hours ago with some rage to burn, and Nugget was always willing to practice new ways to defend his nest. His home.

“Your hand is on the page, pet,” Tara purrs. Your thoughts are quickly brought back to the balcony and the sunset, your hand naturally moving back to the delicate fur on the top of Tara’s head. You run her fingers down the tressym’s neck and back, finally scratching the base of Tara’s tail — just as you know she likes it — before resting back on the bench. You’ve purposefully avoided Tara’s reading material this time. The apprentice Aribella rests on her stomach on the ground nearby, her legs kicking up into the air as she hems and haws over the bud that won’t quite open into bloom from her palm. The violent magic of nature's wrath had been easy for her to draw on after her experience with the druid totem, but under Gale’s tutelage she was slowly learning the calmer patterns of the Weave. She focuses intently on her latest homework to druidcraft a flower crown for her constant canine companion.

Speaking of, Scratch had been noticeably absent from Aribella’s side. You feel a frown cross your face, and find your eyes drawn deeper into the dim light of the tower. The study had slowly gotten messier the longer you had lived there, an awesome wreck after only a few months (although Gale often commented that since there was a wide pathway through the mess, technically it wasn’t hoarding). Aribella devoured books the same way Tav imagined Gale did at her age. There were tomes lying on every surface: open, closed, dog-eared, bookmarked, stacked to the ceiling. No one but Gale and Aribella knew which projects were active and which had been discussed, debated, discarded.

The piano in the corner played a new tune, a soft baudy jingle that you had accidentally brought home from your most recent night out with Alfira and the other tiefling refugees from the Grove. No, not refugees, not anymore. They had found their homes in Baldur’s Gate, and you visited the Elfsong Tavern as often as you could — you knew all Alfira’s songs at this point but loved absorbing the joy from the room as she played... But the piano had a terrible habit of catching any tune hummed in its presence, a constant bittersweet reminder of the distance to your friends.

Not seeing a white furry tail wagging from this distance, you murmur an apology to Tara, who fluffs her feathers indignantly. She digs claws just the other side of painfully into your lap as if to dare you to get up. Knowing she will be just fine without you, you take in one hand your empty wine glass, then close your eyes and gently tug on your connection to the Weave. A misty step cruelly leaves Tara with only a conjured pillow for comfort. Tara would call it cruel, anyway, regardless of Gale’s gentle warming spell that forever permeated the pillow slip. The tressym narrows her eyes without leaving her most recent tome — her only other reaction reaching out with a back leg to scratch a spot behind her ear.

With a chuckle, you absentmindedly bring the glass to your lips, remembering at once that it was empty. To the kitchen then.

The noise is the first thing to reach you. It is uncommonly loud for your little tower (ignoring the more recent arcane stories), even considering its normal inhabitants. You had grown used to raucous laughter from your many adventures, but it had been too long since it echoed within these walls. You pause with one hand just barely touching the door into the parlor, smiling contently as a soft memory of bedrolls and looted wine and butter buns crosses the forefront of your memory.

“And then… and then…” you hear Wyll’s tenor deep into another story, laughing so hard he can’t find the words. “The kid asks me if I’ve ever bested an owlbear!” Another ringing laugh joins in, then, and you find yourself pushing the door open. Your eyes land first on your dearest, closest friend, currently desperately trying to pat down a growing wine spill on the ruffles of her white shirt. Shadowheart brushes hair and tears out of her eyes. “I’m sure you then told the poor lad that you fought back-to-back with an armored Nugget? Just to see the soul leave his eyes?”.

Wyll nods. “I did, I did! And the kid just stood there staring at me… and then he turned on his heel and left the tavern! Fool trying to out-match the Blade of Avernus!” The two dissolve into another fit of giggles, uninterrupted by your entrance into the parlor. The door swings shut behind you with a soft reverberation, and Shadowheart’s eyes brighten to meet yours. She points at her shirt and winks; you gently pluck at the Weave and the wine stain is gone, prestidigitated to wherever those lost memories go. You reach out for Shadowheart… before ducking the hug and stealing her wine glass. A hearty laugh follows you to the other side of the parlor as Shadowheart rises from her stool and chases after you with a sudden hug from behind. You feel the soft echo of magic between the two of you, knowledge of each other harmonizing. Wyll swings around the table to refill both glasses, a lingering kiss on your cheek on the way.

“I’m so glad you both made it,” you smile to two of your dearest friends. “I heard Karlach come in earlier, she’s still upstairs.”

Wyll nods. “We missed Mizora by this much,” he sighs, bringing his pointer finger and thumb to a centimeter apart before looking up and out to the entrance to the upper floors. “She’ll be alright come dinnertime.”

“And who exactly are we having for dinner tonight?” a smirking voice sings from the end of the room as the door to the bustling outside world closes with a sharp click. His arrival had been expected… arrived last night in fact, with business in Waterdeep important enough to go out cloaked rather than waiting for the sun to set.

“Depends, Astarion, would you prefer the red wine or the white? I’m sure Gale could make some recommendations,” Shadowheart snorts. Laughter meets the wrinkle of Astarion’s nose as he removes his deep purple enchanted cloak to hang at the side. There are still too few outer layers missing from the coat closet --- friends yet to arrive for the celebration.

As if summoned by the hungry rumble of your belly — and knowing your husband, it probably was — a platter of cheese, cured meats, and pickled bits and bobs appeared within arms reach. Shadowheart and Wyll lunge in competition for first taste, and you decide you'd prefer your first bite directly from the source. 

The kitchen is only across the hall, a single sip of wine away. Laughter fades gently into the clink of dishware and the soft hum of another song you had brought home from the Gate. This one was a moving tune in three-four time, and the soft pat of house shoes suggested the kitchen's occupant was floating about his dinner prep with perfect rhythm. 

You push the door open gently, mindful of its creak so as to not disrupt one of your favorite sights in this tower. His hands are in his hair, again, pulling another traitorous lock back from where it had escaped from the bun he sports when he is at his most focused. You had left him to his work this afternoon, as he had requested, which meant no one had been around to tell him which spots of gray were his natural coloring and which were simply dashes of flour. The chorus of the waltz rises, his hands back at his hips as he surveys another recipe written carefully by his mother into a book that was so lovingly used you'd insisted on rebinding last year for his nameday. He balances on the balls of his feet, prepared to move the moment he knows what comes next. 

Time slows around you as you watch him slide between dishes, one stirred with mage hand, another whipped by an unseen servant. He tastes each, seasons one, and spins through a crescendo in the source-less music, intent on the oven. It is in this turn that he spies you leaning against the wall with the door closed softly behind you. 

If the kitchen had been completely frozen over, his smile would have melted it all away in an instant. 

“My love!”

You can feel the effort it takes for him to drag his eyes away from you, but a short ring from the oven indicates something desperately needs his attention more than you.

He pulls a kitchen towel from the ether and wrestles the roast from the oven under his own power. His mother insists that this particular recipe out of all of those tucked away in her book must be done with mortal, mundane hands. When it is safely secured on the trivet (quickly set in place by an unseen servant), he brushes the day's mess from his palms and rushes to your side. 

“As always you have the most impeccable timing, my darling.” 

Gale has many different kisses, you have come to learn. Some, like those he left on your forehead and nose and lips this morning as he crawled from bed, ignoring your pleas to sleep in, were soft and kind and loving. Those kisses were reserved for sleepy minds and moments in between moments. Others, like those you anticipated would follow the last of your friends succumbing to slumber this evening, were deep and pressing. Those kisses begged for the barriers between two souls alight with desire to be sundered so that the two could become a single being of light and love. 

And then there were the kisses like the one he pressed into you now. These were promises of tonight and tomorrow and the next day and next year and forever. These were the kisses that made you hope, that drove your soul to the gentle smile of one who loves and is loved in return. It was the kind of kiss that he had pulled you into when Shadowheart had called out to the temple “man and wife”. 

One hand reaches down to your waist, pulling you away from the wall and into the warmth of his body. The other passes up to your jawline where his fingers press gently into the back of your neck. When he finally relents, a crooked grin alights across his face. He has evidently left something of dinner behind on your jaw, which he wipes away with a quick rub of his thumb, and with a soft breath he brings to your lips. The taste is sour and sweet, the tang of lemon and honey glaze — 

“I believe that particular flavor is meant for the roast, my dear,” you murmur, pressing your tongue against the flat of his thumb.

“Ah, you would be correct. The time is long past that I attempt to improve upon a lover's perfection.” He leans in and presses more than casually into your core, his next murmurs meant for your ears only with how he nibbles gently on your neck. “Besides, I have other flavors in mind when it comes to complementing your particular essence…

“But!” He pushes away suddenly, and you have to catch yourself from falling into the space he leaves. “That discussion must be put on pause for the time that our long-awaited guests have found their lodgings and I am able to devote my full attention away from this feast.” His smile and the crinkles around his eyes betray his teasing — you both know you must leave him to work if your guests are to be fed anywhere near on time. He leans in only once more to press a kiss of the first kind onto the tip of your nose, and then rapidly shoves a basket of garlic and spring onion rolls into your unoccupied hand. “I am certain my beloved has many a song or story that can distract from her husband's deplorable time management.”

A sizzle of an over-boiled pot pulls his attention away. You linger just long enough to see that errant lock fall back into his face once more, before you turn toward the door and hallway that will allow your return to the gentle bubble of companionship. 

You should enjoy the evening with your dearest friends, for Gale will be here tomorrow when they have left — some for Avernus, others for the Gate, and others back to lives hidden and quiet. 

When they are gone, Gale will remain, and perhaps you will learn what his newest kisses taste like. 

[radioiaci]

In what may be the last time that he does so, Alastor's feet carry him up to his booth - the radio has been starkly silent in the days leading up to the eventual calamity. No music, no broadcasts. The Hotel is too important; the safety of the Cannibals and other residents in his charge is too paramount for him to divert his attention away for very long, particularly as he knows how eager God is to test their capabilities.

But now on the eve of what he presumes to be the final night unmarred by war, he finds solace in his hovel of aged technology and chaotically organized evidence of his person; his creative endeavors that show themselves in the scribbled notes and doodles that are scattered along his desk and the console. In the books he has resting in small piles both there and on the floor. In the ash trays with evidence of long-burned cigarettes and half-written poems that he's long since discarded.

There is time yet for one more broadcast, he thinks, as he begins to flick on the levers and switches to bring the thing to life, the mounted radio that sits nearby crackling with signal as the neon light fixated above his tower buzzes with its bold flare.

Into his chair, he settles, the sound of piano keys echoing along the signals of his staff which begin to formulate themselves into a rendition of Gershwin's "Embraceable You". It is faint - a backing to his voice as he begins to speak.

"To those who have decided to remain with open ears and anxious hearts, know that I am here; solid and stalwart through the oncoming danger that awaits each of us in the morn." Or whenever God decides to act, he thinks. But he carries on nonetheless.

"Through the years, you've been dedicated listeners as I regale you wish story and song - and as we chart a course through the churning sea of the battle ahead, I ask you to take comfort in the fact that none of us: not Sinner, nor Hellborn, nor Angel, nor beast are alone in what we may face. That the Almighty himself has declared war on the collective of his created beings and that we have an opportunity to show him our intent to fight to the last. No matter your allegiance, on the morrow, we are all standing on the precipice of executioner's row - And it is your choice whether to go quietly into that good night or to cement yourself amid the leagues that rise against the impending threat."

Alastor takes a breath and releases it.

"I am reminded of a poem. A more modern one, if you aged listeners can forgive. But relevant nonetheless."

The piano drifts on as he begins to recite:

"Try to praise the mutilated world. Remember June's long days, and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine. The nettles that methodically overgrow the abandoned homesteads of exiles.

You must praise the mutilated world. You watched the stylish yachts and ships; one of them had a long trip ahead of it, while salty oblivion awaited others. You've seen the refugees going nowhere, you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.

You should praise the mutilated world. Remember the moments when we were together in a white room and the curtain fluttered. Return in thought to the concert where music flared. You gathered acorns in the park in autumn and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.

Praise the mutilated world and the gray feather a thrush lost, and the gentle light that strays and vanishes and returns."

As the poem comes to a close, the song shifts to another piano-infused tune, Alastor's words coasting over the introduction to Perry Como's "Till The End Of Time" before he is done.

"Until next we meet, wayward Sinners - May you enjoy the final view of the Pentagram's red and deadly ambience before embracing infinity.

Fare thee well.

And good night."

[theretirementstory]

Bonjour et bienvenue, it is 7c and cloudy. I am going to a concert in town this afternoon, the Orchestré Symphonique de l’Aube, Peter and the Wolf, as well as excerpts from The Barber of Seville and Carmen.

Talking of excerpts: here is the poem for today, Who Has Seen The Wind? by Christina Rossetti

“Who has seen the wind?

Neither you nor I:

But when the trees bow down their heads,

The wind is passing by.”

This week I was asked again, why I had chosen Bar-sur-Aube to live in. The local people find it difficult to comprehend why any “étrangèrs” would choose to make their home here. I try to explain, it is the countryside, the facilities, train station, cinema, hospital, the history of the town not just with champagne making but with the growing of hemp, the seeds being used in foods, the fibres used in stationery, construction insulation and in the textile industry, with the woody part used as winter mulching. There has been a settlement here since the Iron Age and in the Middle Ages “Champagne Fairs” in mid-February and mid-April saw merchants from Flanders and Italy trading oriental spices and silks for textiles and raw materials. The half timbered three and four storey houses are perhaps an indication of the wealth in the town at that time. We still have grand old buildings, like the old Palais de Justice (pictured above) which now houses the music school. Yes, young people here are actively invited to learn to play the piano, flute, violin, etc. It may appear to be a dull and dusty town which sees tourists passing through on their way to some bigger city but this town has a lot to offer a tourist if they just “scratch the surface”. Blimey! That sounded a bit like the Sunday sermon 😉.

So let’s look at my week which didn’t get off to a good start……

My appointment with the dietician didn’t bode well from the start, her door was open, she made no attempt to come to check the waiting area and instead RANG MY PHONE!! When she heard it ring out in the waiting area she called me in, met me with that false smile (doesn’t reach the eyes) and as I handed her my food diary (for which I think I should have been awarded an A* GCSE) she glanced at it, said “you don’t eat the same breakfast everyday?” and proceeded to huff and puff over what I had written. She then produced a couple of sheets (which I appear to have mislaid) started to make notes in her file and as I was trying to explain something to her (I could see she wasn’t listening) she said “I don’t understand what you are saying and I don’t have time to listen to you!” Then she asked me for a cheque and bundled me out of the office. I have another appointment at 10:30 tomorrow, after which she can stuff her false smile and rude comments where the sun don’t shine!

I had another rendezvous with the Dentist, was I “coronated” that day…… no of course not! Looks like the crown will be placed (on my tooth) next week 🙄.

It was the AGM for the groups that meet at the “ancien collège”, of which the knitting group is a part. I had hardly put my toe inside the room before I was surrounded (well it seemed like that) by people using my name, wanting to ask me something, the 92 year old member of our group was waving to me and pointing to the chair next to hers. Anyway it turned out that (they weren’t after my autograph) they were keen to know if I would take over the role of key holder, subs collector, etc., as our previous “leader” had resigned. It was also proposed that the meeting be changed from a Wednesday to a Friday (not really convenient for me as that is my day with the refugee ladies) but as the group was down to just three members and a Friday would provide an additional two the proposal was voted in. The 92 year old lady, the doyenne of the group, has “all her buttons on”, and she will be assisting me with the running of the group. There was galette des rois and champagne afterwards, I had a small glass of champagne and had to refuse another helping of both.

My young friend, Pauline, messaged me from Eire, she had arrived in Dublin and is spending time looking around the city before she starts work on Tuesday. She was so excited about being there and I hope that the six month internship works out well for her.

I cannot decide if I am becoming a boring old **** as I have been thinking of what I will plant up in my garden this year. I have been and bought beetroot seeds (I really enjoyed the beets last year), I bought sweet pepper seeds (will try them again) although I didn’t have a lot of success before. Of course there will be broad beans (need them planting very soon) and peas as well as the salad leaves I grew last year (they were lovely) I will buy two “beef steak” tomato plants as I preferred them to the cherry tomatoes. I have bought the bee and butterfly mixed seeds again as the flowers do provide lots of colour in the garden. I also planted up the snowdrops Anie had brought for me and cleared the few weeds from the raised bed where the hyacinth, tête à tête, tulips and iris are producing lots of greenery. Oh I could go on but I don’t want to bore you!

I have also been thinking about a couple of breaks away, my friends in Strasbourg want me to go and see them there and I fancy a little break somewhere else. I had been looking at a coach holiday but I am not sure if I want to be away as long as the tours I have seen. I do prefer to go somewhere on the train, where I can go to see what I want to see, the only difference is that with the tour I would be with a group of people (which can be a good or bad thing). Oh decisions, decisions!

I am also keen to do my walking everyday (another thing the dietician asked about but wasn’t interested), I have noticed though that “all roads lead to the bar”, well it provides me with a seat, coffee and the newspaper before I walk back home. I really think that I should take a right turn when leaving my estate, that will take me to the river which I love to see. The only problem is there is nowhere convenient for me to sit and watch the world go by. Oh well we all have to make choices in life 😂.

I have been doing a little bit of knitting again, I really don’t think that I will be knitting anything for myself again, it is too heavy, but it is easy to knit small items. One of the new ladies coming up the knitting group was telling me that she does Tunisian crochet, now I have googled that and I think I could do it and that it wouldn’t be too heavy etc so I am going to order a pack of crochet hooks and give it a go.

I rang my cousin in Essex, he had been to the opticians and it wasn’t good news, he will lose his vision, how soon no-one knows. It is rather sad as he lives alone and has always enjoyed pottering around in his garden and greenhouse. Well keep doing what you enjoy for as long as you can, I say.

I think I should get a move on, as I need my hair washing and I have to decide what I will wear to go to the concert this afternoon.

Oh yes, it is a month today since I had this “foreign body” planted in my circumflex artery. I must admit it has made a difference and long may it continue to do so.

Have a good week until next week!

[yeonchi]

Doctor Who Series 14 Recap Review

Following the 60th Anniversary Specials, I said I would be stepping back from making reviews, though I would still be open to giving some quick recaps and thoughts about each episode. Even though it's officially known as Season 1, I'll continue the series numbering from the 2005 reboot, meaning that this will be Series 14 for me. Spoilers begin after the break.

2023 Christmas Special: The Church on Ruby Road

The Doctor meets Ruby Sunday and begins to realise that she is the target of shenanigans by the Goblins, who travel through time and kidnap babies. After meeting Ruby's family, the Doctor suddenly finds her erased from time as she was kidnapped by the Goblins as a baby, so the Doctor goes back and saves Ruby, destroying their ship in the process.

The special was cringe, to say the least. I shared some thoughts about it in my 2023 In Review post, but personally, I don't think musical numbers fit the tone of the show.

The episode also features the debut of Ruby's neighbour, Mrs Flood, who apparently knows what the TARDIS is at the end.

Episode 1: Space Babies

After Ruby steps on a butterfly and the Doctor revives it to turn her back from some alien being (time does not work that way btw), they visit a space station run by (6-year-old) babies and managed by a Nan-E system run by an accountant who stayed behind when the rest of the crew left due to a recession.

The ship is haunted by a Bogeyman which turns out to be a creature created by the ship as a story villain using the snot (bogeys) of the babies. The Bogeyman is the misunderstood villain of the episode and at the end, the babies recognise the Bogeyman as one of them too, with the Doctor saving it from being sucked out of the airlock because Bogeyman Lives Matter (and it didn't make him go blind unlike that other time). While the space station couldn't fly anywhere as it wasn't meant for that purpose, the Doctor finds a way to get them asylum on another planet by using the babies' used nappies as fuel.

Yeah, this is another cringe episode. I thought The Message was going to be an abortion allegory but it was more an allegory on refugees, which is understandable. Also, from this episode, the opening titles were slightly modified to include an extra sequence of the TARDIS flying into the Time Vortex, making it look less jumpy.

Episode 2: The Devil's Chord

The Doctor and Ruby travel to London in the 1960s to meet the Beatles at Abbey Road Studios. When they get there, they find that the songs being recorded are tone-deaf and boring, which extends to Cilla Black and an orchestra. They soon find out that this is the work of the Maestro, a child of the Toymaker, who has consumed all music in the world and caused a nuclear winter back in Ruby's time (speaking of which, how could 6 months have passed in the space of two back-to-back adventures after the Christmas Special?).

The Doctor discovers that just as the Maestro was released by someone finding the Devil's Chord, they could be sealed if he finds the Notes of Banishment. The Doctor does so, but he gets the final note wrong, leading the Maestro to whip the piano out of the room, where it is found by John and Paul, who manage to discover the final note and reseal the Maestro, bringing music back to the world.

I'm not a big fan of the Maestro as a villain because they seem like an exaggerated caricature of Bowlestrek. Same goes for the musical number at the end - I'll admit that the song is catchy, but again, this isn't a Disney production.

Interestingly, the Doctor mentions how the bi-generation literally tore his soul in half and he can't survive another one (at least not at this stage anyway). Again, this just adds more questions to the exact nature of bi-generation, like shouldn't the Doctor be broken by now if each of his previous regenerations became bi-generations?

Also, Ruby is revealed to have a hidden song deep inside her soul and that she has the ability to summon snow out of nowhere. According to the Maestro, this is the work of "the Oldest One", but at this stage, their connection to "the One Who Waits" is unknown.

Episode 3: Boom

The Doctor lands in a Church warzone on Kastorian 3 and steps on a Villengard smartmine. When Ruby tosses the Doctor something to help him counterbalance and change position, he discovers that it is actually a dead soldier's body, killed after an ambulance deemed the soldier's blindness to be fatal (or rather, a liability). The dead soldier's daughter, Splice, runs onto the battlefield to find her father, leading another soldier, Mundy, to go after her. Mundy's love interest, Canterbury, sees Ruby about to shoot Mundy (in an attempt to get the ambulance to turn on her) and shoots Ruby in turn.

Over the course of the story, we learn that the Church's enemy, the Kastorians, don't actually exist; the Church advertised their presence on the planet, which triggered the Villengard algorithm in their weapons and without an enemy to fight, the ambulances began killing the Church soldiers to maintain "the acceptable casualty rate".

With minutes left and the Doctor connected to Ruby through the ambulance, he has the dead soldier's AI hack into the ambulance to find proof that the planet is uninhabited. Despite Canterbury being killed in the process, the dead soldier's AI is successful, reviving Ruby and disarming the smartmine the Doctor was standing on.

This episode was written by Steven Moffat, who will also be writing the Christmas Special (instead of RTD for the first time in New Who history) before stepping down for Series 15, because such comebacks after saying "I'm done for good" totally haven't happened in this show before. Also, Mundy's actress, Verada Sethu, has also been cast as a new companion for Series 15.

The episode was better than the first two episodes of this series, but it got ridiculous for me when it was revealed that the Church were fighting nothing and the Doctor says that they didn't see it because they had faith, "the magic word that keeps you never having to think for yourself". Splice was annoying as well; she was all "I want my daddy" even though she should know she was in a warzone.

Episode 4: 73 Yards

Due to Ncuti Gatwa's prior commitments to filming Sex Education in late-2022, this episode was the first to be filmed in the series as a Doctor-lite episode.

Landing in the Welsh coastal ranges, the Doctor accidentally steps into a fairy circle, apparently binding the soul of someone named Mad Jack, and disappears for the rest of the episode. Ruby finds herself being stalked by a woman who is always 73 yards away (which is the furthest that you can just make out someone) and gesturing at her.

Ruby can't go towards the woman because she will always be 73 yards away from her, so she has to ask other people to find out what the woman is trying to say. When they do, they run off in horror because they found out that in a past life, she was Chris-chan or Lincoln Loud or some fictional character in Rule 34 fanarts. This happens to a few people Ruby meets, followed by her adoptive mother, Carla (did I mention she only fosters kids for the money?) and even Kate Stewart (man, it's like she heard about JaviSuzumiya just from looking at the woman lmao). OK, the excuse the episode gives is always "Ask her" (and the Doctor Who Unleashed episode says something different with the gestures), but this is my headcanon and I stand by it.

Time goes on and Ruby finds out that Mad Jack has apparently resurfaced as Roger ap Gwilliam, who the Doctor previously mentioned as "the most dangerous Prime Minister in history". She makes it her mission to thwart Roger ap Gwilliam and prevent another Years and Years by joining his election campaign, with his main policy being to obtain nuclear weapons to defend Britain's borders (though it probably would have been better to look at who already made it through if you ask me).

Roger ap Gwilliam wins the election, much to the horror of some chick named Marti. As they prepare for his victory speech, Ruby apologises to Marti for taking so long before going onto the pitch and standing 73 yards away from Roger. Despite the perception filter, Roger sees the woman, learns of Ruby being a motherfucker in a past life and runs off, resigning as Prime Minister soon after.

Ruby's life continues on and on her deathbed, she finds the woman coming closer and closer to her. She is suddenly brought back to the day the Doctor disappeared and manages to warn her past self to tell the Doctor not to step in the fairy circle, thus averting the ridiculous chain of events that followed.

Aside from the 73 yards thing with the woman, this episode is a leftist fantasy akin to the Jack Robertson episodes of the Chibnall era. That scene where Ruby was trying to stand 73 yards away from Roger? Yeah, in real life those soldiers would probably have shot Ruby when she ran onto the grass. If that's what counts for activism these days I'm surprised more people aren't getting killed than owned by facts and logic.

RTD implies that Roger ap Gwilliam is inspired by "terrible young men online". Yeah, as soon as I heard that, I knew Roger was an Andrew Tate expy, but because of how vague everything was, it didn't feel like Roger's actor (Aneurin Barnard) was really channelling Tate in character. He can't be a Donald Trump/Boris Johnson expy because those spots have been taken, he can't be a Ben Shapiro expy because many leftists want to cuckold him for some reason and he can't be a Jordan Peterson expy because Peterson isn't extreme compared to Andrew Tate. Honestly, if RTD's intention was to rip off his previous series Years and Years for a plot point then he should have just said it. And to think that this episode was what RTD claimed to be one of the greatest things he's ever worked on.

Episode 5: Dot and Bubble

In the same production block as the last episode, this episode is another Doctor-lite episode, but not really. It's really an episode that focuses on a guest character akin to Love and Monsters in Series 2 or Blink in Series 3.

We follow a woman named Lindy Pepper-Bean, a resident on the NWO world known as Finetime where everyone relies on their social media Dot and Bubble for their daily lives, including how to walk. In the middle of her complaining about her two-hour-a-day job processing substack data, Lindy notices that her friends are slowly disappearing and the Doctor and Ruby manage to convince her that there are slug monsters around her eating people, but others are somehow being spared.

The Doctor tells Lindy to get to a conduit so they can get to the river leading out of a city. On the way, she meets singer (read: lipsyncer) Ricky September who helps Lindy to the conduit. The Doctor has Ricky enter the pulse codes before deducing that the residents are being eaten in alphabetical order. Also, the Doctor believes that the slug monsters were created by the Dot and if they can't kill anyone, the Dot itself will. Lindy's name is up and Ricky fends off her Dot while she finishes entering the numbers. As Lindy unlocks the door to the conduit, she throws Ricky under the bus before she goes through.

At the conduit, Lindy reunites with one of her surviving friends and also meets the Doctor and Ruby. With help from the Homeworld seemingly delayed (in actuality, not coming at all due to the Homeworld being overrun by slug monsters), the remaining residents decide to venture into the forests around the city. The Doctor offers to help them off this world because they will die on the outside, but they refuse, much to the Doctor's disbelief.

So you want to know what the Message of this episode was? It's the New World Order, social media, rich kids or a combination of the above. Oh, I'm sorry, according to RTD on Unleashed, it's rich white kids, because it's not enough that it's got to be kids addicted to social media, but their parents are rich, no less, and we've got to sprinkle in some of that racism too because current year. Not calling this a "shut up RTD" moment, but was it necessary and did it (the entire episode) need to be this exaggerated?

I'm sorry, but this episode just felt patronising to me. "But Azuma, you missed the point of the episode!" Oh no, I got the point. I just don't fucking care.

By the way, I'm sure you will have noticed an actress named Susan Twist playing a bit character in every episode of this series so far, including Mrs Merridew at the start of Wild Blue Yonder. Obviously, like Mrs Flood, she will be playing a role in this series' story arc.

Episode 6: Rogue

Doctor Who meets Bridgerton in this episode. The Doctor and Ruby go to a Regency dance ball when he encounters Rogue, a bounty hunter who is after a Chuldur, who can shapeshift into other humans by electrifying them. And yet other shapeshifting creatures have been able to do this quicker and easier than they have.

Rogue thinks that the Doctor is the Chuldur, but is convinced otherwise when he reveals his numerous incarnations, including that of the Fugitive Doctor- wait, that face after William Hartnell wasn't Christopher Eccleston, was it? No, apparently that is Richard E. Grant, who played an incarnation of the Doctor in the animated series Scream of the Shalka, which RTD swept aside when he was brought on to revive Doctor Who. Yeah, I knew this would happen when Chibnall obliterated Doctor Who canon in 2020 and RTD made it worse in 2023. Honestly I'm surprised they didn't include the other faces from The Brain of Morbius and The Timeless Children in that montage as well.

As the situation progresses, the Doctor realises that the Chuldur are cosplaying Bridgerton and reenacting the drama. He decides to introduce a scandal by dancing with Rogue in front of the guests, then starting an argument with him and rejecting his proposal for marriage. They lure the Chuldur outside, but it becomes clear that they aren't dealing with one, but four, later five.

The Doctor sees Ruby with the Chuldur and believes that they got her as well, leading to him being distraught at the fear of breaking the promise he made with Ruby's mum to keep her safe. However, when the Doctor sets up Rogue's triform trap, it is revealed that Ruby knocked out the fifth Chuldur and cosplayed as it, much to the Doctor's shock.

Rogue comes in and brings the fifth Chuldur into the trap. The Doctor begins to struggle whether he should sacrifice Ruby or release the Chuldur. Then Rogue kisses the Doctor before he takes the trigger, bumps Ruby out of the trap and activates it, telling the Doctor to find him. And I thought this would lead into next week's episode, but anyway, the Doctor sends Rogue's ship into orbit and puts his ring on his hand.

The episode was honestly quite great if you can get around the gay overtone-laden whirlwind romance and the continual doubling-down of the Timeless Child. How is it that the more decent episodes of this series aren't written by the showrunner? Gee, it's almost like you can write a good story without having to force in The Message so unsubtly or making it so cringeworthily cheesy.

So in the Unleashed episode, they only mention that Indira Varma, who played the Duchess Chuldur in this episode, was in Mission: Impossible and Game of Thrones, yet they didn't mention that she was in Torchwood previously as Suzie Costello. Nor did they mention back in Episode 4, 73 Miles, that the location used for the pub in that episode was the same one used in an episode of Torchwood Series 1. Speaking of which, some people are also saying that Rogue is reminiscent of Captain Jack Harness or that he is a replacement for him. Look, regardless of what you feel about the John Barrowman scandal, I think that Rogue is merely a surrogate/counterpart for Captain Jack and that the original character isn't being erased (as far as I know).

Episode 7: The Legend of Ruby Sunday

The Doctor and Ruby go to UNIT for help investigating the mystery of the Susan Twist bit characters appearing throughout their journey. As it turns out, UNIT have been investigating Susan Triad, an IT genius who is about to release her software free to the public; the name of her company is an anagram of TARDIS and Susan also happens to be the name of the Doctor's granddaughter.

While there, the Doctor also intends on solving another mystery as well, namely the mystery of Ruby's birth mother. Ruby is sent back to her house with Rose Noble to get the tape showing CCTV footage of a camera 66 metres (73 yards) away from the church on Ruby Road on Christmas Eve 2004. Ruby's mum Carla goes with Ruby and Rose to UNIT HQ, leaving Mrs Flood to look after Cherry, who warns her about a storm coming in and "he waits no more".

The Doctor reunites with Mel, who had been undercover with Susan Triad, as Ruby and Rose return with Carla and the tape. UNIT makes use of a Time Window to enhance the tape and project the scene around the Doctor and Ruby. As Ruby tells the Doctor about her birth, it begins snowing inside even before the Time Window is turned on. The Time Window is then turned on and in the scene projected around them, they are only able to make out the woman leaving Ruby at the church and walking away, but not her face. They then see the Doctor arriving in 2004 to defeat the goblins and the changed memory of the woman pointing at the Doctor.

A soldier guarding the Time Window takes a look behind the TARDIS in the footage but he doesn't see anything. He tries a different angle and the soldier disappears behind the TARDIS. After the Doctor in 2004 leaves in the TARDIS, a dark cloud emerges inside the Time Window and it is revealed that the soldier was killed. The soldier's voice inside the cloud says that "it's been waiting for so long" before the Time Window powers down.

The Doctor decides to see Susan Triad and Mel takes him to see her just as she is about to give her speech to the world. The Doctor asks Susan if they met before, which she denies, but she does mention having dreams. The Doctor presses Susan on who she dreams about and she appears to remember them. Meanwhile, UNIT discovers that the TARDIS somehow returned to 2004 and became enveloped in the dark cloud.

Susan begins her speech while Carla and other non-essential personnel are evacuated. The Doctor sends Ruby back to the Time Window and it begins to show Christmas Eve 2004 again with the woman coming towards her. Susan and Harriet are revealed to be harbingers of a certain god as the dark cloud reveals itself as Sutekh, the god of death.

Sutekh was originally featured in the Fourth Doctor story Pyramids of Mars and is also a part of the Pantheon of Discord as the Oldest One or as it is revealed, The One Who Waits. Other members of the Pantheon mentioned include the Toymaker, Maestro, the Trickster and the Mara, the latter two being villains previously seen in the franchise.

People thought that Susan Foreman would be returning because of all the Susan Twist stuff and the mention of Susan Foreman in the second episode, but honestly, I'm glad it was a red herring because it would have been disgraceful to her character and her actress, Carole Ann Ford, if she reappeared with a new actress without the original making an appearance in the revived/rebooted series considering that Ford is still living. If she got a Fourteenth Doctor treatment and regenerated after a few special appearances, then that would be fine.

Episode 8: Empire of Death

Sutekh and his harbingers spread the dust of death all over London as the Doctor and Mel rush back to the Time Window at UNIT HQ. As they reunite with Ruby, they discover that the TARDIS in the memory, the memory TARDIS, can be used to escape since Sutekh now has control of the TARDIS.

Sutekh confronts the Doctor and reveals that after his defeat at the end of Pyramids of Mars where he was cast to the Time Vortex, he managed to cling onto the TARDIS and everywhere the Doctor landed, he used the memories of Susan Foreman within the TARDIS to create multiple copies of Susan Triad, which is spreading the dust of death everywhere in space and time. As the Doctor landed on (present-day) Earth hundreds of times, the Susan copy there ended up being reborn stronger and stronger until Susan Triad came to their attention.

The Doctor, Ruby and Mel escape in the memory TARDIS with the screen from the TV used in the Time Window. After the Doctor gets a metal spoon from some planet, he wonders why Sutekh decided to attack now rather than earlier. Ruby asks a question and the Time Window screen changes from Pyramids of Mars to the scene of Ruby's mother pointing at the Doctor on Ruby Road. For some reason, Ruby's mother was something beyond Sutekh's comprehension that even he couldn't see, which is why he kept the Doctor, Ruby and Mel alive.

Suddenly, the screen shows an interview with Roger ap Gwilliam, someone who Ruby didn't meet in this timeline. The Doctor realises that in 2046, Roger ap Gwilliam mandated DNA testing for the entire population of the UK (something that freedom cookers supposedly wouldn't like from a supposedly far-right politician, lol leftist projection much?), so Ruby's mother would have to be in the database. They head to the future after Roger ap Gwilliam was overthrown (yeah, if it happened in 2046, the year when he was elected Prime Minister, there probably wouldn't have been a DNA database at all lol).

The Doctor and Ruby use the DNA database to find Ruby's mother, but the latter doesn't understand what it means. It is then revealed that Mel was killed and possessed by Sutekh as she brings the Doctor and Ruby back to 2024. Ruby offers to reveal her mother's name to Sutekh, but she drops the Time Window screen and leashes Sutekh as the Doctor purges Harriet from within the TARDIS while bringing it to him.

Sutekh is dragged into the Time Vortex; because he had been in the Time Vortex before, bringing him in a second time undoes everything he did and brings everyone back to life. Once this is done, the Doctor concedes victory to Sutekh for allowing him to bring death to death before closing the door on Sutekh, who disintegrates in the Time Vortex.

Susan Triad, who is still alive after Sutekh's defeat, is offered a job at UNIT. The DNA testing finishes on the UNIT computers and Ruby's mother is revealed to be a wonderful, yet ordinary woman. Her pointing at the Doctor was actually her pointing at the signpost saying Ruby Road to name her baby (because the social workers or paramedics couldn't have done that based on where she was left, plus it wasn't like her mum left a note with her name on it). This is what Ruby doesn't understand; how could she have remained invisible to the Doctor, Ruby and most importantly, Sutekh? After reading the /r/gallifrey discussion post for this episode, I thought this was RTD2 pulling a Shirakura 2.0, but if you think about it, maybe the TARDIS psychically tied itself to Ruby's memories because of how she wanted to find her mum and when the Doctor went to the church on Ruby Road to save Ruby from the goblins, Ruby's mum ended up in the 73-yard effect radius of the TARDIS perception filter and it scrambled things for everyone, even Sutekh. It still doesn't explain the snow randomly falling, though, or the song apparently hidden in Ruby's soul, so yeah, RTD2 is still pulling a Shirakura 2.0.

The Doctor helps Ruby reunite with her birth mother before they go back to meet Carla and Cherry. Ruby is about to rejoin the Doctor, but she declines when she hears that her father has been found, so they part ways for the time being. Mrs Flood teases that while Ruby got her happy ending, the Doctor's will end in "absolute terror".

The finale was alright, even if the mysteries didn't end up being solved in a satisfying manner or plot holes begin showing up when you start thinking deeply about it, in which case, yeah, it was bad. If Sutekh was The One Who Waits, then who was the Meep's boss as mentioned in The Star Beast? If Sutekh was clinging onto the TARDIS all this time, then what happened to him when the TARDIS blew up or when the TARDIS got bigenerated? And finally, what was with the Doctor writing off the Egyptian imagery in Pyramids of Mars as "cultural appropriation"? Sutekh was based off the Egyptian god and in the original story, he was written as an alien of the Osiran race and- oh wait.

So yeah, save for some good moments of tension, action or nostalgia scattered throughout the series, Series 14 ended up being rather cringeworthy; if I had lowered my standards and judged the series on a first-watch basis, I would have said that it was just below average, not that good but still fairly watchable. RTD's clearly taken a page from Shinichiro Shirakura's book of not caring about the consistency of continuity or the quality of writing on the series he produces, then turning around to make people point and laugh at those who care. Basically, RTD's running on Zi-O Rule 3, just like every Doctor Who writer since The Timeless Children, and if you know anything about Japanese tokusatsu, you'll understand why I liken RTD as the Shinichiro Shirakura of Doctor Who (after Chris Chibnall).

People seemed to criticise the Fifteenth Doctor crying in nearly every episode. Initially, I thought it was weird that the Doctor got emotional given that the bigeneration was meant as a sort of rehab for him. After looking into this however, I realised that maybe that was exactly what the bigeneration was meant to do - to enable the Doctor to express his emotions more, to tell him that it's okay to cry (not that the Doctor hasn't cried or expressed emotions before). Doesn't make the bigeneration any less a bad idea, particularly with the way it was executed though.

Back in October 2021, just after RTD announced his return as showrunner, I put out a list of hopes for the series going forward in the prelude to my Series 13 (Flux) reviews. Let's take a look at how many came true:

Put the series back on Saturdays - Not only that, episodes are released on BBC iPlayer and Disney+ at midnight UK time, meaning that US audiences can watch it on the Friday afternoon/evening and that Australian audiences can watch it at 9:00 AM on the Saturday morning (thank you, British Summer Time). If I were doing full reviews like before I could honestly have dedicated my weekends to them instead of having to juggle it with work.

Give the series a regular schedule - RTD said that he would have a script that would go to air in May 2025, plus Series 15 concluded filming this past May, so if this series is anything to go by, we should expect the next series to come out the same time next year. RTD also has plans for two more series after that, but the BBC haven't commissioned those yet. Honestly, as much as I hated waiting another two years for a new series, the waiting time has given the production team headroom to work on series in advance so that we can get regularity back in the Doctor Who schedule, so I'm happy either way.

Make each series 13 episodes again without breaks - Yeah, that's not looking likely at this point. RTD's stated the stresses he was suffering through when the series returned with series of 13 episodes apiece, plus Moffat's definitely had similar stresses as well. Even after retiring from my personal project, which had episodes that were 45 minutes long (times 13 for a weekly series and 60 for a nightly series), I decided that I would be better off writing half-hour plots, which I should have considered in the first place, but no, I had to implement tokusatsu techniques in a Doctor Who-style series and make it in the scale of a nightly Chinese drama. Speaking of episode lengths, how long is each episode supposed to be, 45 or 50 minutes? I'm fine with having less episodes and having slightly longer episodes to make up for it (longer series finales are tradition for this series), but can you make up your minds over how long the episodes should be? I didn't mention this back during the 60th Anniversary Specials, but the second one, Wild Blue Yonder, came out 6 minutes short of the expected 60-minute length.

Bring back the Christmas Special - That's a no-brainer.

Return to filming in the 16:9 widescreen ratio - Yeah, more and more series and movies seem to be embracing this aspect ratio nowadays. Not that I'm focusing on it too much given how I tend to have my media player on one side of my screen.

And by the way, RTD isn't the only person who needs to know their place in the fanbase, because before the series premiered, Ncuti Gatwa told haters to "touch grass". I swear, he doesn't even know who his haters are or aren't. Also, are we going to see Daleks this year? I guess Terry Nation's estate isn't getting their royalties now. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if RTD's calling their bluff or the estate doesn't care anymore.

So that's it for my look at Doctor Who Series 14. I hope you enjoyed this new review format instead of the full episode-by-episode format from earlier reviews. It's definitely alleviated quite a bit of stress and helped me manage my creative burnout. I'll be talking briefly about this year's Christmas Special in my Year in Review post, then I'll probably do another "quick" review post like this next year for Series 15. But for now, that's it from me.

[edithhaimbergernotebook]

Finding Peace Amid War at Berlin's Barenboim-Said Music Academy

AKADEMIEKONZERT (ACADEMY CONCERT) Wednesday, May 15, 2024 Pierre Boulez Saal

May 15th is Nakba Day.

It is a sad, heavy anniversary for Palestinians. It is a reminder of the refugees who fled and those who were killed during the Arab-Israeli War in the 1940s.

The refugees and their descendants partly remain in refugee camps like Jenin in the West Bank (opened 1953), Shatila in Lebanon (1949), and Yarmouk in Syria (1957).

Likely by coincidence, this year a music academy that unites pupils from Middle Eastern and North African countries, was offering a concert on May 15th in the middle of Berlin.

It was a peaceful way to spend the day, signalling support for pluralism and dialogue as avenues to resolve the conflict.

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The Barenboim-Said Academy, named after the pianist and the philosopher, is tucked behind the State Opera Unter den Linden.

In the Academy building, an intimate concert hall named in honour of the French composer Pierre Boulez (boo-LEZ) hosts classical music, jazz, and other concerts.

(For this student concert, tickets were affordably priced at 10€.)

The concert began with a classic. Both literally – due to the musical period in which Mozart composed – and figuratively.

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Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791) Sonata for two pianos in D major KV 448 (1781) I. Allegro con spirito II. Andante III. Molto allegro

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Image: Audience members waiting for Mozart. Photo taken by me (Edith Haimberger). May 15, 2024. All rights reserved.

After the Mozart came Igor Stravinsky.

If the audience's busy fidgeting during his music was any evidence, the Russian composer is still controversial over 100 years after he premiered the Rite of Spring.

Image: Audience members waiting for Stravinsky. Photo taken by me. May 15, 2024. All rights reserved.

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Igor Stravinsky (1882-1971) Histoire du soldat Suite for Violin, Clarinet and Piano (1918-19) I. Marche du soldat II. Le Violon du soldat III. Petit concert IV. Tango-Valse-Ragtime V. Danse du diable

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A much longer, alternative performance with narration, which is true to Stravinsky's elaborate concept, is also on YouTube here.

At the end, students played the flute, oboe, clarinet, French horn and bassoon, in a quintet that gave each their moment in the spotlight.

The oboist had been 'borrowed' from the Hochschule für Musik Hanns Eisler, another music academy in Berlin.

In contrast to Stravinsky, Paul Taffanel seemed like a conservative composer. The audience was at times nearly completely quiet, the mood relaxed.

*

Paul Taffanel (1844-1908) Woodwind Quintet in g minor (1876) I. Allegro con moto II. Andante III. Vivace

*

After the concert, walking from the Barenboim-Said Academy toward Unter den Linden and its tourist frenzy. Photo taken by me. May 15, 2024. All rights reserved.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I deeply believe that people of different languages, cultures, and politics can ultimately speak to each other through the arts." – Frank Gehry (Canadian-American designer of the Pierre Boulez Saal)

(Quotation taken from the concert ticket)

[thosesixyears]

Hiatus - Parklands review

Parklands was released in 2013 by British-Iranian producer Cyrus Shahrad, aka Hiatus. Seven tracks were co-written by British-Russian producer Alexandra Lilah Denton, aka Shura, who also performed vocals for the tracks in question. The title track “Parklands” was a collaboration with the Indian group Kirtaniyas.

Parklands was released after Shura and Hiatus had collaborated prior as “Hiatus & Shura”, releasing the tracks “River” and “Fortune’s Fool”, which were later included on this album.

From my very first listen to Parklands, I was immediately captivated by it. I listened to the whole album and was hit with an intense wave of emotions as each track played through to completion. Then I listened to it again, and again, and it quickly became my top listened-to album in October leading me to order a signed CD and eventually write this review. 

The album opens with "We Can Be Ghosts Now", where warm and welcoming instrumentation is juxtaposed by lyrics describing war making its way to London. 

“Bury everything you own On a hill in Peckham Rye Say a prayer for those you've known As tracer fire scars the sky”

The destruction is framed through the protagonist's desire to be with their lover in death, "Meet me in the dust cloud" "As the towers topple all around", so that they can "be ghosts now", finally being free in death.

With the public consciousness over these past months being so focused on the destruction in Gaza, I can't help but feel sad when I listen to this. The story it tells, despite describing a fictional war coming to London, feels relevant and frighteningly real.

"Cloud City" poignantly describes the protagonist losing a loved one "somewhere overseas". "As I held on to the sleeve of your coat" makes me think the protagonist was only a child when this happened, being forced to leave their parent or guardian behind as they then travelled overseas to their new home, possibly as a refugee.

Furthermore, “Something moved when I moved and you…” seems to describe the separation, as the protagonist’s grip on their guardian’s coat was lost, trailing off into the other repeating lines of the song.

“How did I ever lose you?” can also be heard throughout, speaking to the regret of the events.

As with “We Can Be Ghosts Now”, “Cloud City” follows the trend of songs with warm and comforting arrangements, beautifully blending organic and inorganic sounds, combined with melancholy lyrics.

"A Silver Exit" in comparison, being instrumental, is a welcome relief from the rawness of the previous two tracks' lyrics. Warm synth pads, slow percussion and reversed piano notes feel delicate and soothing. Before fading away and leaving the listener refreshed and primed for the next track.

"River", shares the same warm instrumentation as the rest of the album so far, but the lyrics are cryptic. Shura sings "Still you were so" over and over through the first half of the track. Sometimes the vocals include harmony and sometimes they are sung delicately solo. Occasionally "You took me down" and "to the river" are heard.

However, near the end of the track, the tone changes as Shura sings "You took me down, and drowned me" before staying silent. At the end, as the song fades, she can be heard again singing "You took me down" but the song ends before the rest of the verse can be finished. The mystery of "River" is intriguing. It sounds as if it could be the testimony of a murder victim, calling out the actions of their murderer from beyond the grave. Or, given she continues to sing as the song ends, it could be metaphorical. 

A YouTube user commented another possible interpretation, stating:

“Once again Hiatus and Shura teach us something about love, life, death, and peace.  After all he's done to her, she still loves him. Her 'soul' belongs to him.  The River may not be as literal or as metaphorical as one may think. It speaks of her becoming lost in him - 'drowned' as it were, in the swift currents of the river that is him.  And in the embrace of the river that she's been drowned in, she's found peace.” (Clauser)

This is possibly backed up by the original iteration of this song, written by Shura before “Parklands”. In Shura’s version, there is a line, “Come with me there I’ll marry you, darling, I’ll take you and make you my wife” (Denton), which does not appear in the later version that appears on “Parklands”. Shura’s version also does not include the line “You took me down and drowned me”, which implies the intent may not have been my own darker interpretation of the song.

Either way, Hiatus and Shura have not said what their intent was, and in my opinion, not knowing makes me feel uneasy. That said, the mystery only improves the song in my opinion. Alastair James Dickie’s review of “Parklands” closes on a similar note, stating that “The album treats me like a grown up capable of coming to my own conclusions. I really love that.” (Dickie)

"Fortune's Fool" is exemplary of the bittersweet feeling “Parklands” has as an album. It seems to imply, through its title “Fortune’s Fool”; a reference to Romeo and Juliet, and through its lyrics, the foolishness brought on by love. To me, it seems to be sung reflectively, looking back at the events that lead up to the present of the song.

There is a lot to unpack here, from the reference to Romeo and Juliet to the line “And I Am Kissing You”, likely a reference to Des'ree’s “Kissing You”, a song written for the 1996 film adaptation of Romeo and Juliet.

The music video is also interesting, showing a couple played by Hiatus and Shura, cutting their bed in half with a chainsaw, then taking the pieces, using them to build a raft with a white flag and setting out to sea on it (“Hiatus - Fortune’s Fool”). It speaks to the possible failures of their relationship and their eventual surrender to each other, literally setting off towards new horizons.

It’s a song that I think deserves further analysis, one which I would like to return to examine more here. For now, I’ll say that I appreciate all the symbolism, and the combination of the lyrics and beautiful instrumental backing track makes me feel a particular sadness, much like the rest of the album.

The title track "Parklands" has a beautiful, slow and deliberate build, before leading into the midsection with performances and vocals from the Indian group Kirtaniyas (credited here as Kirtanayas). The best translation I could find is that they are singing "Glory to Ram(a) and Sita" in Hindi. I do not speak Hindi but Google Translate does give me a transliteration that contains the words of what is sung (albeit perhaps in the incorrect order).

"Parklands" appears to be a remix of "Sita Rama" by Kirtaniyas, presented on the album "Parklands" as a collaboration. What Hiatus does with it is utterly transformative, retaining the original atmosphere but changing the genre completely.

"Parklands", like the album, is beautiful, and despite not being Hindu or speaking Hindi, I find the vocals and their backing soundscape mesmerising and comforting. The simplicity of it is refreshing, especially after the lyrically and symbolically dense tracks preceding it.

"Iran Air", one of my favourites on the album, opens with an LFO-filtered synth lead playing darker notes, which are then underscored by a deep reece bass. Shimmering pads and delicate piano notes then lead into the vocals. 

“Iran Air” is a fictionalised retelling of what people like Hiatus’ own father went through as refugees fleeing Iran, as he described in an interview.

“Obviously, it’s ultimately a tribute to my father. I wanted it to express the feeling of living in a country that isn’t your home. You can become acclimatised to living somewhere like London but you’ll never completely let go of that other life that you lived.” (King)

He goes on to describe his familial and personal connection to Iran, saying, 

“I’m half Iranian, my Mum’s English. I spent my first year and a half there, then the revolution happened and my family moved to the UK. We went back once in ’82 and then while we were there the war with Iraq kicked off. Saddam Hussein started bombing Tehran. After that my Dad washed his hands of it, assuming that we’d never go back. But when I reached my twenties I felt like there was this whole part of my life that I knew nothing about, and I wanted so desperately to reconnect with it. So in 2005 I went back to work as a journalist, covering the elections for The Sunday Times. That was the most seminal, formative experience of my life. I started obsessing over Iranian music and sampling loads of my Dad’s old records which were still in the house I was staying in. Lots of those samples appear on Ghost Notes.” (King)

This personal connection can absolutely be felt in “Iran Air”, which beautifully describes the trauma of leaving one’s home behind to start a new life, while never forgetting your origins.

As an Ojibwe person living on Turtle Island, I may not have any personal experience to draw on in comparison to living as a refugee, but I fully understand the connection we as individuals have to the lands we are Indigenous to, and “Iran Air” speaks to me in this way on a personal level.

“Iran Air” closes with the verse,

“Living for a secret sign Living for a secret sign and Dreaming Iran Air Looking up at every passing flight Every one a prayer”.

The verse describes the protagonist's desire to eventually return home to Iran on a returning flight. It is poignant and heartfelt, and the way “Iran Air” beautifully connects “Parklands” to Hiatus’ own past and heritage is really what makes the album stand out to me, more than it already did for the quality of its production and vocals. 

"Returning", along with the rest of the tracks on the album, is mostly instrumental aside from a few sampled vocals and non-lexical vocals sung by Shura on the final track.

“Returning” is a more upbeat and optimistic-sounding arrangement. It contains many of the same elements as “Iran Air” as well as the occasional vocal sample in a language I don’t recognize (perhaps Farsi vocals sampled from Hiatus’ father’s records?). The name “Returning” leads me to believe the track is an impression of Hiatus’ own experiences returning to Iran in his twenties. It is a beautiful track and a heartwarming follow-up to “Iran Air”, especially if my interpretation is correct.

"As Close to Me as You Are Now", opens with the distinctive sound of an orchestra tuning, which is then looped and backed by a steady four on the floor beat. Delayed and reversed notes play with a soothing bassline and gentle piano notes interspersed. A vocal sample saying something resembling “then we shall” is played occasionally before a mid-section with classical-sounding choral samples. 

Like many others on the album, the track is warm and soothing. Through the delicate and masterful arrangement of digitally manipulated audio and subtle synth and beats, “As Close to Me as You Are Now” is a track that beautifully fades into the background, lulling the listener into a pleasant trance.

"Call off Your Storm" is another beautiful instrumental. This time making use of a lot of what sounded like reversed guitar notes and a delicate solo performance on what I’m assuming is violin. It has more samples that I again assume are from Hiatus’ father’s record collection, including some vocals and a wind instrument I do not recognize. There are many small crescendos along with the reversed guitar notes which makes it sound like the composition is breathing before it eventually ends and leads to the final track.

"Tiny Doors”, the album’s closer, forgoes beats, large arrangements or lyrics, opting for a piano arrangement performed by Hiatus with the sounds of people muttering on a public street in the background. Shura’s vocals are distorted and manipulated into sounding like a wind instrument of some form, creating a beautiful, unique and emotional texture. It calmly ends with no grand fanfare or statement. The album ends before you even realise it was going to, simultaneously leaving you yearning for more and satisfied at the same time. If there was a more perfect way to close such a beautiful album, I don’t know what it is.

Overall the “Parklands” sounds very warm and laid back, putting the listener's guard down so the contrast with the comparably dark lyrics leaves them with an intense sense of melancholy and sadness. Music rarely provokes such an intense emotional reaction from me, so Parklands was an immediate standout and will likely remain one of my favourite albums going forward. I wish I’d heard it earlier, but I’m happy I discovered it nonetheless.

Parklands can be listened to on most major streaming platforms and purchased on Hiatus’ Bandcamp, where he also sells signed CDs.

Works Cited

Clauser, Ian, [@Darkhunter190able]. “Once Again Hiatus and Shura Teach Us Something About Love, Life, Death, and Peace...” Hiatus - River, 12 July 2013. Youtube, youtube.com/watch?v=Wlz-F5O27Gc&lc=Ugw-U5yTU4aPMYad_hp4AaABAg.

Denton, Alexandra Lilah, (Shura). “Shura ‘River.’” YouTube, uploaded by Villette2011, 15 Sept. 2011, youtube.com/watch?v=EiFm54h-vu8.

Dickie, Alastair James. “Album Review: ‘Parklands’ by Hiatus.” Soft Concrete, 24 May 2013, softconcrete.net/2013/05/08/album-review-parklands-by-hiatus.

“Hiatus - Fortune’s Fool.” YouTube, directed by Dan Susman, uploaded by Cyrus Shahrad [djhiatus], 15 Aug. 2011, youtube.com/watch?v=vMYvICifzCk. King, Alex. “Hiatus Interview - Cyrus Shahrad Talks Iran Air and Parklands.” Huck, 7 Dec. 2023, huckmag.com/article/hiatus.

[brookstonalmanac]

Events 12.22 (before 1950)

AD 69 – Vespasian is proclaimed Emperor of Rome; his predecessor, Vitellius, attempts to abdicate but is captured and killed at the Gemonian stairs. 401 – Pope Innocent I is elected, the only pope to succeed his father in the office. 856 – Damghan earthquake: An earthquake near the Persian city of Damghan kills an estimated 200,000 people, the sixth deadliest earthquake in recorded history. 880 – Luoyang, eastern capital of the Tang dynasty, is captured by rebel leader Huang Chao during the reign of Emperor Xizong. 1135 – Three weeks after the death of King Henry I of England, Stephen of Blois claims the throne and is privately crowned King of England, beginning the English Anarchy. 1216 – Pope Honorius III approves the Dominican Order through the papal bull of confirmation Religiosam vitam. 1489 – The forces of the Catholic Monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabella, take control of Almería from the Nasrid ruler of Granada, Muhammad XIII. 1769 – Sino-Burmese War: The war ends with the Qing dynasty withdrawing from Burma forever. 1788 – Nguyễn Huệ proclaims himself Emperor Quang Trung, in effect abolishing on his own the Lê dynasty. 1790 – The Turkish fortress of Izmail is stormed and captured by Alexander Suvorov and his Russian armies. 1807 – The Embargo Act, forbidding trade with all foreign countries, is passed by the U.S. Congress at the urging of President Thomas Jefferson. 1808 – Ludwig van Beethoven conducts and performs in concert at the Theater an der Wien, Vienna, with the premiere of his Fifth Symphony, Sixth Symphony, Fourth Piano Concerto and Choral Fantasy. 1851 – India's first freight train is operated in Roorkee, to transport material for the construction of the Ganges Canal. 1851 – The Library of Congress in Washington, D.C., burns. 1864 – American Civil War: Savannah, Georgia, falls to the Union's Army of the Tennessee, and General Sherman tells President Abraham Lincoln: "I beg to present you as a Christmas gift the city of Savannah". 1885 – Itō Hirobumi, a samurai, becomes the first Prime Minister of Japan. 1888 – The Christmas Meeting of 1888, considered to be the official start of the Faroese independence movement. 1890 – Cornwallis Valley Railway begins operation between Kentville and Kingsport, Nova Scotia. 1891 – Asteroid 323 Brucia becomes the first asteroid discovered using photography. 1894 – The Dreyfus affair begins in France, when Alfred Dreyfus is wrongly convicted of treason. 1906 – An Mw  7.9 earthquake strikes Xinjiang, China, killing at least 280. 1920 – The GOELRO economic development plan is adopted by the 8th Congress of Soviets of the Russian SFSR. 1921 – Opening of Visva-Bharati College, also known as Santiniketan College, now Visva Bharati University, India. 1937 – The Lincoln Tunnel opens to traffic in New York City. 1939 – Indian Muslims observe a "Day of Deliverance" to celebrate the resignations of members of the Indian National Congress over their not having been consulted over the decision to enter World War II with the United Kingdom. 1940 – World War II: Himara is captured by the Greek army. 1942 – World War II: Adolf Hitler signs the order to develop the V-2 rocket as a weapon. 1944 – World War II: Battle of the Bulge: German troops demand the surrender of United States troops at Bastogne, Belgium, prompting the famous one word reply by General Anthony McAuliffe: "Nuts!" 1944 – World War II: The People's Army of Vietnam is formed to resist Japanese occupation of Indochina, now Vietnam. 1945 – U.S. President Harry S. Truman issues an executive order giving World War II refugees precedence in visa applications under U.S. immigration quotas. 1948 – Sjafruddin Prawiranegara established the Emergency Government of the Republic of Indonesia (Pemerintah Darurat Republik Indonesia, PDRI) in West Sumatra.

[korneliarutecka]

CAS Summarizing Post 2

Learning Outcomes:

LO1: Identify own strengths and develop areas for growth.

Photography:

https://www.tumblr.com/korneliarutecka/665876685465534464/cas-creativity?source=share

Participating in school’s open days:

https://www.tumblr.com/korneliarutecka/668682783857754112/cas-service?source=share

LO2: Demonstrate that challenges have been undertaken, developing new skills in the process.

Playing the piano:

https://www.tumblr.com/korneliarutecka/672049583188246528/cas-creativity?source=share

Reading in Spanish:

https://www.tumblr.com/korneliarutecka/674373199458336768/cas-creativity?source=share

LO3: Demonstrate how to initiate and plan a CAS experience.

Planning and organizing a bake sale at school:

https://www.tumblr.com/korneliarutecka/685591356203286528/cas-service?source=share

Planning and performing a trash collection:

https://www.tumblr.com/korneliarutecka/685591356203286528/cas-service?source=share

LO4: Demonstrate the skills and recognize the benefits of working collaboratively.

Preparation of end of school ceremony:

https://www.tumblr.com/korneliarutecka/688333431891001344/cas-service?source=share

Tutoring:

https://www.tumblr.com/korneliarutecka/700638378064035840/cas-service?source=share

LO5: Show commitment to, and perseverance in, CAS experiences.

Photography:

https://www.tumblr.com/korneliarutecka/685588256695451648/cas-creativity?source=share

Indoor cycling:

https://www.tumblr.com/korneliarutecka/695550984020279296/cas-activity?source=share

LO6: Demonstrate engagement with issues of global significance.

Amnesty International meetings:

https://www.tumblr.com/korneliarutecka/671681811946029056/cas-service?source=share

Participating in a common room for Ukrainian refugees: 

https://www.tumblr.com/korneliarutecka/680290553699713024/cas-service?source=share

LO7: Recognize and consider the ethics of choices and actions.

Trash collecting:

https://www.tumblr.com/korneliarutecka/692406358463627264/cas-service?source=share

Donation of clothes:

https://www.tumblr.com/korneliarutecka/682334985488826368/cas-service?source=share

[biglisbonnews]

The Earthshaking History of San Francisco's Quake Shacks In 1982, San Francisco resident Jane Cryan was looking for a home for herself and her grand piano when she stumbled upon a tiny cottage along 24th Avenue, in the city’s Outer Sunset neighborhood. “There was a refrigerator in the front yard,” says Cryan, “and a feral cat living there with umpteen kittens.” The paint on the cottage’s barn red with white trim exterior was peeling. “It was a disaster,” she says, “and everything I had ever wanted.” Cryan signed the lease that same day. It wasn’t until a month later that Cryan found out she was living in three cobbled-together refugee shacks, the same ones originally built to house displaced San Franciscans after the city’s devastating 1906 earthquake and fire. When the 7.9 magnitude earthquake hit San Francisco in the early morning hours of April 18 that year, it wreaked havoc on the city—destroying 500 city blocks and leaving 250,000 people homeless. Tent camps were a temporary solution, but the city needed to figure out something more substantial before winter arrived. So the San Francisco Relief Corporation, the San Francisco Parks Commission, and the US Army joined forces to build “earthquake shacks,” 5,610 single-story structures spread among 20-plus refugee camps across the city. More than a century later, a couple dozen of these historic cottages still remain. “The earthquake shacks were among the first concerted efforts at disaster relief that had happened in our country,” says David Gallagher, co-founder of the Western Neighborhoods Project, a non-profit that shares the history and raises awareness of San Francisco’s westernmost neighborhoods. Located in open spaces like Washington Square in North Beach and present-day Mission Dolores Park, each “tiny home” ranged in size from 10-by-14 feet to 14-by-18 feet and was painted army green to blend with its surroundings. Redwood walls, fir flooring, and a gas stove for warmth were all common features. However, communal camp kitchens and bathrooms were also par for the course among camp residents. “The shacks weren’t quite livable in a modern sense,” says Gallagher, so residents took to making their own improvements. Some plastered their inside walls with burlap sacks or newspapers (Recently, Gallagher saw an earthquake cabin in the city’s Bernal Heights neighborhood still covered in newspaper traces from 1906) to help keep prevent drafts. Others layered their roofs with shingles for insulation. As an incentive for their occupants to remain in the city (approximately 75,000 citizens simply up and left following the quake), the shacks were rent-to-own. Inhabitants paid $2 each month per shack toward a grand total of $50. This allowed many San Franciscans to become first-time homeowners, with one caveat: once they’d finished payments, it was the new owner’s responsibility to move their shack or “cottage” to a permanent location. Some of these new homeowners grouped together on a property to save costs, oftentimes even joining together multiple shacks—like the ones Cryan lived in—to create larger houses. Cryan first brought these shacks back into San Francisco’s collective consciousness after more than 75 years. The aspiring jazz pianist become an advocate for their recognition and preservation, founding the now-disbanded “Society for the Preservation & Appreciation of San Francisco's 1906 Earthquake Refugee Shacks” in 1983 and even restoring her own rental cottage, securing $500 from its owner to renovate the exterior, and receiving assistance from volunteers interested in preserving the home’s legacy. “Unfortunately, we did such a good job of renovating the property,” says Cryan, “that the owner put it up for sale later that same year.” She was forced to move, but not before having the structure declared a San Francisco landmark. “I’ve always considered my old cottage, San Francisco Landmark #171, to be the people’s landmark,” says Cryan, “because it was the working people of San Francisco who first lived in them and in the camps.” In 2002, Gallagher and his Western Neighborhoods Project co-founder Woody LaBounty found themselves trying to preserve another four former earthquake shakes—pieced together two-at-a-time on two neighboring lots—these ones in the city’s fog-shrouded Outer Sunset. “I heard about them and thought, this is something that we can do that is tangible and might put us on the map as a history organization,” says Gallagher. LaBounty himself had significant ties to the refugee camps. His great-grandparents met while both living at one. Still, he didn’t know much about the history of the shacks until their non-profit started figuring out how to preserve them. It wasn’t easy. “For us, trying to save the buildings was a roller coaster of emotions,” says LaBounty. “One day you receive an encouraging lead, and the next it’s been shot down because there’s a wall that is going to fall or someone has broken in.” Eventually, LaBounty, Gallagher, and their team secured new sites for three of the shacks (“The fourth one had just lost too much of its original material,” says LaBounty). One lives on at the San Francisco Zoo—but not before it spent a month downtown as part of the city’s April 2006 earthquake centennial exhibit—and the other two are across the bay at Oakland’s Fifth Avenue Institute, an artist non-profit close to the city’s historic Jack London Square. Despite being intended as short-term starter homes at best, at least a couple dozen of San Francisco’s earthquake shacks still exist. There’s a white-clad shack on Clement Street in the city’s Outer Richmond neighborhood, set back behind a large grassy yard and a picket fence; and Cryan’s former cottage—now painted in key-lime green with white trim. There are even a couple of them behind the Old Post Hospital on Mesa Street in San Francisco’s Presidio. (Although there’s talk of relocating them.) Known as the “Goldie Shacks,” they most resemble the cottages as they looked in 1906, complete with the drab green paint job. One is even furnished to show how it might have looked inside. The bulk of the remaining shacks are located in Bernal Heights, a small community of steep hills and narrow streets in the city’s southeast. “Bernal Heights had a lot of small lots that could fit an earthquake cottage and not much else,” says LeBounty, “as well as a relatively blue-collar population that wasn’t going to tear it down and build a big new house…at least that’s how it was through a lot of the 20th century.” Stand on the top of Bernal Hill and you’ll have a view of one (really, a couple of them patched together with an addition or two) along Carver Street, a reminder of the city’s persevering past juxtaposed against its present-day skyline. While they’re not always so easy to identify—some owners have added on extra rooms, built interior walls, or even incorporated earthquake shacks into larger structures—traces of that unmistakable green paint still often remain for those who are looking. According to LaBounty, one or two new ones seemingly “pop up” every year. Although the city doesn’t offer any official protection for the remaining shacks, there are members of San Francisco’s city planning department and local neighborhood groups that are still fighting to save these historic remnants of rebirth. “They’re such a physical way to connect with this historic event that completely transformed our city,” says LaBounty. “I mean, they’ve all been moved once, right? So it’s kind of OK to move them again.” https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/san-francisco-earthquake-shacks

[c-h-pictures]

:D

Various Aleksei Kozlov facts!

He is dyslexic and cannot read English at all. You'd think he'd be fine with his job, percussionist & piccolo for a theatre orchestra. You'd be wrong. (In STTW canon, Scotland is separate from Britain, like Ireland is IRL. The 'legal' stuff I am about to discuss is not based in reality.) Although he travelled a lot as an assassin, he currently LIVES in Kent. He is going through a lot of legal documentation surrounding his ability, the fact he moved to The British Isles through Scotland's refugee program during The Great War, meaning he's not technically allowed to live in England, he's allowed to live in Scotland, but Scotland was neutral in the war and England was not, he got his driver's licence through a different process because of the war and, while he has passed his driver's test, his licence is not valid in England because they did not do the war time thing that Russia did, he's still sorting out insurance for everything (those instruments need insurance!).

Luckily for Aleksei, he has the absolute best neighbour. Single, elderly, retired, queer woman. Bakes too many cakes on purpose just to give Aleksei a cake every two weeks? Yes. Sits down next to him and helps him through legal documentation? Yes. Stands next to him and stares at the problem while they both pretend to be mechanics for various house hold items? Yes. Buys tickets to opening night of each theatre show because Aleksei's playing at the back of the pit and not visible to anyone and has done this so often people would think she's his mother if it wasn't for their accents being so different? Yes.

When Aleksei first moved to Kent, although he could drive, she drove him everywhere and walked with him to important places until he had memorised things, because he could not read the road signs. He still can't, but he now recognises signs and knows what he needs to do where to get to places.

She also went grocery shopping with him for some time because she didn't want him to struggle with things being packaged in different ways and not being able to read.

He can play: Flute, piccolo, piano, glockenspiel, xylophone, organ, tubular bells, any pitched percussion (including timpani, that is a pitched instrument), drumset, most non-pitched percussion, and can sing. He is an orchestra's prize musician.

He actually has a claim to world fame, because he was involved in an international musical thing during the war, that got world coverage, and their youth orchestra got a lot of love, because they had a dedicated section of their day (each one had 24 hours of repertoire) for songs, which featured their announcer (Yuri was born in England, the thing was taking place in Scotland, so he announced pieces despite not officially being in the orchestra because he was fluent in English) and one of their percussionists dueting or soloing vocals. The main reason they got such love was that Aleksei, aged 15 at this point, was able to accurately sing the woman's part of Phantom of The Opera (and it was not public knowledge that Aleksei's trans). In addition, he accidentally stopped one of Britain & allies plans from working, so a fucking film was made about him and his journey of taking his siblings away from the war.

Aleksei found out about the whole "teenager defeated the unstoppable Operation Strix" thing because he got an ad of the film trailer on YouTube while on break at work. He did not know about the film. He did not know he'd had any impact on Operation Strix. He tried to show the violinist a video, got an ad for a film about him and got so fucking confused. Then the entire orchestra watched the trailer.

My favourite part of Aleksei is that he's seen by people as a mastermind never affected by anything, always knows how to adjust his plan to carry it out, but then when you meet him, every situation fucks him up in different ways.

PM Vs PADA Aleksei: Please don't make me sing, I have stage fright. Just let me hide at the back of the pit with the timps. Please.

A Peacock's Tale Aleksei: Hello PADA, you're encroaching on my time, I need to go grocery shopping before the concert, if you want to talk with me, you WILL come with me and you WILL carry things for me.

Case Azure Aleksei: Feasibly, yes, I could be doing this. But I play multiple instruments in a theatre orchestra in a small Kent town. Do you really think I am?

Streamline Cruise Aleksei: Oh, Nadira and Yuri are both here..... *Pansexual Panic*

An Unusual Job Aleksei: *Tired annoyance* I had to run to the station from a rehearsal. My bag still has my piccolo and various drumsticks in it. Could you not have left this one? It's not even important.

[dreaminlittlenightmares]

what was the worst scare they gave each other? (kind of like a joke they don't like)

Hmmm...

The Maw

Six: Mono glitched into the Thin Man right before her eyes the Janitor: The Twin Chefs put him in a straight jacket and left the Twin Chefs: The Lady told them that they were fired the Lady: The Thin Man’s dark humor about the past the Granny: Runaway Kid joked about never being able to see her again the Runaway Kid: Six joked about eating the Nomes

Pale City

Mono: The Thin Man said there was no escaping him the Hunter: The Teacher played the creepiest song on the piano the Teacher: The Hunter said he brushes his teeth after drinking orange juice the Doctor: The Thin Man decided to play Red Light, Green Light with the Patients the Thin Man: The Eyes created a hyper-realistic illusion of life outside the Tower

The Nest

the Raincoat Girl: The Runaway Kid jump scared her badly the Craftsman: The Butler threatened to cut off his fingers the Butler: The Pretender faked a fall from a high place the Pretender: The Craftsman told her that he build her new parents

Extras

the Spoon Girl: The Doctor fell from the ceiling painfully the Lollipop Kid: The Bullies gave him poop and told him it was chocolate the Ghost Kid: The Toddler accidentally used his sheet as a blanket and didn’t return it the Toddler: The Ghost Kid said “BOO!” too loud

the Green Boy: The Long Haired Girl said “Seven Days” in a raspy voice the Refugee Boy: His sister told him that North Wind was behind them the Refugee Boy’s Sister: Her Brother pretended that he lost his charm the Long Haired Girl: The Mummy Kid popped a paper bag in a quiet room the Humpback Girl: Six showed her a piece of broken mirror the Mummy Kid: The Humpback crunched dry pasta in her mouth and pretended that her bones broke the Tall Boy: The Strong Boy lifted him up with one hand the Forked Boy: The Tall Boy called him “half-pint” the Strong Boy: The Forked Boy opened a pickle jar that he couldn’t open

the Ferryman: The Runaway Kid told him otters will eat his face the Mirror Man: The Granny posed nude in front of a mirror the North Wind: The Ferryman turned into a kite and flew into them

[writefightandflightclub]

Blooming most recklessly (Evgeni Kolpakov x GN reader)

What is this? This is 2/10 one-shots/blurbs for my 1 year Tumblrversary celebration, which is a deliciously tropey “friends to lovers” event. Here, the prompt is “Oh crap, I just saw you nude on/by accident and now I can’t stop thinking about you.” with Evgeni, requested by @wasicskosgirl. Thanks so much, Amanda, and I hope you enjoy it! (I didn’t know which way around you wanted it, so I hope this way is okay!).

So many fun prompts coming this week (w/c 22nd Feb), so if you’d like to follow along, pls either request a tag in my asks, or keep an eye on # Luna’s tumblrversary

Author’s note: This is a double trope, because not only is it friends to lovers, but also... they were roomates! Don’t think you need to have seen the movie to read this, though of course it helps. Basics of what you need to know if you haven’t: Evgeni is so under-rated. He’s a dreamboat. I love him. FYI: The fic title is Rilke, as Evgeni has a copy of Letters to a Young Poet in his bookcase.

Rating: Mature, for nudity and sexual thoughts.

Warnings: nudity, reader expresses some sexual thoughts but not explicit. Allusion to a reader being in a “bad situation” a while prior to the fic, but no details specified. One or two very subtle nods to Evgeni’s experience as a refugee, if you squint. Mention of smoking.

Word count: 2.9k, fuck me. I tried to make it shorter but... ah well.

Tagging: @nathan-bateman​ @foxilayde​ @supernovafeather

The sound of piano music floats into your dream, blooming most recklessly. The delicate, light notes seem to exist merely to ease you from slumber, rousing you as gently as the fingers which skim deftly over the keys. As the music finds you, you stretch, letting your body slowly come to, a beaming smile splitting your face as you remember where you are. As you remember where you are not.

You had been hesitant when Evgeni offered that you room with him. Despite your friendship, you were still colleagues, after all. Plus, you didn’t want to be a burden - although he had gone to great pains to make sure you didn’t feel like one. You know the man enjoys his solitude - which is all too rare for him between his job at Sotheby’s and attending night school. However, he had insisted, and you could not argue too keenly. You were in need of a safe port to land in when your prior situation fell through, and your dear friend understood the need for refuge well enough not to turn you away.

Waking up in Evgeni’s apartment should feel strange; disorienting, perhaps, but, in truth, he had made it feel like home from the moment you arrived. He’s made it feel like home in a way you’re not even sure you’ve experienced at any time in your life. Your friend Evgeni knows more than a thing or two about starting over, and you are grateful to have him by your side as you do the same.

Even on your first morning you stir, feeling more relaxed and rested than you’ve felt in a long while. Your eyes travel gratefully around the sparse room, blinking through the cascade of golden light. It is bare – just a couple of cardboard boxes of belongings, and your pressed work clothes hung out over the back of a crooked, wooden chair. Your smile returns. It is perfect. You swing your legs eagerly over the edge of the mattress. For once, you even want to get out of bed, the sound of Evgeni’s sweet music beckoning you deeper into the loft.

By the time you reach the open-plan living area, the playing has stopped, and Evgeni is tossing something on the stove.

“Ah, good morning,” he greets in his soft Russian accent, with a sweet, closed-lipped smile. He’s just as genial first thing, then? He’s enough to sweeten the black, bitter coffee already steaming for you on the counter, you think. “How did you sleep?”

“I actually slept. All night, which is a miracle in itself, ‘Geni,” you smile, surprising even yourself with the soft laugh which lilts out of you. You’re not used to hearing yourself so… happy.

“I’m glad,” he says, placing his hand gently on your upper arm, and looking like he means it, his soft brown eyes beaming at you. “Oh, I fixed breakfast. If it’s not how you like it, I’m sorry – I’ll get it right tomorrow.”

“You’re a sweetheart,” you praise. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“It’s no trouble,” he insists, with a single, light squeeze to your arm.

“Is it okay if I shower first?” he asks, his eyebrow raised, and despite the fact it was no trouble, you surmise it probably was, a little, from the way his feet are already tracking hurriedly towards the bathroom. You sincerely hope he hasn’t made himself late cooking you pancakes.

Evgeni works security, and today, you recall, he’s responsible for relieving the night guard, and opening the auction house up, thus it’s an early start.

“Of course, ‘Geni, it’s your apartment.”

You think, if you’re not wrong, that he looks a little upset as you say that, his brow furrowing. “And now it’s also yours.” He says that like he means it too, and with it, you can’t help but pull the man into a hug, the realisation that you have somewhere good to be, overcoming you. Relief overcoming you. The man seems a little surprised, but his arms wrap gently around you in return, smoothing over your back. When he pulls back to search your face, your eyes are swimming with emotion.

“Are you okay? I can stay. I can ask Troy to cover for another hour if you-”

“-I’m fine. Really. I’m… happy. Now go, don’t make yourself late. Your good looks will only excuse you so many times,” you laugh, and he reciprocates with a warm, rich chuckle. Evgeni Kolpakov is a punctual man, but he had been tardy more than a few times because of you lately. Because he’s such a good friend, and he had been there when you needed him. No matter. That was before… and things are different now. Things are good now. And, you will make it up to him - even if it takes the rest of your days.

“Okay. I’ll make sure to leave you hot water,” he promises, before near-jogging in the direction of the bathroom.

A smile lingering at the corners of your lips, you next turn your attention to the fresh coffee, lifting it to your mouth for a sip. Surprise surprise, it’s already sweet. He’s like Midas, that man, except everything he touches turns to sugar. That, or he simply remembered how you like it.

You vaguely hear the spray of the shower starting up behind you as you wolf down some pretty decent pancakes. As you do so, you steal a glance at the clock on the exposed brick wall, and you begin to mentally sketch out your schedule for the day.

You have to admit that this cohabitation is off to a pretty smooth start. You will likely need to figure out a shared morning routine going forward -you idly think- as you hear the water shut off and you absent-mindedly head towards the bathroom. Maybe sometimes it would be nice to walk to work with him early, and enjoy the stroll together. You could even pick-up pastries from the –

“-Oh my God!!” you cry, as you paw the bathroom door open, and your eyes fall over Evgeni, standing in front of you entirely nude, water beading over his skin, and giving you an eyeful of his bare ass and back as you enter.

Unfortunately, it only gets worse from there, as your open-mouthed yelp alerts him to your presence and he turns around, giving you far more of an eyeful than you bargained for so early on a Monday morning. Your hands jump to your cheeks in horror, before you have the wherewithal to recoil and stumble back out into the hallway.

Immediately, you yell a string of profuse apologies over your shoulder, and you hear him mumbling (presumably cursing?) in his mother tongue through the still ajar door as you retreat swiftly back into your bedroom.  

Okay.

On second thought, maybe there are a few kinks to this cohabitation thing which still require some ironing out.

Absolutely mortified, you manage to take a few deep, calming breaths before there is an insistent knock at your door. You think about ignoring it, but it’s quite obvious that you’re in here, so, instead, you slowly peel the door back, to reveal a hastily dried and clothed Evgeni, half his lower shirt buttons still undone, and his hands currently reaching to buckle his open belt.

“The latch is broken,” he explains, looking more than a little flustered himself. “I’m so sorry. Are you alright? I’ll get a new one. Today, on my lunch break.”

“Why are you sorry? I was the one who walked in! I’m sorry, ‘Geni.”

His hands move around the circumference of his pants, hastily stuffing his shirt in. He still has a spot of toothpaste on the corner of his mouth, you note. That’s a normal thing to note though, isn’t it? How he would taste of spearmint? You shake the intrusive thought away- what’s come over you?!

“I don’t want you to think I’m that type of guy,” he says apologetically, his brows knitting together in concern.

“What do you mean?”

“You know. Invite my attractive friend to live with me, don’t secure the bathroom. Like a… creep.”

You shake your head in confusion, especially with how pained he looks, and the way his fingers skim nervously over his buzzed head.

“I only want you to feel safe here,” he says, feather soft, with full, pouting lips, and you don’t know what you did to deserve him but you’d certainly like to find out so you can keep it up.

“I do. I promise,” you insist, reaching for the loose tie slung uselessly around his neck, and taking it upon yourself to feed it under his collar, looping it around on itself into a half-Windsor as his fingers take care of his final buttons and clasps. “Now, go, ‘Geni! You’re going to be late. I’ll see you at work, okay?”

“I’ll get a latch,” he nods, talking as he moves, and shrugging on his navy uniform jacket. “On my lunchbreak. Really.”  

You follow him out to the front door, leaning against the doorframe as he laces up his boots, and as the awkwardness dissipates, the two of you finally release your tension with a splutter of laughter.

“What are you going to answer when our colleagues ask about your first day, roomie?” Evgeni asks you, gently teasing.

“’Geni,” you laugh, burying your head in your hands, squeezing your temples. “I think I’ll tell them you gave me quite the introduction.”

He smiles brightly at you in return, his eyes creasing. Then, really needing to leave, he wishes you a good day, his fingers twining gently with yours before he sets off down the hall.

It’s just habit, though, him touching you like that – he always has to keep his fingers moving. It doesn’t mean anything. A hard gulp trails down your throat.

You don’t even want it to mean anything.

After all, you’re just friends. Purely platonic. Nothing sexual there at all.

Cut to later, and you’re having a lot of sexual thoughts about your “friend”. In fact, you’ve gone fully feral.

You have already zoned-out several times during a mid-morning meeting, and twice asked for more water, causing your colleague to wonder if you’re coming down with something or feeling feverish. You certainly feel warm, but with an entirely different sort of heat. A one which hits… lower.

The image of Evgeni nude -from both behind and from the front, no less- has somehow branded itself behind your eyes and is playing on a loop. You’re not sure how you managed to commit the sight so quickly to memory, but perhaps it is your keen eye for treasures and antiquities which has allowed you to so readily recall his positively sculptural form; finer than any marble that has ever crossed the table at Sotheby’s.

How had you not realised before? Evgeni Kolpakov is maddeningly gorgeous.

You are trying desperately to come up with some explanation as to why the fact has escaped you for so long. Perhaps it is because you met him in a professional context, where you tend to supress any sexual feelings. Perhaps it is because he came into your life at a time when you could feel little but despair, never mind desire. Whatever the reason, though, now that you have realigned your perceptions, the floodgates have opened, and you are drowning.

You are drowning in thoughts of his sculpted muscles, undulating under his smooth brown skin. The set of his shoulders and strong arms. His shapely chest and stomach, with a hint of softness, leading down to a trail of black, curled hairs and his more than sizeable –

“Are you quite well?” your colleague asks as you let out an audible and entirely involuntary whimper, interrupting the proceedings.

“You know,” you bluster, coming up with some thin excuse. “I’m probably being paranoid, but I just want to check something with the security desk. I’ll be back shortly.”

You are senior enough (or dispensable enough, in your current, distracted state) that no-one protests you leaving, and so, you rise from your seat, gravitating purposefully towards the lobby. Where you know Evgeni will be, stationed at the front desk.

He beams when he sees you approach, as always, standing immediately on ceremony, as if you are royalty to him. No. No, in truth, he’s the prince, isn’t he?

“Hello, roomie,” he greets, clearly enjoying the novelty of your new nickname, and, all at once, you are taken aback by him. His sweet and humble manner. His fun, playful nature. His generous friendship. His talent. His creativity. Sensitivity. Lack of pretence. He possesses an abundance of treasures, unparalleled by the contents of any single auction house. Of all of them combined. You see it all at once.

With a smile held on the inside, you cross silently to him; wordlessly - with an intensity and passion you usually reserve only for your work, now entirely focussed on him.

He has placed his broad, dexterous hands on the surface before him. He leans forward to better speak to you. His eyes are liquid umber, with a sparkle and vitreous lustre more impressive than any gem you have thus far appraised in all of your career.

“Evgeni?” you say breathily, flattening your own palms on the surface of the reception desk, your fingertips a hair’s breadth away from touching his own.

You’re a mess. You even feel your legs weakening underneath you. And, it’s no longer because you saw him like that, in the bathroom. It’s because you see him. All at once. In his entirety.

His brow furrows and his lips pout at you as he hears his name tremble from your lips. As your fingers inch forward and unconsciously straighten his tie, and pick a speck of lint from his crisp uniform. You are close enough to smell the heady scent of his aftershave and cigarette smoke and coffee, which shouldn’t work, but somehow does. You are close enough to-

“-Is there any action on camera six?” you blurt out, snatching your hands back and away from him. Retreating.

Confused, Evgeni humours you and steals a glance at the monitor to his right, but when he sees nothing suspicious, he takes greater note of the obvious tension in your body. Of your clenched fists at the end of your jacket sleeves, which you hastily relax. He shakes his head. Nothing.

You are about to retreat, fully, when Evgeni simply breathes your name, arresting you in place with your back to him. There is a beat before he repeats it again, a little more firmly, and you slowly turn back towards him, your eyes shining with guilt, though you can tell he does not understand why.

He repeats your name one more time, barely above a whisper, and his voice beckons you to the desk, where you again plant your hands on the surface. This time, with a quiet confidence, a sensuality, his fingertips inch slowly over yours, tenderly dancing over your knuckles until he fully envelops your hands with his, his touch awakening surging music deep within you. “Did you…” he asks with a tentative curl of his lips. “Did you want to kiss me?”

His soft, non-judgmental eyes encourage you, as does the warm, reassuring touch of his hands over yours. “Yes,” you suspire, feeling as light as air with your confession.

Evgeni’s pink tongue darts out over his lips, his eyes sheening with a gentle intensity, the room so quiet and still with tension that you feel he must command silence as expertly as he commands music. This time, his ever-moving fingertips come to caress your cheek, brushing over your jawline, your chin, and your lips. “And, darling. Why did you stop?”

Why? Why did you?

All on one breath, you blurt out a run-on, non-sensical answer, entirely fracturing the mood.

Evgeni’s English is perfect, but even then there’s no chance that he caught what you were saying - not with the speed and incoherency with which you delivered it. No-one possibly could have. In fact, are you even sure what you said?

“What?” he laughs, as you fold forward and bury your head into the desk, mortified all over again. “Say it again?”

You groan, and Evgeni hinges you up from the desk by your shoulders, so that you can reluctantly repeat your sentiment, your words much slower this time around. “I don’t want you to think I’m only kissing you because I saw your cock this morning and went feral. Because it’s more than that, ‘Geni. It’s so much more than that.”

He chuckles lightly as you respond, your words not seeming to offend him. “Sure. It was my ass as well then?” he teases softly, and you bring your hands to your face again in renewed embarrassment, until he tenderly peels them away with his own, clasping hold of them safely.

“Would it help if I take you out to dinner, and after I can kiss you first? I haven’t seen you in the nude, so you know I have only pure intentions.”

Despite the silence in the lobby, your heart swells with a crescendo. “Yes, ‘Geni,” you respond, biting down on your lower lip. “I think that would help a lot. Maybe I can even try to… corrupt you.” You add with a playful, flirtatious tick of your eyebrow.

You share a smile with him, and, yet, for now you are forced to break from Evgeni as a guest enters the lobby. Knowing how much pride he takes in his job, you slink back to let him perform his duties, and yet, the guest does not have his full attention. His eyes follow you instead, as they have done, always, since your first day at Sotheby’s. Evgeni visibly suppresses the biggest smile, until he can’t any longer. And, as you walk away you hear him say “Sorry. I’m really happy today, ma’am. Tonight, I finally get to have dinner with my roommate.”

Oh. Yeah.

Maybe you should worry about that? The fact you just moved in with him last night and suddenly decided to start dating. But, for some reason… it doesn’t worry you at all.

Evgeni has always felt like home. You simply had to agree to move in. At the thought, happiness throbs in your chest, blooming most recklessly.

And you let it bloom.

Finally, you let it.

[whenitsdarkweilluminate]

Stockholm 2016 – Semi-Final 1

Host: Sweden Slogan: “Come Together” Participants: 42 Voting method: 12-point system (50/50 system - separated) Format: 2 Semi-Finals / Grand Final = the top 10 of semi 1 & 2 + the Big 5 + host General Overview: 2016 was the year I switched from a casual Eurovision fan to an avid one – it was the first time I watched the semi-finals, and the first time I listened to the songs before the contest. I even watched a few national finals! I also spent that spring catching up on all the older Grand Finals. The show opens by slowly zooming towards the Globe Arena (aka the former home of the Melfest final), while an edit of Måns's win cuts in and out. Next, Måns performs a slow orchestral rendition of “Heroes” on stage; this time with a real life kid imitating the projection board animations. The kid even floats in the air with a balloon. Later, a children's choir joins in – I was about say in my “Heroes” review that the song was totally built for a children's choir. After this, there's a montage of various activities with the dandelion symbol floating around. This leads to the Globe Arena transforming into the contest's logo. Petra and Måns provide plenty of Swedish humour here. The Europe “The Final Countdown” joke being a highlight. There's also a filler segment where they drive taxi cars and surprise Eurofans. Verka makes a cameo during this as well. The interval involves a comical story about the origins of ABBA's “Waterloo”. And an interpretive dance sequence about the refugee crisis of the time called The Grey People. They're covered in grey, like debris dust. It's set to some slow BPM dance beats. At the end, they rinse their faces and walk into the audience; symbolizing their new home. This year sees Bosnia, Bulgaria, Croatia and Ukraine return after their respective breaks. While Portugal withdrew and Romania were disqualified 10 days before the rehearsals began for not paying their debts. They were scheduled to perform in SF2 with “Moment of Silence” by Ovidiu Anton (I probably wouldn't have ranked it that high, but I feel bad for the artist). I was excited to see Bosnia return though. But then they broke their qualification record and haven't participated since. Also, Australia are (thankfully) not a permanent auto-qualifier. Russia wins yet another semi-final, and the SF1 televote as well. While Malta (of all things) tops the jury vote. Otherwise, the public saved Austria (which they ranked 2nd!!) in exchange for Montenegro. Yeah I don't know what the juries were thinking there. On the flip side, the juries saved Croatia at the expense of Bosnia. One of the format changes in 2016 is how the auto-qualifiers were previewed in the semi-finals. Previously, the producers would show music video clips of all of them at once, and repeat it in SF2. But starting this year, we now see live rehearsal clips for whichever countries are voting in that semi-final.

× Finland: Sandhja - Sing It Away We kick off 2016 with a feelgood entry from Sandhja. Where she spreads a straightforward piece of advice – when life gets you down (ie. when you're overwhelmed, stressed, discouraged), try singing your troubles away. She'll even help us do it! It isn't the most profound message, but she sounds compassionate. The song starts with languid piano notes. But the first verse doesn't wait long to amp up the energy, as the drums arrive and the piano awakens. The backing singers then walk onto the stage from the rear entrance when the first chorus hits. I can see why this is the opener. They sound friendly and inviting with their “ohhhhhh YEAH”s. The chorus also adds some mini horn blasts. It has a relaxed vibe compared to the verses, and Sandhja sings it enthusiastically. The second verse builds similarly to the first, but with heart-beating drums. While the bridge switches to tenser pattering drums. Her voice also sounds like Kiesza during that part. The backing is quite distracting on stage however; between their “can't sit still” dance moves, the mic stand leaning, and them crowding around Sandhja. Although I like when they walk in unison towards the end. And Everybody seems to be having fun. But this entry is a little too “plain”. Her “bruh bruh bruh” shouts get annoying too. She’s a little intense. × Greece: Argo - Utopian Land Greece finally breaks their qualification record. And I can see why. The song starts promising – there's a shot of a lyra player to establish a traditional element. Followed by vocal chanting and some forceful booming drums entering the scene. The ensuing English chorus is a catchy jingle to welcome us. But then the Greek rapping comes in and yeah... there isn't much rhythm to it. Although the two rappers display major goofball energy on stage. One of them takes his shirt off and twirls around at the end. But that lyra sounds like a dying sheep from the bridge onward, and I believe the drums change time signature. It's a nauseating, drunken nightmare. It breaks for a moment when the pounding drums return, but still. Lyrically, the first verse references the recent migrant crisis, as Greece was a major entry point to the EU. It uses words like enduring and fleeing, as the narrator seeks a “Utopian Land”. And the “rising sun” alludes to a new beginning. There's even a depiction of a sun on screen. At one point the chorus switches to “fight with us...” as they hold hands in the air. The second verse, meanwhile, mentions vodka, “Grandma's frying fish”, and dancing on a plane; which is a lighthearted celebration of their new home. Overall though, this is a messy entry, and the chorus doesn't salvage it much. × Moldova: Lidia Isac - Falling Stars For a country that's known for making a big splash each year... “Falling Stars” might be the most forgettable entry of 2016. Sure there's a dancing astronaut on stage, but that's nothing wild. Plus the melody doesn't stand out enough. The chorus makes an attempt with the “The SKY is... TUM-bling; it's coming down... coming down” bit, but it feels weak. Lidia is not the best vocalist either – particularly during that big note. Otherwise, the song contrasts a low-key verse with an EDM drop in the chorus. The opening combines rapid, restless plucking with more gradual piano notes. It creates a lonely nighttime atmosphere. Lidia, meanwhile, looks sideways in a dark shadow. Then suddenly, a 2011-style Euro-dance beat surges in, as the camera zooms out. The chorus synths are thick, splashing clasps that crash down like a heavy meteor shower. The song later ends with some dramatic clangs. On stage, Lidia emotes and interactions with the astronaut; who arrives in the second verse. He takes his helmet off while facing her, then dances around her. She also watches him depart during the bridge. The lyrics involve space metaphors, where Lidia pines for her ex and proclaims they could be the “brightest falling stars”. The sky is tumbling down and the love has turned to dust. Their love is so strong it's apocalyptic! Or the pain is. I'm not sure. All in all, the beat is the best aspect of this entry. ✓ Hungary: Freddie - Pioneer I wasn't a fan of Freddie's gravelly vocals at first, but they suit the song's theme of internalized self-hatred. He sings from the darkest depths within. He sounds troubled; like someone who has suffered. The song's message is directed towards victims of emotional neglect, bullying or mistreatment. For those who aren't accepted for who they are. In the chorus, Freddie proclaims: be proud of your real self. Be a “pioneer” (ie. the first person to do something). While the “million lies in a million temples” line calls out religion. In the bridge, he says “Approval is found within” - only you can change yourself. It's reasonable advice, and Freddie has a caring tone and emotes on stage. Musically, after the piano intro, the song is dominated by earthquake-like drums throughout, while a man strikes an upright drum on stage. The floor also displays a cracked surface. The pre-chorus sees those drums vanish, as the camera cuts to the backing singers whistling. It retreats like someone shying away. It also lets the chorus drums impact harder, where Freddie shouts “A MILLION HEARTS...” The backing also adds some “oh ah oh”s as they teeter and clap their hands in the air. The bridge later escalates a bit, leading to a big note transition. The grave piano notes remain throughout the song though. It's an intense instrumental. The chorus is catchy too, and I'd say the backing elevates it. ✓ Croatia: Nina Kraljić - Lighthouse Now here's a jarring vocal style I can't get past. Although the lyrics are adorable and Nina gives a quirky performance. The song goes all in with its metaphorical imagery and vivid descriptions. Basically: a lighthouse guides Nina to shore when her ship capsizes in stormy seas. That lighthouse represents a person who shines through the darkness. They're the reason she remains hopeful. They're reliable, permanent and provide safety. Moreover, Nina wears some memorable outfits here. She starts with an oversized cloth with a tree branch design. And then drops it to reveal a white dress with long frilly things hanging from her arms. The song also opens with a nautical flute and the verses are whimsical in sound – they feature water dripping effects and a quivering background instrument. They also follow a 3-syllable pattern. The driving force is the valiantly thumping drums though. They keep pushing forwards, like a boat hitting oncoming waves. And they fortify in the chorus, although the first one waits a moment to do so. Later, there's a key change, as the stage changes from watery blue to red skies, and the backing singers (who are concealed by black cloaks) add an intense “OHHHHHH”. Which I find overbearing. Side note: This is Croatia's first qualification since 2009! ✓ Netherlands: Douwe Bob - Slow Down The Netherlands regain their momentum by... sending another country song. Although this one resembles an Eagles hit from the 1970s. There's a retro and nostalgic vibe here. In the song, Douwe feels worn out from speeding through life aimlessly and from his daily routine. So he desperately seeks advice, and what he's told is extremely simple – to “slow down”. The descending chorus melody provides his desired tension relief via the “slow down brother” refrain. It concludes with a guitar nudge. The chorus looks repetitive on paper, but it doesn't feel that way. The backing boosts the melody too. Elsewhere, the “MISTER CAN YOU HELP ME” hook jumps out. And the guitar solo is nice. But that fake ending where the song pauses for 11 whole seconds is beyond awkward. It lasts way too long and it comes off as a mishap. I get it, you're “slowing down”. Also, the ticking clock at the start is too obvious; as is the stage floor resembling an analogue clock. And Douwe's facial expressions are off-putting. Otherwise, the instrumental stays relatively consistent. It remains smooth and calm. The acoustic guitar slides in after that clock intro, followed by the drums and piano. And the song ends on a quieter note, with Douwe standing among the audience. ✓ Armenia: Iveta Mukuchyan - LoveWave This has to be the most dramatic production in Eurovision history. The song begins with a subdued and brooding atmosphere, where Iveta privately whispers an aside (“hey it's me...”). This represents the “calm before the storm” mentioned in the lyric. The stage, meanwhile, is dark and misty; featuring NUMEROUS camera cuts and various angles focusing on her hand movements. Plus a close-up of her mouth. Iveta trails off by saying “beat, beat, beat...” Then, an air raid siren approaches like the old THX sound effect and the pyro erupts. At the climax, Iveta shouts “IT'S TAKING OVER ME” as the hyperbolic, earthquake drums take over in dramatic fashion. They create a “LoveWave”. It's an otherworldly atmosphere that holds in a singular moment in time. The impact of those drums is unrelenting, with some flicking sounds in between. The chorus further adds an elongated “YOUUUUUU” hook, and ends with her talking in gibberish. There's also a chilly violin solo, featuring multiple translucent copies of Iveta. The camera work is kinda abstract here. The song then finishes on a dramatic bang. The lyrics describe the titular “LoveWave” consuming Iveta. It woke her up, she feels indestructible, it saved her from a downward spiral, it hit without a warning, and now she craves for more. It's the most powerful feeling imaginable! She gives a fierce performance too, and provides a distinct squawky vocal. × San Marino: Serhat - I Didn't Know Well... at least “Say Na Na” has a fun hook. But this one is like a creepy man breathing down your neck. Serhat doesn't sing either, instead he uses this raspy, monotone, “seductive” voice. Which means the backing singers have to carry the melody for him. Moreover, the disco instrumental is generic. It sounds like it was made in the 1970s. Anyways, the song starts softly, like a slow dance at the cabaret. The backing hums “oooooh” as Serhat makes a plea to get together. His tone comes off as stalker-ish though and the lyrics seem presumptuous (ie. “I got to be inside your mind”, “You have to see this love is real”, “I want to slip upon your skin”). After that, the disco instrumental emerges to liven the mood. The chorus has a sing-along melody, a bouncy beat and hand claps. And it concludes with stretched-out cymbals/melody. In this part, Serhat says he “didn't know” about his feelings until now. The song further adds two breakdowns in the middle. The first sees the backing pump their fists in the air and say a bunch of “oh oh”s. They have some enjoyable choreo during this part. The second one reduces the song to a beating drum and finger snaps, as Serhat interacts with the dancers around him. The backing stays grouped together throughout. This is an eccentric entry for sure, but it still turns me off. ✓ Russia: Sergey Lazarev - You Are the Only One #StandWithUkraine Sergey made an anti-war post on Instagram, so I'll review his entries! The televote winner of 2016. The staging is too inspired by “Heroes”, and the production isn't something you'd hear outside of Eurovision. Kirkorov / Kontopoulos basically revamped “Shine” here. But the OTT spectacle mostly works. Sergey starts by standing in the dark as a church bell rings. The song has a graveyard-like atmosphere to it. Following this, the synths brood underneath and a ticking clock leads to the pre-chorus. Upon which, the drums take over, including some impactful twitches, and Sergey amplifies things. He also begins to interact with a projection board. It shows bird wings sprouting from his arms. The ensuing chorus strikes like a hurricane – there's a singsong melody on “Thun-DER and Light-NING” and a desperation tone on the title phrase. While the drums steadily clack back-and-forth and the strings create a sinking feeling. Sergey also leads a synchronized dance routine. The second verse onward gets crazy – the screen shows outlines of his poses, he walks up the structure via floating blocks, the board spins and he “falls” into a starry abyss, he uses a meteor to climb to the top, and a trail of blood oozes from his torso. Finally, after a key change, Sergey stands on top of the board and gives a less restrained final chorus. He brings huge charisma to this. In the song, he's utterly determined to reconcile the relationship and affirms they're the “only one”. He seems pretty intense about it and the chorus is cheesy. But the song is still a bop. ✓ Czech Republic: Gabriela Gunčíková - I Stand Czechia qualifies for the first time ever! And then they flop at the Grand Final. Sobs. They get there by sending a big power ballad. The melody is what drives this one. The verses have a graceful flow, where Gabriela mentions her mental health struggles. She hit a wall and she made mistakes. But this person is her rock through it all. In the chorus, she exclaims “I-UH-I; I-UH-I STAAAAAND” repeatedly to conjure up inner strength. While the subsequent “I AM STANDING HERE...” part leaps out very effectively (as does the additional pre-chorus). She sings it like she's holding on for dear life. The emotion pours out. The second verse then reveals her newfound positive outlook on life. Musically, the song is a piano ballad that moves at a methodical pace. It has a serious and depressing atmosphere. It begins and ends with a gunshot bang. The percussion is like heavy footsteps. And there's a grave bell at one point. The instrumental also sees the strings grow as the song progresses. There's recurring cymbal shimmers. And things quiet before the final chorus hits. Otherwise, Gabriela performs the song completely alone on stage, which matches the lyrical theme. While the screen displays a “G” logo at the start, then some pink triangles appear everywhere, and finally flowers rain down. ✓ Cyprus: Minus One - Alter Ego Thomas G:son contributes two rock entries to 2016, and this is the better one. Although the constant flashes of the grey filter and the wolves are sensory overload. The lyrics are weird too. The metaphor compares the singer's heartache with turning into a werewolf (which is his “alter ego”). He even howls throughout the song, which is a bit much. In the lyrics, his heart feels locked in a jail; explaining why the band members perform inside cages. He remarks that he failed in the relationship and he rejects time healing wounds. He later claims he'll cross any distance to reunite. The chorus describes it as a twilight phase. The song kicks off with some forceful punches against a dark stage. From there, the drums tap before the guitar groove comes in. The verses also contain a “you know, you know, you know” repetition hook. The chorus then speedily jogs through as if nothing is impeding it. It uses a bouncy, sloshing percussion rhythm against some flashing lights. It's a chorus that “rocks” too! This is followed by a “take it on, take it on...” repetition that offers a relief afterwards. There's also a guitar solo later on. And the song finishes with more punches. The hard rock instrumental is bursting with energy, and it takes me back to my 2006 rock phase. But the animalistic theme can be intimidating. ✓ Austria: Zoë - Loin d'ici Austria challenges Croatia for the cutest entry of 2016. “Loin d'ici” has a very fanciful and innocent atmosphere. After the muffled intro, the first verse is driven by playful string plucking, while the second verse brings in an equally playful violin. Both of which scurry and scamper around joyfully like a bunny rabbit. There's also some cleverly placed finger snaps throughout. The chorus, meanwhile, does this thing where it relaxes before taking off. The latter half uses a jogging beat that runs a mile a minute. The transition happens via a crashing drum, which is pretty effective. The bridge then extends the chorus tension, where Zoë mentions “drunken recklessness”. After that, the instrumental quiets completely before heading into the final chorus. Zoë then becomes more anxious with the “On chante, on chante, on danse, on danse” bit. And the song finishes on an unravelling note. These constant tempo switches are seamless though. Otherwise, the lyrics are fairly simple – Zoë dreams of a paradise that's “far from here”. A place to sing and dance with her lover. To enjoy time together. It's cute. The stage floor, meanwhile, displays a pathway. The screen shows butterflies, poppies, colourful trees, and what looks like Candyland. And Zoë is all smiles. She has a sweet voice too. × Estonia: Jüri Pootsmann - Play The last placer of SF1. This was a grower for me, due to Jüri's deep vocal and the dreary atmosphere. The song uses a casino metaphor (ie. hitting “play”) for pursuing a relationship. Jüri says that you have to take a risk by showing your feelings and being vulnerable. You can't be passive about it. The thing is, his crush hasn't shown an interest. He's fine with keeping things “undecided” for now. So hopefully he isn't pushy about it. Otherwise, the stage incorporates casino lights along the outlines while the screens display card suit symbols. Jüri also does a magic card trick at one point (and laughs during it). He brings charm to his performance, and his blue suit is appropriate for a casino. Musically, the song opens with melancholic piano and strings, as Jüri stands sideways. From there, the piano drips down in this dull, monotone way. That is until the restless, foot-stomping beat livens things up in the pre-chorus. That rhythm continues into the chorus, which adds some slot machine dings and a nice “we're falling, we're falling” hook. And a diving guitar riff afterwards. While the second verse becomes more mellow, with the sweet-toned backing giving a “not for me” response. The verses are like sitting alone in sorrow at the casino, while the chorus is like walking to her hotel room. ✓ Azerbaijan: Samra - Miracle Not to be confused with the German rapper. This production is very 2016 – a year where Major Lazer's influence had reached pop music. There's a vocal squeal at the start and the verses use fragmented, tinny kick-drums. They also include a “Here Comes the Hotstepper”-esque cawing effect, plunging echos, and background piano and strings. They're pretty dynamic in sound. Those kick-drums also fortify midway through into this rhythm that kicks against the walls. Meanwhile, the pyro ignites during the “burning fire” lyric, and then extinguishes upon “now it's gone”; which is cool. The chorus, by contrast, explodes with the “GONNA TAKE A MIRACLE” hook, as the atmosphere showers down alongside dense, thumping drums. But... this is where Samra's voice gets swamped. And the chorus lacks the dynamism and the attitude of the verses. It's a let down for me. The “Baby I. Won't. Stay Another. Night” hook is effective though. I also like when the camera cuts to the backing members turning one at a time. Otherwise, there's a “Mira-mira-miracle” hook added in later. And the performance ends with some fire rain. Lyrically, the song is an “in-your-face” rejection, where Samra wants nothing to do with this boy anymore. She shows no hesitations or doubts about it. Only a miracle could salvage things. × Montenegro: Highway - The Real Thing 2016 has a trio of rock entries, and this is the worst one. The chorus just drags on in this lazy way – the husky vocals, the slow-motion guitar groove, and the elongated “REAAAAAL THIIIIIING” hook that goes nowhere. Moreover, the dubstep breakdown is intrusive and menacing. And the staging focuses on this random girl standing ferociously against a wind machine. The visuals are dizzying here: with the flashing lights, smoke puffs, and distorted graphics; all filmed in a letterboxed aspect ratio. It's trying so hard to be artsy. The lyrics are stalker-ish too. The singer pursues someone who seems to be running away (which explains the wind machine girl - she even holds hands with him at the end). He promises he's the “real thing”, but he sings it in this demented, disturbed and unattractive way. And the “inside you” line is creepy. Otherwise, the song opens with a peculiar intro before the hard rock guitar groove barges through. That groove holds off for the verses, which employ a ticking beat set to a marching rhythm instead. The guitars then return in the chorus in a noisy way. I don't really “get” this entry and it seems self-indulgent. The “gonna run...” escalation is alright though. × Iceland: Greta Salóme - Hear Them Calling This was voted as the best non-qualifier by the #EurovisionAgain audience, and it's certainly up there. Sure the lyrics are repetitive and vague – like who is “them”? Why are they calling her? Why are we running away? – but this mysteriousness draws me in. As does the frequent shifts between calm and intense atmospheres. It represents the freeze and the flight of an anxiety rush. Also, the projection board images match the energy really well. Even if that concept copies “Heroes”. The song begins with a gentle acoustic guitar and twinkle bells, as Greta is shown in a dark shadow. Things go quiet during the “We shiver as we step into...” part. Then, the anxiously pounding drums arrive to signal the approaching danger as Greta collapses to the floor, which displays a blue explosion. This leads to the indie-folk instrumentation rushing through, while silhouettes appear behind her and she shouts an “oh oh oh” hook. This part feels like you're being chased and running away. It's similar to Of Monsters And Men as well. The second verse then adds a fiddle. Followed by heartbeat thumps, as Greta “crumbles” into pieces and walks back into frame. She then fights off giant hands in the second chorus. Smoke billows from her chest during the next instrumental break. A flock of crows swarms after that. And she collapses again when a dramatic bang hits. Finally, a few drum slams lead to the final chorus. The song has a chilly night vibe to it. And the backing vocalists add to the eeriness. × Bosnia & Herzegovina: Dalal and Deen feat. Ana Rucner and Jala - Ljubav je Deen returns from 2004, but this is nothing like “In The Disco”. “Ljubav je” is the type of Balkan ballad that's right up my alley, but rapper Jala almost ruins it. His appearance is too abrupt. Still, the instrumental is sublime and the chorus melody is intense. The song opens with some booming bass drums that persist through the first verse (and make the ground vibrate) as Ana gives an infectious cello riff. She gets quite into her performance, while wearing a shiny gold cape. The chorus then uses a lingering electric guitar. And the drums change to regular rock band ones for the remainder. The song has a smooth flow until Jala interrupts it. His part switches to a stop/start rhythm instead. Lyrically, “Ljubav je” is about the importance of forgiveness in a relationship. Deen feels empty when they part. Dalal has “nowhere to go back to”, so she swears to pay her debts. The song surmises that “love is a magic circle” - ie. nobody is perfect and both parties will mess up. So forgiveness is fair. The duo then swaps roles in the second verse. Whereas Jala's rap verse details his poor life choices and how he's tormented by his crush not wanting a serious relationship. The lyrics seem mature and reasonable. I also like the barbed wire fence that physically separates Dalal and Deen. They try to touch each other but can't. They also emote and harmonize well. ✓ Malta: Ira Losco - Walk on Water Ira returns from 2002. This seems like a random semi-final jury winner. Although the production is very 2016 [2] and she is a confident vocalist. It's just that the production overshadows things. The song grabs attention from the start – with a dramatic slam and a cawing distortion effect. There's also moody strings and humming. Following this, Ira's face is displayed on the stage floor to sing the first stanza (which is rather tacky). She opens up about her self-destructive low self-esteem. She was trying to be and please someone. The production is subdued for this first verse; until another slam starts the pre-chorus, where Ira accepts not being perfect. She sings in a “coming to terms” tone as well. Then another slam starts the chorus, which includes finger snaps and heavy piano notes, and Ira shouts “I CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF YOUR LOVE”. This builds towards the “drop” - the quirky rolling effect and the drum n bass beat that follows. While Ira declares how this person's love makes her feel like she can walk on water. Basically it's powerful enough to defy physics. A dancer moves around her as well. The drum n bass then continues for the second verse. And the bridge adds a soulful backing. The atmosphere is like splashing in icy cold water here. But the arrangement does feel mechanical. My Ranking: 01. Iceland: Greta Salóme - Hear Them Calling 02. Armenia: Iveta Mukuchyan - LoveWave ✓ 03. Czech Republic: Gabriela Gunčíková - I Stand ✓ 04. Austria: Zoë - Loin d'ici ✓ 05. Hungary: Freddie - Pioneer ✓ 06. Russia: Sergey Lazarev - You Are the Only One ✓ 07. Bosnia & Herzegovina: Dalal and Deen feat. Ana Rucner and Jala - Ljubav je 08. Estonia: Jüri Pootsmann - Play 09. Cyprus: Minus One - Alter Ego ✓ 10. Malta: Ira Losco - Walk on Water ✓ 11. Netherlands: Douwe Bob - Slow Down ✓ 12. Azerbaijan: Samra - Miracle ✓ 13. Moldova: Lidia Isac - Falling Stars 14. Finland: Sandhja - Sing It Away 15. Croatia: Nina Kraljić - Lighthouse ✓ 16. Greece: Argo - Utopian Land 17. San Marino: Serhat - I Didn't Know 18. Montenegro: Highway - The Real Thing A hard semi-final to choose 10 qualifiers from.

[autumnleaves1991-blog]

College AU Week 1 Day 3 - Evgeni Kolpakov

A/N: I have never written for Evgeni but I kind of love the way this turned out. Let me know what you think. Thank you for reading, reblogging, commenting, and liking. This is day three of the January AU Writing challenge/300 follower celebration! 

* I posted a video I listened to while writing this if you wanted to listen while you read. It helped inspire me. 

Pairing: Evgeni Kolpakov X G.N Reader (please let me know if I missed any pronouns)

Warning: I don’t think anything, it’s pretty romantic/fluffy. 

My Masterlist 

My computer crashed, and you're the student worker at the IT center. 

Most people would be happy to have a night off from work. Ordinary people who don't go to school all day, spending their evenings at the IT center troubleshooting with students who've procrastinated their assignments. Shouting at you because their computer has decided to crash or their internet in their dorm has failed. Honestly, any person who works in customer service would be happy with a night off and away, but not you. Not since he first called. 

You sigh, thinking of the way his voice makes you hum in the squeaky rolling chair you find yourself perched on nightly. The Russian accent thick and shooting straight through your core as he talks to you about everything and nothing, making your heart beat faster. Evgeni, the enigma from your work who never failed to call you every evening for the past month; you'd never seen him, nothing more than a voice on the phone. His words honey to your ears as he makes you laugh. You want to know him. You have to know him. 

"Hey! Are you okay there? You seemed really out of it," your friend Charlotte looks concerned until you smile and embrace her outside the club. 

"Oh, I'm okay just thinking about someone," you pull back, and she grins. 

"Oh, is this about the mysterious caller that has your brain in a tizzy? Are you missing him already?" she teases, and you nod. The smell of cigarettes and cheap perfume waft onto the darkened street outside the piano bar. The ivories' tickling makes you think of Evgeni and how some nights he would play his piano over the phone. He was a very talented player, and you dreamed of hearing him play in person. The way his hands would move across the keys as he would coax the sweet music from them. 

Charlotte taps you on the shoulder and points to the bar, "I'm sure he can survive without you for one evening." 

"He wasn't able to call tonight; he had a prior engagement." 

"He plays the piano, right?" 

"Yes." You see the wheels turning in her head as she points towards the bar, "No, he didn't mention that he was playing anywhere tonight, just that he had something and wouldn't be able to call." You open the door and step inside, her following close behind. The bar is lit up on one wall with a single spotlight on the small stage. A black baby grand piano sits atop it, and the sounds of the keys sing to your heart. 

You walk over to the bartender, order a gin and tonic and take a seat at a two-seater towards the middle of the club. Taking a moment to soak in the music before you observe the player. He's handsome in a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows; the chords in his arms shine under the light. He's got on a black fedora, but you can see the hint of a buzz cut underneath. His face with a light speckling of stubble just beginning to form—smoke curling from the ashtray perched on the top and a half-drunken glass of red wine. 

As the piece comes to a close, you feel yourself in a slow trance. The world around you slowing down as the music fades, and he does a small bow of his head as the crowd erupts into applause. You sit there frozen as he reaches for the cigarette, pulling drag and holding it between his fingers. Almost as if he can feel the magnetic pull, he looks up into your eyes, and you drown in the deep brown of his own. Lips parting on a small gasp when his gaze sears into your soul and ignites the fire in your blood. 

He leans towards the microphone, "Thank you, everyone, for this next piece…" but you stop listening as your heart stops. You would know that voice anywhere. It's the voice you'd heard every single day for the last month, the one who colors your dreams. The voice you dream of as you touch yourself at night, wishing it was really him whispering sweet nothings in your ear. 

*********** 

One Month Ago 

The phone rings more than you would believe for an evening IT department, and you pick up on the second ring already opening the form to fill out for the request. "Thank you for calling the  NYU IT department helpline; this is Y/N; how can I help you?" 

"Yes, hello, my computer keeps crashing when I try to submit an assignment," a man with a deep Russian accent coos in your ear. 

"Okay, and have you tried turning it on and off again?" He sighs and agrees, going through all the usual motions of a phone call this late. 

"Well, it would seem to be an issue with the server, I will put in a work order request for the IT department heads to take a look, and they will get back to you within 24-48 hours." 

He let out a groan, "But I need to submit the assignment tonight. Listen, I am not some privileged child who waited until the last minute to submit the assignment. I take night classes for business and work all day as a security guard. I really need to get this turned in on time. Please, there must be something you can do." Something about the tone in his voice gives you pause. 

"Maybe…" you try to think, "maybe I can send your professor a formal message from the IT department and submit your assignment for you. Can you email it to me?" 

He agrees, and he scrambles for a pencil, writing down your email and quickly sending it off. His name pops up a few minutes later, Evgeni Kolpakov. "Evgeni? Where are you from?"

You can hear the amusement in his tone when he says, "Vermont." 

You let out a chuckle, "Vermont really?" 

"A refugee camp in Vermont," oh shit, you try to apologize, but he lets out a laugh, "It's okay. Vermont is full of surprises, you know." 

"Oh really now," you finish composing the email and attach his essay before sending it, "done, it's sent." He lets out a relieved breath. 

"Thank you so much," he chuckles, "what do I owe you for the trouble?" 

"Tell me more about Vermont," you smile and lean back as he fills you with stories of his childhood. You spend two hours on the phone, and when you look at the clock and gasp, he quickly apologizes. 

"I'm sorry about taking so much of your time...but I'm not sorry for talking to you," you can hear him put something down in the background, and you sigh. 

"I'm not either," you whisper, "this has been one of the best nights I've ever had at this job." 

He chuckles, "You mean the universities IT department is not a bustling hub of excitement during the evening?" 

You laugh, "No...would you," you know you shouldn't ask, but you can't help yourself, "would you call again if you had any other problems?" I work ten to four in the morning this week." 

"I promise," his voice gets more profound as you hold your breath, "I will call back tomorrow with another problem if only to talk to you again." 

You tremble at his tone and hang up with a longing, "I'll be waiting." 

*********** 

Present Day 

"Evgeni," you whisper under your breath, but it's almost like he can hear as his head snaps up and looks at you again. His hands are poised above the keys, and he smiles. 

"This is for you," he whispers and makes love to you through the music. A personal symphony just for you as his fingers caress the keys like the ways of a lover. 

You listen, transfixed eyes never leaving him, your drink, Charlotte, and the world around you fading into nothing until it's just you and him alone. The music swarms around you, and you feel yourself rising slowly towards him as the song ends and the cheers of the crowd flow. But you don't care as he stands and holds out a hand for you to take, leading you outside and into the fresh air. The chill December evening shocks you back into reality. 

The feeling of his jacket, he grabbed draped over your shoulder as he rests his forehead against your own, and you feel the rough exterior against your back. "It's you," he whispers, and you feel his moist breath upon your lips. 

"It's you," you reply before closing the distance between you and sealing your lips together in a kiss that is soft and gentle. He groans, placing his hands on your cheeks and pulling you closer, deepening the kiss. You feel alive and consumed by him as he takes control and melds you to him, caressing you like his fingers caressed the keys on the baby grand. 

When he pulls away, you both smile, "I've been waiting for you," he whispers against your lips. 

"Oh Evgeni, I've been waiting for you too." The long days of waiting for the phone to ring are long gone as your fantasies and realities bleed together to make one complete vision. Love. 

Taglist: @oldstuffnewstuff​ @yespolkadotkitty​ @heythere-mel​ @justanotherblonde23​ @artsymaddie​ @anetteaneta​ @lunarthoughts​ @aellynera​ @lucifer-​ @houseofthirst​ @chicken-ona-stick​ @phoenixhalliwell​ @letoartreiides​ 

Tagging some extra people who may be interested (I hope that’s okay, let me know if not): @writefightandflightclub​ @tinygaydemonbby​ @itspdameronthings​ @damerondjarin​ @wasicskosgirl​ 

I listened to this while writing if you wanna listen while reading: