#or even the faintest idea of how sibling relations work

[lunarlivs]

honestly if i see one more brotherfucker and/or it’s practically insect i will practically throw myself in a ditch

[air--so--sweet]

I feel like they both enable each other in this scene (I've talked before about how I think Allison has an unhealthy relationship with alcohol not unlike Klaus and Five), but also it makes so much sense for them as characters.

Klaus has been a homeless addict for most of his life, he probably has no idea how to relate to someone without some form of substance involved. He likely doesn't have friends so much as people he gets high or drunk with. He has Ben, but he believes Ben has to he there, that he forced him to stay on earth and if that weren't the case he'd have left him already. I think his inability to build relationships that don't involve drugs or alcohol and the fact he's sober for most of his time in the '60s is part of what leads to the creation of his cult, he does not know how to forge genuine bonds and so manipulates his way into a postion of power (yes he initially does it for money but the demographic of his cult changes over the years and the richer older women type he starts out with doesnt seem to be involved anymore by '63). He wants to talk to Allison because he's sad and lonely but he doesn't know how to connect with her if they're not drinking together. Like obviously that's not why he's drinking in this scene but he doesn't know how to ask Allison to spend time with him and talk without framing it as her drowning her sorrows with him.

Likewise, I don't think Allison, in her pre '60s life, had many real friends either. She was a famous actress with the power to control people, a power she used to get to where she was. I think most people around her were either general celebrity hanger on types who would 'yes,and' her every thought and whim, or people she rumoured when she was younger so the foundation of their relationship would be a lie and she would never be able to really trust any affection displayed by them towards her. She had made friends in her time in Dallas, but even then, her relationships mainly centre around her civil rights work and, like Klaus, she puts herself in a position of power to create those relationships (though civil rights organising is obviously more noble than creating a cult). Even with Ray we see they first connect after she gave him notes on his writing.

Which is not to say that Allison and Klaus are socially inept, both are incredibly charismatic people, but building genuine friendships and creating meaningful bonds with people. Being able to communicate that they're not okay and they need support? Neither of them has the faintest idea how to do that. If anything they use their charisma as an armour to protect themselves, making it even harder to connect with others.

(I've literally never thought all this much about the parallels between Allison and Klaus, beyond their relationship to alcohol, but oh my god this is so fascinating, I could write an entire essay. Also got me thinking about the siblings as a whole and I feel like Diego uses charisma in a similar manner honestly, like look at how all the cops and everyone in the gym not only knows his name but seems to like him, I think it's just less obvious because he is so set on having a tough guy image)

The heartache, sadness and need to be with family…

[adulttrio-imagines]

Angsty Adult Trio Headcanons

Nobody asked for this but I couldn’t stop myself

Trigger warnings!

Hisoka

- He doesn’t talk about his past because he truly doesn’t remember much about it, as if a large wall exists within his brain preventing him from accessing those memories. He could break that wall down but somehow he knows somethings are best left untouched

- Occasionally, the faintest of memories slip past. It’s the smallest things like how his home smelled or the touch of a larger hand holding his, but they never lead to anywhere

- He needs to have the attention in him. He needs to be the main focus, no matter how much he acts out and gets despised, because it’s far better than being invisible to everyone and everything

- His mother had postpartum depression after delivering him and almost killed him as a very young child. Growing up, he would rather have died than live with the burden of guilt his mother forced unto him for what she almost did, ignoring his whole existence out of feelings of shame, spite and inadequacy

- There were some days where it was better than most, and it was those days she would teach him card tricks or games and even get him small treats, he loved those days since she would finally give him the attention he craved. Of course, that made returning back to the norm where she wouldn’t even look at him harder each time

- As a very young child, he grew up constantly told of all his bodily imperfections that he now turns to makeup/texture surprise to make himself feel “normal”

Chrollo

- Since he grew up in extreme poverty, dumpster diving for food is something he got well-acquainted with and the putrid taste of rotting food is something he can never get rid off

- Whenever he finds something so exceptionally beautiful, he keeps it for awhile before destroying it, partly so that no one else can have it but him, but also because he cannot stand the idea of something so beautiful existing just as it is in a world like this

- Some days he finds it impossible to drag himself out of bed, and it’s those days where some voices scream so loud in his brain where he does the most inhumane of things to get them to shut up

- He absolutely hates filth and grime, but keeps finding himself drawn to the most decrepit of abandoned building because it feels like garbage and he relates to it and it feels just like home and he hates it so much

- He reads as much as he can because he was illiterate for almost half of his life and being able to read was what made him stand out and survive

- He saw so many of his playmates die growing up that it just warped his view of life and death, to the point where now it has become almost impossible to feel any sympathy for anything

- Sometimes he dreams, and they always end with a multitude of screams surrounding him, what used to scare him wasn’t their crying, but how he was so thoroughly unfazed by it

- He is aware that his parents left him to die in Meteor City because that’s exactly what they told him

Illumi

- Growing up alone in that empty house as a very young child surrounded by a mountain of expectations broke him, it broke him a thousand times over and he forced himself to rebuild from the the scraps every single time, making him vow to provide a support system for his siblings to ensure they never go through what he did alone

- He absolutely loves and loathes the darkness, it protects him in his work, but it also brings up memories of torture chambers and electric chairs and some nights he just cannot stand sleeping in total darkness and leaves all the lights on

- For that same reason he occasionally just fills out his room with as much noice as he can muster since anything is better than that total deafening silence

- He loves his parents, he truly does, and he appreciates everything they’ve done to make him who he, but he almost absolutely hates them for discarding him and making him second best after everything he has done

- Subconsciously, he created his needlemen technique as a parallel to how he felt being jerked around by his family all those years

- He enjoys being in the ground since it lets him shut everything around him out and just exist as he is

[fathomintoxconstellations]

{HANDE ERÇEL, FEMALE, SHE/HER )} have you seen AIDAN “AIDA” SCOTT around icaria? they are the 26 year old child of APHRODITE. they remind me of the faintest scent of luxury perfume, disheveled sheets and a wavering smile. They’ve been on the island for 5 years. 

Basics:

Full Name: Aidan Scott

Nickname: Aida

Parents: Easton Scott & Aphrodite

D.O.B.: October 25th

Age: 26

Profession: Owner of Relaxing Tides

Hometown: Los Angeles

Sexuality: Pansexual

Spoken Languages: English, French, Greek, Turkish and some broken Spanish

Abilities: Emotion manipulation (the ability to control and manipulate emotions); fertility manipulation (along with the ability to bring small things to life for a limited time)

BIO:

TW: Mental Illness, Alcoholism, Drugs, Violence

Aidan Scott spent her entire childhood having to live up to an idea. Her father, Easton Scott, would tell her stories about her stunning mother. The woman who could make jaws drop with a passing look. The most beautiful woman in the world who Aida apparently was a ‘spitting image of’.  Only the woman she believed was her mother, wasn’t, the free spirited woman who walked out on their family when Aida was only a child. But, Aphrodite- the goddess of love and beauty.

Easton and Hayley had been young and rushed too quickly into marriage. They barely knew each other and, after the first year into their marriage, Hayley couldn’t bring herself to stay. With his wife walking out on him, Easton quickly slipped back into a depression. He was half way through a bottle when he stumble upon a woman he couldn’t take his eyes off of. It was one night of passion and praise and, the next thing Easton knew, the goddess left a beautiful baby girl off on his doorstep and the child was constantly reminded of just how beautiful she was.

Aida loved her father and, for the most part, things were great. Better than great. When Easton was good, it was like her world was touched with light and fire. He’d tell the school she was sick so they could to the arcade or an amusement park. She’d wake up to pancakes and waffles and so much food it could feed a neighborhood; the most exorbitant and over the top breakfasts imaginable. They’d dance around in their living and laugh till the sun came up. But, it was get to be too much. He’d have so much energy that he’d keep her up for days. She’d could barely focus let alone stay awake at her desk. He’d start comparing her more and more to the woman she didn’t remember and could never live up to. He’d even have her pretend to be her mother on occasion, just before he crashed. During the lows, Easton would barely get out of bed. If she walked in five minutes late from school, he might even throw a glass at her head for worrying him too much. She loved her dad and she tried not to ever blame him for the mania or the depression. Instead, she handled what little money they had and did her best to take care of the both of them, often playing down how smart and responsible she truly was to help put her father’s mind at ease and act like any other kid without a trouble in the world.

That was until her abilities began to set in. Aida didn’t understand it, but in high school, the girl slowly started to see more and more people around her become overrun by their emotions. A cashier who she exchanged friendly words with for a few seconds, would start throwing things the next. At first she thought it was just her imagination and, yet, she couldn’t shake this feeling that she was the cause of it. She tried to bring it up with her father, but he’d just brush it off like it was nothing. When she discovered she had the ability to bring small things to life for a limited time- she hoped that was the proof she needed that something was going on with her. Maybe even was wrong with her? But, instead of having an answer, her dad signed her up for therapy. For years, she convinced herself it was all in her head. Maybe she was just crazy? Hiding her worry behind pretty smiles that didn’t quite reach the eye and a long train of partying and booze. But, finally the truth came out.

Demigods were going missing, so her dad reached out to the mother she never knew. She was beyond angry and hurt at her dad for hiding it. He had been trying to protect her, but in doing so, he made her feel lost and alone. Words were said. Bitter phrases the two would long regret. And the next thing Aida knew, she was packing up her bag, heading off to Icaria and not looking back.

Aida keeps up her carefree appearance, often losing herself to the bottle of a bottle or waking up in strangers beds. She’s a flirt decked out in designer clothes who uses her ability of emotion manipulation to be able to live the lavish lifestyle she had never been privy to growing up. She’s smart, but often chooses to feign innocent or tone down just how much so in public, pretending to be more like the mysterious goddess who is her mother than she truly thinks she is. Aida pushes down the guilt she has for how her and her dad, the closest man in her life, ended things and hides behind the pretty walls she’s built up for herself.

Wanted Connections:

Family:

Half-Siblings: Briar (super close); Max (Used to Party in Vegas before finding out they’re related) & Lyric

Brother in Law: Colton (Married to Briar)

Little Sister

Adopted Sibling

Make-Shift Siblings (taken each other under their wing or relied on each other as family)

Cousins

Relative Once Removed

Work: 

Coworkers at Relaxing Tides

Regular Customers at the Spa

People to test out different Spa Treatments on - Theo;

Friendships:

Best Male Friend

Best Female Friend

Mean Girls/Heathers Trio of Best Friends- Rue/Rye

Friends

Role Model (Someone she looks up to/strives to be like)

Dysfunctional Role Model (Someone who looks up to her/strives to be like her)

Someone who brings out the best in her

Someone who brings out the worst in her

Someone to teach her how to fight/protect herself

Workout Buddy/Sparring Partner

Partner in Crime

Friends from College - Dexter (helped him out secretly with school);

Friends from High School

Childhood Best Friend

Family Friends

Phone a Friend (the person she goes to/calls whenever she’s in trouble)

Old Roommate

Couch Surfer (Someone who used to crash on her couch from time to time)

Spider Killer (Calls them over at weird hours in the night to do odd tasks like kill a spider)

One Sided Friendship

Frenemies (Act super nice, but actually don’t get along/like each other)

Bickering Frenemies (Act like they hate each other, but really love the hell out of each other)

Frenemies who get high together- Gianna

Friends who had a falling out

Friends who grew apart

Someone who takes her under their wing

Someone who she takes under her wing

Mom Friend (Mothers the hell out of her)

Dad Friend (Fathers the hell out of her)

Someone who brings out the more serious side of her

Someone who discovers how smart she truly is

A friend who is lying to her

A friend who she is lying to

A friend who helped her out back when she was making ends meet

Toxic Friendship

Rivals

Acquaintances (Have always been aware of the other person’s existence, but for some reason have never grown close)

Stumbled upon each other in either an awkward or personal moment and now have trouble looking each other in the eyes

Wingwoman (Someone she’s a wingwoman for)

Wingman/Wingwoman for Her

Fake friend

Fake Staker (someone who she teases about stalking her, but actually enjoys their company)

Thrift Shop Buddy- Mari

Enjoys their company, but acts embarrassed to actually admit they’re friends- Caelan

Breakfast Club (Someone she met once when traveling. They opened up to each other and had a breakfast club-esque relationship for a day/weekend before they parted ways, only to see each other again now) -HJ

Drug Dealer (Someone he goes to for drugs)

Good Influence (Someone who disapproves of Aida’s choices and tries to help her)

Bad Influence (Someone who encourages her questionable choices)

Someone who helps her gain more control of her abilities

Someone who she helps gain more control of their abilities

Someone who plays pranks on her/teases her, but she pretends not to get it/find it funny

Bond over their experiences with Metal Illness- Mara

Don’t Believe in Love- Mira (bonded over how they don’t do relationships);

Serendipity (Someone who she consistently runs into again and again over the years; could be friends or acquaintances, but neither can deny, it’s weird that they keep on meeting like this)

Relationships:

Exes who ended on good terms

Exes who ended on bad terms

Exes who still hook up on occasion- Deacon

First time

Old Flame

Past one night stand

FWB- Lisa; 

EX-FWB - Noah (Before he dated Briar- never talk about the fact they hooked up);

Crush

Ex Crush turned Friend

Ex Crush turned Foe

Exes who are now friends, but don’t ever talk about the fact that they dated

Unrequited love

First boyfriend

First girlfriend

Kindergarten couple

End-game- Zoey

[beautifulspacegays]

Cinnamon Bagels and Peppermint Tea Part 2

The second part of Cinnamon Bagels and Peppermint Tea, in which Lance owns a cute marketplace bakery, and Shiro tries his damn best to make sure his delinquent brother knows about it. Alternative Title: Shiro is the ultimate wingman and Keith has a gay crisis.

For anyone who remembers this piece, I’ve decided to continue this AU!  Read the full piece below the bar, or @/sleapea on ao3 or instagram ✨

“Ver, what’s that look for?” Lance asked, back facing his sister as he balanced atop a small step stool. He didn’t turn around to face her, instead, he continued to focus on his writing, letting his chalk glide neat and curved against the chalkboard menu hanging from the back wall of his shop. Today’s Special.

Besides, he didn’t need to turn around to know what kind of expression she was making— it was the same expression she’d been wearing for the past 15 minutes as she watched him open up shop, arms folded and leaning against the top of the display case behind him.

“What look?” she asked simply, coating her voice in sugar as if she hadn’t a clue what he meant. He scoffed, and Veronica hummed a sweet, inquisitive note, like his annoyance amused her.

“Ver,” he levelled, eyes still glued to the board as he leaned back to study his work. Dulce de Leche Cheesecake.

He frowned at it, as if it was his looping cursive that was causing him grief and not his stubborn older sister.

Deeming his writing acceptable with a small nod, he stepped down from his perch and tucked the stool into a cupboard below the countertop. Then, he rose back up, finally turning to face his sister in a flourish. Promptly, he reached forward and pressed the pad of his index finger lightly against the obvious crease in her brow.

“This one,” he said, withdrawing his hand with a chuckle. Veronica looked nothing short of taken aback as he studied the white fingerprint he left between her brows.

“If you want to say something, just say it,” he shrugged, brushing his hands against his apron to rid his fingers of extra chalk dust. He flicked his eyes up to her forehead and back down again, a slow smile spreading his lips. “And, sorry, but I might have gotten some chalk on your forehead.”

Veronica huffed, breaking from her daze to hastily rub at her forehead with the back of her sleeve. Lance tried and failed to stifle a laugh, turning his attention to wiping the counters as Veronica took to glaring daggers in his direction. The counters could use a quick cleaning anyway, he reasoned; no matter how many times he wiped the surfaces in here, they always seemed to be covered in a thin layer of flour.

“Lance…” She said, and he could hear the frown in her voice.

“Yes, dear sister?” He asked, keeping his tone light and airy. He continued cleaning without pause, as if he hadn’t the faintest idea as to why she was really here. God, they really were related.

Ever since he’d taken over the bakery, it had become routine for Veronica to stop by at least twice a week and hang around as he opened up shop. She claimed it was simply to keep him company, but Lance knew better— Ver never did anything, bless her heart, without a motive, and Lance knew she didn’t miss him that much. It was that, as well as the fact that she always arrived bright and early with a bag full of food— pastries, fruits, homemade meals— anything and everything, that gave her away. This had mamá McClain written all over it.

Today, she’d brought him a bag full of his mamá’s homemade empanadillas along with enough servings of ropa vieja with rice to feed a small army. Although he worked around food for a living, his mamá was still somehow convinced that he’d starve.

Veronica sighed from behind him, but otherwise remained silent. The clock on the wall ticked an entire minute before Lance stilled, turning to meet her gaze with a questioning one of his own.

“You look tired,” her expression softened as she spoke. Lance flinched.

“Ouch.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she rolled her eyes at him, but Lance didn’t miss the way the corner of her mouth quirked like she was trying to hold back a smile. “Are you getting enough sleep?”

“Of course,” he supplied without hesitation. Still, she looked unconvinced. He ignored it, returning his attention to the remainder of the unwiped countertop.

“Leandro…” she coaxed, and for a second, he felt like he was back at home.

“Hey,” he snapped, attention instantly back on his sister. “Don’t go acting like mamá, you know I’ll cave.” Ver really wasn’t letting it go today.

“Yeah, that’s the point,” she smiled, sly, and Lance tried to keep his expression neutral as he set down his cloth in favour of turning toward the shelf at his back. He surveyed the shelf before lifting a large mug from its surface. It was pink and blue, the colours melting together like cotton candy, shiny glaze glinting in the soft light of the shop. He turned it over in his hands a few times, appreciating its shine with a small smile. Veronica hummed from behind him, this time inquisitive, but he paid her no mind.

He took his time dispensing water into the mug so that he could watch the steam swirl from its mouth in hot, lazy puffs. Once the mug was full to the brim, he plucked a cinnamon apple tea bag from his supply, her favourite, and set it into the water. When he turned to hand her the mug, she eyed him warily, but took it nonetheless.

“Now who’s acting like mamá,” she whispered, and Lance couldn’t help but laugh. He even managed to draw a small smile from Ver as she stared into her mug, watching as the tea slowly seeped into the water, painting it a dark, cider red. Lance did nothing but wait as she raised the warm mug to her lips and took to softly blowing over the top to cool it down.

Finally, his sister sighed. “Mamá’s just worried about you,” she started, chewing at her bottom lip. “Actually… we all are. You haven’t visited home in over a month.” Now, it was his turn to sigh.

“I’m fine Ver, really. Just a little busy,” he crossed his arms and leaned against the back counter. From this angle, he could see that the marketplace was slowly beginning to fill with morning customers through the large window at the front of the store. “You know it’s no problem for me to run this place by myself.”

“Of course not,” she immediately supplied, before deflating slightly. “You’re just like papá.” Lance stiffened at the mention of his father, bit at the inside of his cheek. Ver continued on like she hadn’t noticed. “But... we want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself, too.” He’d heard this conversation before, as a child, sitting at a table in the bakery, legs swinging below him, too short to touch the floor. “Cariño,” his mamá had said, “You’re working too hard. You need to take care of yourself.”

“Ver, honestly,” he huffed, exasperated, raising his arms in defeat. “I close late one night and you act like it’s the end of the world!”

“Wait…” she brought the mug up to her lips once again, but this time, she paused to raise an eyebrow. “You closed late last night? What time did you get home?” She blew at her tea, the steam dispersing into the air in short whirls.

“Around 11:30–”

“11:30?! Lance—” Her voice faded to the back of his mind as he zeroed in on a familiar figure just outside the shop. Without a second thought, he began to move. “Wait, what are you—”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s no big deal,” he brushed as he rounded the counter, eyes still focused outside the shop. He passed the small set of swinging doors that separated the main area of his shop from the back, and began to walk towards the front door with a smile.

“Hey, Shiro!” He swung the door open, smiling wide as Shiro turned to face him.

“Lance!” Shiro’s surprise quickly melted as he saw him, transforming into a bright smile of his own. “Good morning.” Although the marketplace was indoors, the airy space was often chilled with customers coming in and out. Lance took in Shiro’s figure— he was scantily dressed for this time of year, wearing nothing but a thin coat and gloves. Lance tsked under his breath.

“You look cold. Want to come in?”

“Oh, no, I can wait! I know you don’t open for another 10 minutes—”

“Oh, hush,” Lance cut him off immediately. “Come in.” It wasn’t a question. He quickly moved to the side, gesturing for Shiro to step inside the shop.

Shiro huffed, but relented with a smile. “Thanks, Lance,” he conceded, “I appreciate it.” He stepped into the warm, sweet air of the bakery with a contented sigh, and Lance couldn’t help the pleased smile that spread across his face.

“No problem. It’s the least I can do for someone out saving the city,” Lance said cheerily, letting the front door slide shut. Shiro scoffed at the comment. “Late call?” He started walking toward the back counter, ushering for Shiro to follow him into the store.

“Yeah... I figured I’d stop by on my way back,” Shiro followed without question, absorbed in his train of thought. Then, he smiled something sly. “Thanks for keeping my brother company last night.” Lance chuckled, waving him off with a small flick of his wrist.

“No problem at all,” he turned to Shiro, pretended to miss the way Shiro’s face lit up at his easy admission. “It was fun. He had... a lot to say about you.”

“I’m sure he did,” Shiro laughed, full-bodied and warm as they reached the back counter. For about the 100th time, Lance appreciated how close Shiro and Keith were, and how fondly they spoke of each other.

Speaking of siblings...

“Is that why you closed shop so late?” Veronica interrupted, causing both Lance and Shiro to startle.

Luckily, Lance was quick to recover. He cleared his throat, shot Veronica a look as she patiently sipped her tea. Her stance was all too casual as she leaned against the display, hip propped against its surface. “Ver, this is one of my regulars, Shiro. Shiro, this is my sister, Veronica.” He gestured between the two, bowing slightly in theatrics before stepping behind the counter. She shot him a look, one that Shiro either missed or was polite enough to pretend not to notice. Lance suspected it was the latter.

“Nice to meet you, Veronica,” He said, offering his hand. She observed him quietly, taking in the polite tone of his voice, his firm, gentle grip as she accepted his handshake. The palm of his hand was rough and calloused, but the handshake was warm. Despite having a strong jaw and large scar across the bridge of his nose, he smiled large and sweet. Veronica hummed under her breath, smiled at him in earnest.

“Nice to meet you, too.”

“I didn’t know he kept you late,” Shiro turned his attention back to Lance with a slight frown. Lance shrugged, smiling still as he handed Shiro a black coffee.

“Black, right?” This time, the mug he chose was a deep, forest green.

“Yeah. Thanks, Lance. It smells great,” Lance beamed at the compliment, brushing Shiro off with another small wave. “I’m a big boy, I can handle a late night or two.” Veronica made a low noise of protest, but Lance ignored her. “Besides, as I said, it was fun.” A different sort of smile crept onto his features then, expression softening at the memory. The bakery fell completely silent, both Veronica and Shiro raising their brows in tandem. With a small shake of his head, Lance slowly came back into himself. “Anyway… I’m going to go see if the muffins are done.”

Lance didn’t notice the look Veronica and Shiro exchanged as he turned to leave the room, nor the quiet “I haven’t seen that expression in awhile,” his sister whispered under her breath. But, as he reappeared around the corner, he did notice that both of them were, very clearly, eyeing him.

“Another five minutes and they should be ready...” he said, tentative, quirking a brow in their direction. “What, do I have something on my face?”

“No,” Shiro smiled wide before tipping back his mug for a long 5 seconds. He finished his coffee with vigor, set his mug back down on the counter with a loud, pleased sigh.

“Perfect, as usual,” Veronica added with a wink. A wink. He made a face, something between surprise and disgust, and Veronica almost choked on her tea as she took a sip.

“Alright… what’s going on?” He set his hands on his hips, levelling them both with his best mamá Mcclain, no nonsense stare.

“Veronica just offered to show me around the marketplace,” Shiro said, nonchalant. “Still haven’t had a chance to explore the whole thing since moving in.”

“Ver did?” Lance repeated, incredulous. “My sister?” he pointed for effect, “The one standing right there?” Veronica’s expression was so indignant that he had to choke back a laugh.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did,” she clipped, turning away from Lance with a loud huff. “Come on Shiro, let’s go.” She spoke his name with a surprising amount of familiarity, given that they’d met just 5 minutes prior.

Shiro did nothing but smile, turning to face Lance with a small shrug. “See you later, Lance. Thanks again for the coffee.” He promptly turned to follow Veronica, who froze at the doorway just to send him a look over her shoulder. “Be sure to eat what I brought, I’ll be back Thursday with more.” Before Lance had time to protest, Shiro and Veronica were already gone, the door sliding shut behind them with a tiny click.

What in the world was going on?

[rockynfriends]

Disneychus.

“TOMORROWLAND! TOMORROWLAND! TOMORROWLAND!” the high, excited voice echoes across downtown Disney as a Pichu and Pikachu walk alongside each other towards the entrance gates to the Magic Kingdom.

“I didn’t know you were so interested in the future, Riley,” Rocky smiles. “What’s it about tomorrow that excites you?”

Riley hops up and down question. “I like thinking about what it’ll be. I might get bigger, or smarter, or stronger!”

“Well, those come over time, certainly, though not maybe all at once,” laughs Rocky as the two present their tickets. The gate agent looks askance at the two for a moment, but shrugs and wishes them a pleasant visit.

“Well, we’re in! Now then, I—Riley? You okay?”

The Pikachu’s question is justified by the utter shock on Riley’s face.

“It’s…it’s…so pretty…”

Rocky nods. “I know. And we get to see all of it.”

This promise shakes the Pichu from his awe-inspired trance and he nods slowly.

“Did you still want to see Tomorrowland first?”

Another nod serves as the reply, and so the two proceed in that direction. Along the way, it’s all Rocky can manage to keep the smells, sounds, and sights from repeatedly taking his charge off the path, but he can’t help but feel delighted himself.

“These lines are long,” murmurs Riley. “You really think we’ll get to see everything?”

“I’ve been given assurance by our pink pal that we have full run of the park, long as we use…this…and…this,” he says, pulling out a plastic card and a golden paper.

“What’s that?”

“I was told to show the gold one to the folks at the entrances to the rides, and the plastic one to anybody who has something we’d like.”

“Really? Will that work?”

“Let’s just say Walt owed Cass a favor.”

“Walt? Who’s that?”

Rocky blinks. “Um…he was a fellow with an active imagination who used it to change the world!”

“Like you?” Riley grins.

Rocky blushes. “Not quite. He made movies and cartoons…but he was certainly visionary. This park was one of his ideas.”

“Wow. Wish I could have met him.”

“Me too. Cass tells me he could be a real handful, but was a lot of fun.”

Riley looks thoughtful for a moment – then completely forgets what he was talking about when he sees Space Mountain.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a roller coaster. It’s all inside, so you have to go indoors to ride it.”

“Can we go there first?”

“Definitely. I think it might be the best one here.”

“Wait – it says we’re not tall enough…stupid rules…” Riley looks dejected, but Rocky smiles.

“Don’t worry – that’s what this is for. Come on!”

The two approach the entrance and the Pikachu gently withdraws the golden page and shows it to the cast member.

“Oh! That’s a rare item you have. Right this way, young sirs!”

“Told you,” Rocky whispers with pardonable pride as they make their way across stairs and halls.

“You think all these people will get mad we’re going first?” Riley questions.

“It’s alright,” replies the cast member, “That ticket of yours is one of a kind and is to be honored no matter what.”

Riley nods, but still looks a bit concerned. His look becomes excited, however, when he and Rocky are strapped into their seats and the car begins to move.

“It’s getting awful dark…” he whispers as they round the corner.

As the countdown begins and the coaster climbs, Rocky smiles, full of anticipation. He’d been looking forward to this since his return home – getting to know Riley without interference from the job. It’s nice – but before he can dwell on it long his thoughts are interrupted by a fair amount of screaming from Riley, and then his own.

Time seems to fly by as the two are jolted, jostled and generally tossed about, but they manage to remain in their seats as the car comes to a halt. Riley is somewhat wobbly legged as he stumbles off of the ride, but his smile is telling. Rocky’s expression is as jubilant.

“That was the best thing I’ve ever got to do ever,” says the Pichu. “Can we do it again?”

“Sure, but let’s try some other stuff first, alright?”

Riley looks longingly at the coaster for a moment, but then thinks about how big the place is and realizes how much more he still wants to see. Rocky’s train of thought is similar, of course, so he’s agreeable when his younger brother looks at the Star Tours and asks if they can go there next.

The pattern repeats in various fashions. Each time they receive a seat quickly, and each time Riley’s eyes seem wider than before. Rocky is himself very excited, but his care for his sibling takes precedence over what would otherwise be a kid in a candy store’s reaction to being given the deed to the place.

When they finish their jaunt through Tomorrowland, Riley laughs. “I didn’t know the future could be so much fun!”

“Well,” Rocky says, “I’ve learned that tomorrow is full of risk and promise. But perhaps now you’d like to see the past?”

Riley blinks. “The past? They have that too?”

“Yup. Even a steamboat.”

“What’s a steamboat?”

“I honestly haven’t the faintest idea. So let’s go find out together!”

“Okay!” Riley laughs. “Which way to the past?”

Rocky gestures, and the two scamper skillfully through the crowd. Once or twice they have to yield in order to avoid getting stepped on. Riley protests one of these times when a particularly large shoe comes dangerously close to his ear, but at Rocky’s gentle words he calms down and before long they’ve reached Frontierland.

“It’s…kinda…brown,” Riley says, apparently more confused than amazed.

“Yeah. They had to make a lot of stuff out of wood back then and I guess paint was expensive,” replies Rocky with all the scholastic tones of an archaeological professor. “I can see a railroad, though, and…hey…look!”

“Steamboat!” Riley shouts.

The Mark Twain enters their view and without another word they take off in its direction. Rocky’s excitement, however, is immediately replaced with stunned horror when, rather than waiting in the line, Riley dives into the water and swims towards the oncoming vessel. In a split seocnd, he’s in after his charge, using a Quick Attack not only to intercept Riley’s course but to fish the smaller electric type out of the water and scramble onto the bank. As the giant ship goes by it’s hard to tell there was ever any danger, save for the panting Pikachu and his smaller companion’s presence on the shoreline.

“I’m gonna guess I did something bad,” Riley says, sheepish and a little afraid. “I didn’t mean anything.”

“No, no…it’s okay,” Rocky breathes. “But…uh…that thing wasn’t going to stop and you shouldn’t get so close to…stuff like that…without knowing how you’re going to—” he fails to finish the sentence, too breathless to continue.

They sit in silence for a moment as the sun dries their coats, too small, it seems, for anyone else to take much note. Riley looks up at Rocky again.

“I’m really sorry,” he says, leaning against him. The feeling is almost as stunning as the fear he felt moments ago. He can’t put it into words, and knows better than to try, but in the simple action of the younger Pokémon, the brotherly bond is forever solidified in Rocky’s mind.

“It’s okay. I just don’t want you hurt is all.”

“I know. I love you.”

“I love you too, Riley. I promise I’ll do everything I can to prove that for as long as I live.”

Riley looks confused. “You already proved it, though. You don’t need to do it again.”

For a moment, Rocky can’t look down at his brother, for he would cry if he did, but he takes a breath and smiles, before beaming down at the smaller Pokémon with a mix of affection and joy. He sits back up.

“We should get ice cream. And then maybe try the railroad?”

Riley claps his hands together. “Yeah!”

The two clamber back up to the pathway and look for an ice cream cart. It being Disneyland, they don’t have much trouble finding one, and when Rocky presents the card, they soon find themselves with perhaps more of the cold treat than either of them expected. Nonetheless, the excess is not lost on either and they manage to power through their respective portions with a speed that an eating contest champion could envy.

Indeed, such is the pace for most of the day. A ride, an attraction, a meal or a snack, and so on, fill their senses (and their stomachs) until by the time the early evening has begun, they are both nearly exhausted. Together they scamper to a place to see fireworks, but as the show begins, Riley looks at Rocky hard, before asking a question.

“You’ve changed since coming back. Did something happen?”

Rocky pauses. “Yes. Something very big…and I thought, maybe bad.”

“Was it me?”

The Pikachu shakes his head. “No. No, Riley, I never for a moment thought there was anything bad about you. I thought maybe I had done something…something that had hurt you, and I was so scared of what it all might mean that I ran away, even though I did mean to come back.”

“I’m sorry you got scared. When I get scared I sing songs.”

“Me too, actually. But I couldn’t remember what the song was for a while and I needed to remember. To do that, I needed a lot of time to think.”

“So you remembered?”

“Yes, yes I did. And I remembered something else – that no matter what happens now, I have a brother.”

“Wait, we’re related?!” Riley’s eyes blink in shock.

Rocky pauses, realizing that the Pichu doesn’t remember everything. “You don’t need to be born to the same parents to be brothers, Riley.”

“Really?”

“Really. I’ve always wanted a brother, and if you want one too, well then, that settles it.”

“I didn’t hear that was how it worked…but I like the idea.”

“I’d say that settles it then,” Rocky nods, smiling. “I gotta warn you, though. I’m a hugger.”

Riley initially grimaces, but then looks around, as if to see if he’s being watched, before whispering, “Me too.”

As the fireworks begin soaring into the sky, the two watch, eyes wide and hearts full. While neither of them had bought a single souvenir, or played any of the arcade games, despite Cass’s arrangement that they could if they wanted, they both knew that they had a much bigger prize, and were finally assured of their keeping it. Indeed, Rocky’s voice quietly rises above the sounds of the spectacle, as if in a poem or psalm.

If all stars in the skies Could brighten up my eyes They’d not mean as much to me As my new brother, Riley.

[panda-noosh]

Hiraeth {part seven}{demigod!Lance x reader}

Words: 5k

Summary: Your life changed forever that day in the forest. The day the voices got too much. The day that single word brought you to what felt like the very brink of death - that was until Lance McClain, son of Poseidon, arrived to take you home.

Genre: percyjackson!au - angst

Notes: part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6 - part 8 - part 9 - epilogue - yes bois 

—-

Hiraeth - (n) a homesickness for a place you can’t return to, or that never was.

Chapter 7

   You were only kept in the infirmary for a few more days after Hades had left camp, his parting words doing nothing to soothe the anxiety you were now feeling like a heavy boulder placed in your stomach.

    The ambrosia had done its job of healing you fairly well. The pain was nearly completely wiped out from your side, leaving behind only the faintest of scars etching from your rib cage. Hunk had been hesitant to allow you free range of the camp after taking such a harsh hit, but nobody else in the Apollo cabin seemed to think it necessary to keep you cooped up in the infirmary any longer than you already had been.

   And so, you were tossed out into the real world all over again, all on your own.

    It was a harsh reality to awaken to. After talking to a new person every other hour, somebody jabbing at your side, asking you how you were feeling, if you needed any more ambrosia to get you through the day, it was a very wild turn to suddenly step foot outside of the infirmary to be greeted with nothing but pure hostility.

   The air was awful. It hung around you, suffocating and heavy. People were no longer just trying to ignore you – not like how they had ignored you whenever it had been Coran they were accusing you of killing. This was Slav. The Slav, the man who made everybody laugh at dinner, the man who could apparently make everybody smile – no. They were no longer just ignoring you. They were making their hate for you known.

   You walked through camp with your head down, trying your hardest to ignore the jeers and yells of the people around you. People from the Ares cabin had even gone as far as throwing fruit in your direction. Lucky enough, Chiron had been walking past at that exact moment and had managed to swipe the food from the air before it was bound to hit you directly in the face. He had ushered you on quickly, not giving you a chance to see the telling off he had given to the campers in question.

   Not as if you cared. You wanted away from the scene as quickly as possible, not seeing a point in sticking around to anger them any more than they already were.

    You could handle the jeers and the insults from the other cabins – they didn't know what they were talking about. They already had preconceived ideas of you due to the whole Coran situation, due to you being the daughter of Hades – it was Lance's attitude towards you that made you feel as if you were being ripped apart.

    He had every reason to be ignoring you, and you told yourself that on a constant loop as you walked through camp all on your own. You had hurt him, had shattered the trust you both had so delicately built up for one another – he had every reason in the world to not want to speak to you, but it didn't make it any easier. You often walked past him, watched him laughing and joking with Lotor as if there had never been any tension between the two of them in the first place. He would ignore you when you walked past him, but you could feel his eyes burning into the back of your head, could hear the falter in his laughter whenever your presence was made known by Lotor's hollering in your direction.

    You never bothered to turn back and face him. You weren't entirely sure you would be able to hold yourself together if you met his eyes.

    Five days after you had been released from the infirmary, you arrived to dinner early. The only other people there were the satyrs, who were busy setting out the food for the campers who were due to arrive soon. You grinned warily at Marco, a satyr with curly brown hair and a smile that could have blinded.

    “You're here early,” he called over to you before tossing you a plate. You yelped, fumbling with it for a moment before finally tugging it into your chest. “Sorry. I forget that you guys don't have good reflexes.”

   “It's fine,” you grunted, slumping down at the Hades table. Marco walked over to you, leaned against the edge of it to continue the conversation. “I've got nothing better to do; thought I might as well get to my seat early.”

    Marco raised a brow. “I don't mean to burst your bubble, but it's not like the Hades table is gonna be running out of seats any time soon, sweetie.”

    “Yeah, well...”

   Marco pursed his lips as you glanced back down at the table with an awkward aura surrounding you; you knew it was there, knew he could feel it, but you struggled to pin it down. You felt awkward, felt as if every single heart wrenching emotion you had been feeling these past few weeks was showing through in full force.

    “What's got you so down, Y/N?” Marco asked suddenly.

   You looked up at him, feigning surprise. “Me? Nothing. Why?”

  “You just look a little lost, that's all,” he replied, lowering himself down on to the seat in front of you. “Don't think of me as a creep or nothing like that, but I've been watching you these past few weeks – since you came to camp, actually – and I can't help but notice that your moods kind of gone down since you first arrived – now, that doesn't usually happen. Usually it's the other way around.”

   “Just stress, Marco. Nothing you should be worrying about.”

  “Stress? How can you be stressed? You have a cabin all to yourself, no siblings to fight with, you've got Lance McClain wrapped around your finger-”

   That was when you winced.

   Marco noticed, his eyes darting open wide at the realisation; he had hit the nail on the head long before he had planned to, apparently. “Ooooh... Lance is causing you problems, huh?”

   You craned your neck, glancing at the buffet table behind him. “When do you think I can start getting my food?”

   Marco moved so he was taking up your line of vision. “What did he do? You two looked like two peas in a pod the last time I checked! I was rooting for you!”

    “Nothing happened,” you growled, slumping back on the bench and folding your arms over your chest. “We just – grew apart. That's what happens with humans, Marco.”

  Marco raised a brow. “In case you failed to see, sweetie, I am half-human. And I also have the brain of a human.”

  You sighed. “That's not what I meant-”

   “I know, I know.” Marco reached forward and placed a gentle, fur covered hand on top of your arm. You closed your eyes – you hadn't realised just how badly touch starved you had been over the past few days. With everybody ignoring you, you had been completely on your own, and you had once believed yourself to be able to handle it. You were alone for the majority of your life, but never before had you been surrounded by so many people, people who should have related to you on some level, and felt so alone.

   “You really shouldn't be being so kind to me,” you croaked out. Marco's grip tightened slightly. “If anybody sees you talking to me, they're gonna think you're some kind of murderer-sympathiser or something. I don't want you to have to deal with them yelling insults at you. Hunk and Pidge are already going through that enough as it is.”

   Marco scoffed in amusement. “You think I give a shit what them campers think? God, I've never met a more annoying bunch of people in my life, I'll tell you that much. Think they're all that and more just because their parents have a little bit of gold blood in them – pfft. Wait till they get thrown out into the real world, then they'll know. Then they'll know.”

  You couldn't help but giggle. Marco looked up at you and smiled, gently patting your arm before withdrawing his hand and placing it back in his lap.

   “Don't you worry about them other campers, sweetie. From what I've heard about you amongst the forest creatures, you're the toughest son of a bitch this camp has seen in a while, and not just because of your parentage.” He leaned forward. “Is it true that you used to live on the streets? That you know Romelle?”

   Your heartbeat thundered out of nowhere, shock spiralling through your body at the use of Romelle's name in such a casual setting – how did this satyr know who Romelle was?

   You opened your mouth to reply, but no words came out. You could only stare at him with wide eyes, your hand clenching the edge of the table as you tried to process exactly what it was he had just said.

   He shook his head as if your silence was answer enough, running his hands through his curly hair. His ring got caught on his horns and he grunted as he manoeuvred the jewellery out of his hair.

  “Incredible,” he said breathily. “Next time you see her, tell her Marco misses her. She hasn't stopped by in ages.”

   You slowly shook your head. “What are you-”

   “Oh, christ,” Marco suddenly hissed, shooting up from his chair without a second mention of what he had just been speaking about. You whirled around, spotting the large group of campers emerging from the training fields towards the dinner hall. “I should get back to work. Remember what I said, sweetie – don't let the campers get to you. They're all wimps anyway.” And before you could stop him, try as you might, he had darted off back towards the buffet table to finish up helping the other satyrs dish out the evening meals.

   You stared at the back of his head, unsure of how to react to what he had just said – first of all, how did the forest creatures even know that you knew Romelle? And what did Marco mean when he said she hadn't stopped by in ages? You couldn't recall a single time Romelle had stopped by – it didn't seem likely. In fact, it seemed almost impossible. Last time you had asked, you had been informed that the camp was covered by a shield that stopped mortal eyes from peering in.

    You swallowed thickly, appetite suddenly lost. You could hear Lotor jeering behind you, his stupid jokes followed abruptly by Lance's angelic laughter.

    You had enough to worry about – you would ask Chiron about the subject later on. Until then, you had been ordered to keep your head down, and that's exactly what you would do.

   ---

   The lake was always prettiest at night, you had found.

   You had only been down here a few times in the past whenever the sun had fallen beneath the mountains, leaving camp Half-Blood in an eerie yet peaceful sway of darkness. After the incident with Lotor witnessing you use your powers, you had been fended away from the place after dark, but you saw no reason in being afraid of it now. Not whenever you had nothing else to lose.

   The campers had all shifted to bed for the night, the camp now cast in silence. You had made your way to the Hades cabin after dinner, hidden away until the rest of the camp fell silent, and then you made your way down to the awaiting waters which you now sat in front of, knees bulked up to your chest and chin resting upon them.

    The air was so still. The faint smell of barbecue smoke was present in the air from the dinner that had gone on only a few hours prior. The waves were blowing gently with the slight breeze Chiron had allowed through the shield as a way to help the campers sleep; you hadn't taken him up on that, choosing to instead stay up to organise your thoughts before they got too muddled.

   That's what it felt like. It truly felt as if you were on the verge of a breakdown, like you would suddenly collapse out of nowhere at any given moment; it was impending upon you, and you knew that. You could feel it building up in your chest, refusing to show you any mercy. Not like you expected it to. With everything going on right now, it was a miracle you were able to sit by the edge of the lake and still have coherent thoughts.

    You hollowed out your cheeks and let the air pop out of them. A water nymph giggled at the noise. You cast your eyes in their direction, only for them to squeak at being caught and dive back beneath the waves in their attempts to hide from you; you had no doubt in your mind that they would report back to Chiron that you had been sat up past dark, but you couldn't find the energy or the will to care at the moment.

    You thought about Lance. He was the last person you had been here with, the last person who had witnessed this lake with you. He had been happy then, joking around and jostling with you – until you had lost all sense of control and kissed him. That was truly the point where things shattered between the two of you – you had let your feelings get ahead of you, and there was no coming back from such a thing. Not now. Not after the trust had been shattered, leaving nothing in its wake.

    As if your thoughts had summoned him, Lance's voice emerged from the trees behind you.

   You shot up from your spot by the lake, startled by the sudden intrusion. He was laughing, saying something through a mouthful of giggles that was quickly met with a response – the response of Lotor.

   “Son of a bitch,” you hissed, trying to act quickly. They had yet to break through the tree line – you had a chance to hide yourself, to get away before they-

   You could think about it no longer. Their voices were getting louder, a clear sign that they were approaching the lake much faster than you would have liked. Not even thinking about the pain that would surely spiral through you in a moments time, you dove behind the nearest tree and landed with a thump amongst the nettles and the brambles; you clenched your teeth, the scar on your side flaring with a dull pain that reminded you immediately of the spear that had pierced you only a week prior; the man who had held that spear was walking towards the lake now, your best friend at his side, laughing as if nothing had happened.

    You curled your knees into your chest, biting down on your tongue to stop the whimpers of pain from escaping you.

    Lance ducked down by the edge of the lake and dipped his hand into the water. When he brought it loose from the waves, his fingers were dripping and he gently swiped the water over his forehead. Lotor wrinkled up his nose.

   “That's quite unhygienic,” said Lotor. “Gods only know what's been in that water.”

   “Actually, I know exactly what's been in that water,” replied Lance. “And it's nothing gross. Now, come here. You've still got blood on your neck from your duelling session.”

  “I'm fine,” Lotor grunted, but Lance was having none of it. You watched on, a sick feeling arising in your stomach as your best friend reached towards Lotor and summoned a puddle of water into his palm that he delicately splashed across the Ares campers neck.

   Lotor shuddered, gritting his teeth as if the prospect of having lake water clean him was truly and utterly revolting. You could see Lance trying to hold back laughter at the mans reaction – he had once told you that he found it particularly humorous to see people shy away from earths natural elements. He had always believed water to be the most beautiful of things.

    “There,” Lance said. “Wasn't so bad after all, was it?”

   “It's disgusting,” said Lotor. “But I suppose you would never understand – not with your father being who he is.”

    Lance clenched his jaw, hiding his frustration. The topic of his father was one you knew to be a risky one – one you were better off leaving behind in a conversation with him. You half expected Lance to start lashing out, perhaps telling Lotor to shut his mouth, but the argument never came. The lake was filled with a heavy silence as Lance kneeled back down at the lakes edge and gently ran his fingers along the water, softly beckoning for some fish to come to his fingers. They did so, and he smiled gently to himself, as if the sea creatures were a source of comfort for him.

    “You never told me what happened the day you stumbled across Slav,” Lotor said suddenly. Lance drew in a sharp breath – even you did, hidden behind the tree with your side still aching.

    Lance looked at Lotor over his shoulder. “I gave my statement to Chiron. There's nothing more I can do about it.”

   “That's not what I asked.” Lotor kneeled down beside him. “Were the black veins on his skin?”

    “I don't know, Lotor. I didn't really-”

   “Because you have to agree with me, Lance, that those black veins can come from one person and one person only,” Lotor continued, his voice deathly quiet now. Lance wasn't looking at him, instead keeping his eyes firm on the waters surface. “Only a child of Hades would be able to do something like that, and there is only one demigod child of the god of the underworld. It might be a tough pill for you to swallow, but there will have to come a day where you face the facts.”

   Lotor leaned forward then, so close to Lance that his sharp chin could have very well rested upon his shoulder. “You don't still believe she's innocent, do you?”

   Your heart sped up. Lance was silent for a moment – a moment too long. You felt the tears spring to your eyes, felt the sudden urge to throw yourself out from behind the tree and run as far as you could suddenly overwhelm you.

   But then Lance was shaking his head. “I don't think she's a killer, Lotor. I spent weeks with her, and she – she just isn't a murderer.”

    Lotor's eyes flashed with what could only be described as anger, as if his plans to get Lance to turn against you had been officially soiled. “You're serious? You're truly, deadly serious right now – after every piece of evidence you've been given, you're still protecting her?”

   “I'm not protecting anyone,” Lance said. “I'm just telling you the truth! First of all, she wasn't powerful enough to do that kind of damage-”

   “This coming from the man who was a victim to her powers during Capture the Flag only a week ago!”

   “And you still managed to stab her in the side!” Lance suddenly exclaimed. “If she was truly as powerful as you keep making her out to be, then how did you manage to spear her, huh?”

    “She wasn't paying attention,” Lotor growled. “And I'm a powerful man when it comes to battle – it's my element. It's how I was raised.”

    “Yeah, well, Y/N was raised on the streets.” Lance stood up then, tugging at his jacket. “She wasn't taught to kill, alright? So get that idea out of your thick skull and maybe start looking into people who could be actual suspects.”

    Lotor made to say something, but he was cut off whenever Lance flicked his wrist and the lake exploded around him. Lotor cried out at the sudden shower of lake water that rained down upon him, but Lance didn't even look back as he walked away from the scene, making his way back up the track without so much as a glimmer of regret shining on his face.

   Lotor growled, running out of the fountain of water. He looked back at the lake only once, scowled to himself, before he was following Lance back up the path, leaving you all alone once again.

    Your heartbeat was loud and clear in your chest, thumping wildly. You perched yourself up onto your elbow, immediately dragging your shirt up so you could inspect the damage done to the previously healing injury – the ambrosia had stopped the bleeding, and you were fairly certain that no more than a scar had been left behind, but as you looked down at the injury now, you could see fresh dabs of blood dotting along your skin.

   You scowled. The pain wasn't unbearable yet, though you were dreading the walk to the Apollo cabin – you would ask for Hunk and nobody else. Hunk could see to you in your own cabin, and then you would be fine. You wouldn't have to confess as to where you had been, wouldn't have to tell anyone about what you had just overheard.

    Because it was crazy. Truly, utterly crazy the words you had just heard. You had felt for sure that Lance had turned against you, that perhaps Lotor had poisoned his brain, changed his opinions to work against you – that seemed like the most likely option. Why else would Lance be hanging around with him, acting as if they were best buddies? It didn't make any sense to you.

   As you stumbled up from the lake and made your way to the Apollo cabin, you couldn't help but feel a little lighter. The physical pain was increasing with every step you were taking, but the emotion pain had definitely dulled upon hearing that Lance wasn't entirely against you, that Lance was one of the few people who could see the sense in your innocence; you may very well have a chance after all.

   ----

   Hunk had kindly tended to your injuries without question – a mere raised eyebrow to which you replied with a shake of your head, and he had fallen silent.

   He had fed you ambrosia, made sure you were tucked nicely into bed before he was bidding you farewell and heading back to the Apollo cabin – you were falling asleep in a matter of minutes, the warmth of the ambrosia lulling you into unconsciousness quicker than you were used to.

   Perhaps it was the suddenness of it that induced the dream.

   At least, you were fairly certain it was a dream. In your head, that was all it could be; your brain growing bored and needing some images to entertain itself with. But if this was truly a dream, you had never experienced one quite so vivid, quite so realistic.

    You were at the lake again. It was just you and the soft whispering of the late night breeze, the chirping of the insects that bound around the trees and chased the streams of moonlight. For a moment, they were all you could see. You couldn't move, your body tucked away behind some leaves that did very little to obscure your vision but most definitely kept you hidden from outside onlookers.

    The alone time lasted only a few more minutes before a twig was snapping and the treeline was being shoved out of the way, revealing no other than Lance McClain.

   He seemed to be angry about something, his cheeks hollowed out and his perfectly shaped eyebrows slanted. He was stomping his feet rather than his usual graceful walk, and the water of the lake ripped violently as soon as he made his appearance.

   “That idiot,” he grunted to no one in particular, kicking a pebble into the water. “He doesn't even know what he's saying half the time – how can he just come out with this stuff and not know that he's making an absolute idiot of himself?”

   Lance groaned, ran his hands through his hair and slumped down by the lakes edge. You were half tempted to walk towards him, ask him what was wrong, offer him any form of comfort you could possibly give, but you found yourself unable to do so. It was as if you were stapled to the floor.

     You were forced to watch him for minutes on end as he ran his hands idly through his hair, grunting incoherent words to himself on a constant loop. It got to the point where you were ready to wake up, growing bored of the scene in front of you – why did your brain think this was a suitable sight? Why did your brain think this was enough to keep you occupied until morning, and why couldn't you wake up from it? You were well-aware you were dreaming – it should have been easy enough for you to just snap yourself awake.  

   Your desire to rise disappeared whenever the twigs snapped and Lotor made his first appearance of the night. You should have known, of course, that he would eventually arrive – there was nobody better at starting drama than Lotor.

    Lance didn't look up when he said, “Go back to camp, Lotor. I don't have anything to say to you.”

   “You're villainizing me for no reason,” said Lotor, making his way towards Lance with heavy steps that reeked of threat. “I spoke the truth back there, and it's about time the entire camp saw it.”

   “You called me a terrorist-sympathisor, Lotor! Do you know how that feels?” Lance exclaimed. “Gods, you don't even know what you're talking about half the time, do you? None of you idiots at the Ares cabin do!”

   “You watch your mouth,” snarled Lotor. “My siblings and I have more intelligence than those three Big Gods of yours combined – just because your father was an original, doesn't make him special. It doesn't make you special, so stop sitting here thinking you're all powerful whenever-”

   Lotor's sentence went unfinished whenever Lance spiralled around and shot his hands out with a roar of anger. You flinched away from the spray of water that suddenly burst from above your best friends hands and slammed down upon Lotor – but Lotor was fast. It happened in a matter of seconds, so fast you had barely caught sight of it until Lance was crumbling to the floor.

   Lotor had pulled his shield off of his back and was holding it over his head; the water bounced off of the surface, the shield acting as a decent umbrella to protect him from the shower of lake water Lance had just thrown upon him.

    But he wasn't done there.

   With a roar of anger, Lotor unsheathed the sword that was always strapped across his back. It glittered purple, sparkled in the moonlight – that was until it was thrust through Lance's heart and was drawn back bright red, dulled.

   You were screaming. You were screaming so loud and so desperately, and you wanted nothing more than to wake up, to wake up, to wake up-

   “Y/N! Y/N, wake up!”

   Your eyes snapped open. You gasped for air, throwing yourself forward. Your legs were tangled in the sheets, your hands gripping tightly at Pidge's green jacket as she and Hunk stared down at you in concern, clearly unsure as to what to make of the sudden outburst.

   Sweat was drenching your sheets, drowning your hair, dripping down your collar bones. You panted, looking around the room for any sign of Lotor – you expected him to be here. You expected to see Lance slumped over in the corner with a knife wound in his chest, Lotor standing over him with that sneer playing on his features.

   But the room was completely empty bar you, Hunk and Pidge – just like it always was.

   Your eyes snapped back to Hunk and Pidge. Pidge was sat on your bed, her hands firm on your shoulders. Hunk was standing beside her, a plate of ambrosia trembling in his hands.

   You swallowed thickly, suddenly needing water. “I'm fine.”

   Pidge raised a brow. “You didn't sound fine. Were you having a nightmare?”

    “I'm fine,” you repeated, snapping your hands away from her jacket and flattening them upon the mattress. “Is breakfast over yet? I need some water.”

[ganymedesclock]

Do you think you could do an analysis post comparing Alfor and Keith as red paladins?

Anonymous said:It seems pretty obvious that Zarkon and Alfor's friendship parallels Shiro and Keith's. How do you think this is gonna play out?

So what I think is so interesting about the paladins of old is... it’s really easy to project the guys that we know onto them, because we see the similarities! We look at Alfor doing this:

And it’s like “Keith Alfor Noo”

But they really..... aren’t.

Alfor looked up to Zarkon. He wouldn’t style himself as Zarkon’s right hand otherwise. He respected Zarkon. But they did not have... anything like Shiro and Keith’s friendship.

Because Shiro and Keith are close to siblings. They care deeply about each other but also they interconnect on a level that the paladins of old just plain didn’t. And that’s not because the paladins of old were bad people- it’s because they all came from different worlds, different contexts, and they really did not... work hard to bridge those differences.

It isn’t as if they didn’t care- because, look at the faces they made seeing Zarkon and Honerva dead.

But they had problems. Really systematic ones. And one of them was I think while they all cared, and connected, they were all much more withdrawn to their separate spheres than any of our current paladins are. We really don’t have the faintest inkling of the mentoring way Shiro relates to Keith. When Zarkon is challenged by Alfor, his only real recourse is trying to rattle the chain of command at him- which utterly fails.

The closest we see to Zarkon really acknowledging Alfor’s importance and value as a friend is right at the end, when he’s manipulating him. Which sends a really worrying message, because... with Shiro and Keith?

We see their closeness often expressed in contexts where neither of them really wants something out of each other. Where they’re just together- or, in the specific case of s2e8- we see that Shiro is willing to squander other things that he and the team values because doing so would hurt Keith.

Forcing Keith to give up the knife, or letting Keith proceed with the trial at his own expense, Shiro could have played it safe and tried to earn the Blade’s esteem- and they were desperate then, they had no real allies besides the Balmera and Olkarion, neither of whom could really back them up in a fight.

But Shiro says “Screw you people, you’re hurting Keith, I’m taking him and he’s taking his knife, and if I have to singlehandedly fight all of you towing an injured teammate to get out of here, so be it.”

The difference is as simple and fundamental as ultimately, in the end, when Zarkon was Black Paladin, priority one was victory and priority two was his team.

For Shiro, victory is priority number two. His team is more important. We’ve seen him make those kind of calls repeatedly. In s3e6, when he conflicts with Keith and risks them with his strategy, this is very unusual behavior- it reflects how stressed and unnerved Shiro is by his recent ordeal and furthermore, he later reconvenes with Keith and cements that the other was right to second-guess him.

That’s not a talk young Zarkon ever would have had. Because Zarkon believed in stratification, rigid divisions, a tense chain of command. He wanted the paladins of old to be a proper military unit first, and friends and comrades second.

Once again, the only time we hear Zarkon seriously acknowledging his own mistakes is when he’s actually learned nothing and is intending fully to deceive the team. The Shiro-like behavior- acknowledging Alfor was right, remorse for endangering people- is used to further contrast them because on Zarkon we only see it in an ultimately facetious light.

Zarkon breaks out the sentimentality ultimately as a way of controlling his team. For Shiro, that same sentimentality is something that ultimately rules his relationship with his team- even if it puts him at a significant disadvantage we see time and time again that Shiro will put the people his team is composed of first (for example, letting Pidge go look for her family because he finds the idea of forcing anyone to stay with the team when they don’t want to unacceptable)

[bloodandwinemuses]

Acting is the expression of a neurotic impulse. It’s a bum’s life. The principal benefit acting has afforded me is the money to pay for my psychoanalysis.  — Marlon Brando

CHARACTER SUMMARY

Fame has always been an unavoidable part of his life, no point in downplaying or omitting that. It’s hardly manageable for a kid growing up not to endure whispers in the hallway and people poking questions at his mother’s health and whether or not she will make a comeback. For Alexander, dodging all of this unwanted attention was a tiresome sport in his childhood, and continues well into his adolescent years.  Because his family is one  rooted in the public eye. Almost everyone, mind you, except for him. If there is anything about Alexander that is undoubtedly certain, it’s that he hasn’t got the faintest idea what he wants to do with his life, not least of all because his older siblings have all commendable carriers in the limelight, all of which have served to rekindle their station as a celebrity clan, of sorts.

By contrast, Alexander knows he’s the outsider,  the quiet one, the dreamer and artist;  the one branded as a genius because some doctors once insisted that his linguistic capabilities far surpassed that of his peers. But what he wants more than all these promising labels is a shot at normalcy - at being a normal kid without the need to impress anyone or live up to this idealized and glamorized idea what he ought to be.

The only impasse is his passion: acting, namely, which requires an audience he is not ready to face, as aimlessly as he tries to figure out who he is, and how to be comfortable in his own skin. Only when he can shed his skin does Alexander breathe freely, secure in the constraints of being somebody else. Poetry, drawing, acting - these three are his loyal companions. In a way, all he needs is right there, in art, for it opens up the possibility of sharing without exposing himself. The fear of being misunderstood is much too crippling to be courageous. His motivation, his fuel, therefore, is to find himself in between piles of different personalities, hoping he’ll feel comfortable with being just himself some day.

APPEARANCE DESCRIPTION

Although there is nothing inherently odd about his appearance or any physical flaw which would merit the urge to hide, his attire directly reflects Alexander’s wish to appear as unnoticeable and dull as possible so as to avoid unnecessary attention. Layers of clothing, wide, loosely fitting shirts and harems pants usually shroud his slender frame, making him appear smaller and thinner than he really is. His body irks him because it’s essentially delicate, with small shoulders, lean muscles and a fast metabolism to boot. It doesn’t help that he only stands as tall as 6’0 either. Are a few more inches that much to ask for? These perceived flaws aren’t borne out of a self-conscious swamp but rather the awareness that his physique - along with his fitness - is crucial. There is always more that can be done and more often than not, his body feels to him akin to a barrier as opposed to an instrument.

Generally, off stage run-ins with Alexander vary greatly. Even his pitch and voice texture seems more a spectrum than a fixed tone, as he mostly just carries on being a poseur around people - including but not limited to what he sounds like. To customers at the shop, his voice is quiet yet attentive and pleasant. Soft, in short, so that regulars have quickly come to appreciate such a polite and soft-spoken boy, in spite of his easily forgettable appearance from short-cut, jet black hair to light-brown, kind yet perceptive eyes and high collared shirts. Every now and then, though, his tattooes peek through, tiny art bits crafted mostly by Avery, his co-worker and friend, from colored to black and white. Most motives convey his personality, all of which are placed in private or easily coverable places. From swallows to lizards and trampled roses, everything is there in his rapidly growing collection of tattoos. In the hope that, someday, there will be a person special enough to uncover and look at him;see him.

PERSONALITY DESCRIPTION

What you get will be an expedition of masks; a panorama, one more vibrant and beautiful than the other. But most importantly, it’s what people want to see. This, Alexander will readily and willingly display without any word of complaint. A contagious grin, a lilt in his voice as he responds - optimism all around. Beneath it, however, loom self-absorbed doubts, all-defying pessimism down to almost nihilistic streaks and self-pity - the ugly, labyrinthine passage he allows scarcely few to see. Nobody wants that, he’d argue, withdrawing instead even further from himself to welcome others, and to be regarded as a positive influence. The only thing he can’t readily fake off stage is confidence - especially towards assertive, fiercely capable and sure-footed personages. It’s a bit like staring into a mirror, then, his own treacherous desires staring back at him in the form of a person older and comfortable with themselves.

What are Alexander’s greatest gifts to aligning talent and technique as an actor are likewise his greatest weaknesses beyond art: hypersensitivity and introspection. While it is easy to become immersed in a role, it is getting increasingly harder for him to be just himself. Examined in close, intimate moments, it is said he is too intense, and his doubts and overwhelming sensitivity a turn off. It’s not that he is a fragile boy about to break; the crux boils down to his fear to be misunderstood and to lose any chance of finding friends - or most notably a partner - to accept him as the compassionate, tactful, sensual man that he is, without looking away from his self-consciousness, the tiring transitions between two absolutes (e.g. blind idealism and crushing pessimism), his struggle to relate to others, and his inability to manage in a practical world.

Essentially, Alexander is a liar with the penchant for it, missteps notwithstanding. Most of what is appealing about him remains an act in the end, no matter how free, daredevil-like and fun he may be around you - any closer scrutiny and one will knock over Pandora’s box - so what tragedy could be worse than hoping it’s not true? Because he means well? Because, at his core, he is either dumb or lion-hearted enough to still believe there is a place for authenticity and idealism in this piss-poor-poseur production that is this world?

SKILLS / COMPETENCES

Technically, Alexander speaks three languages to varying degrees of proficiency starting with his mother tongue, Japanese, and ending with Avery’s insistence on teaching him German. English is undoubtedly the language he has gained fluency in while only being able to come up to a lower intermediate level in Japanese, which secretly bothers him more than he lets on, not least of all because it puts a barrier between his grandparents and himself when he’s visiting – and his siblings, to some extent, as he is the only one struggling – so it equally annoys him that, even though both languages are hardly comparable in any objective sense, he seems to be having a much easier time learning German where he’s already at a lower intermediate level despite only having studied it for a little over two years.

Now, having always had a natural affinity for languages, Alexander easily picks up new languages with little difficulty. His heart, however, beats in accordance with the bard’s works, hence his decision to have loitered around England for a while to pursue an English degree. No art school, despite his parent’s attempts to pester him into giving it a try. His artistic prowess notwithstanding, Alexander has likewise undergone training as an aspiring actor, even having starred in a few low-budget productions at his local theatre back in his hometown. Indeed, he even is in charge of an acting course for children from nine to thirteen – naturally with the main focus being on Shakespearean plays.  

INTERPERSONAL MANNER

Despite genuine efforts being made, Alexander is not the ideal friend he tries to be, often at odds with what he initially thought people were and what they really are, causing him to hardly sustain his empathy off-stage. Consequently, there is this disconnect between him and others, this distance that cannot be breached no matter how buoyant or otherwise uncomplicated he comes across. As a result of this, Alexander has been called selfish, self-absorbed, whiny, vain, pretentious - just too much work.

Having always been the odd kid cradling outrageously expensive special editions of classics and Classics alike, he isn’t necessarily close to his family. At least conventionally, Alexander returns the sentiment of love - really, he does - but neither can they identify, much less understand them - nor can he understand their motivations for pushing him, relentlessly so, to publish his works and move up the prestigious ladder of receiving the recognition they believe he deserves. Put simply, his tendency to idealize people - to dehumanize them, in a sense - and to admire anyone and everyone on a pedestal puts him at a disadvantage and, in the same vein, in the unpleasant position of never feeling close to anybody - because he doesn’t see them whilst he doesn’t allow them to see him, too mortified by misunderstandings.  Fearing confrontation, Alexander usually steers clear of dating altogether all the while having firm ideas about what romances should entail: namely understanding and acceptance, though exactly this pair is challenging to come by for the likes of him.

Inspired by: an actor’s panel I found on Youtube, Dandelion, very loosely (TW) 

[awkwardblushing-blog]

Chapter 66 - Relatives

AO3 Link: 

((NOTE:  I am hoping this chapter makes sense without reading Cullens Cottage. Just in case it doesn't: Maerin doesn't know her mom, her dad took her away when she started showing magic and the mom wanted to put her in the circle. She was raised in the woods with him at the cottage. If you think its unclear please let me know!!!))

Bastien raised his glass for what felt like the hundredth time, toasting once more to Cullen’s health and safe return. His arm was getting a bit sore, though perhaps his glass was too full. Varric seemed to think keeping it nearly full to the brim was a good idea, some strategy to get Bastien too drunk to win at wicked grace, and the blackberry mead was going down very smooth so it was probably working. Glancing to his left, he saw Maerin, clinging to the wall with Harel half beneath her, seeming to enjoy watching the revelry, but not wanting to get too caught up in it. She’d given her statements to Leliana, refusing to rest until it was out of the way. After much convincing from Cullen and Bastien, she agreed to stay a few more nights to at least rest before making the journey home. Following her gaze, he landed on Cullen, and he smirked. Retrieving another glass of mead from the barkeep, he made his way over to her, offering the drink first.

“It’s blackberry and honey mead, it’s really good.” He smiled wider as she took the glass, sipping tentatively before nodding. “Mind if I join you?”

She seemed to hesitate, but conceded. The moment he was situated, Harel fell into his lap, rubbing his face all over Bastien’s chest. He couldn’t help but laugh at the complete turnaround in the animal’s behavior, and scratched the beast behind the ear.

“Sorry, but this stuff is expensive. If you want some ale I’m sure you could steal Varric’s, he’s about your height.” He pointed to the dwarf in question and Harel seemed to contemplate. While the mabari plotted, he turned his attention back to Maerin. “I’m sure your about sick of hearing it, but thank you for saving Cullen, he is a good man.”

She regarded him quietly, sipping at her mead before smiling. Bastien thought he saw the faintest twinge of a blush when she murmured, “He is.”

“I hope he wasn’t too much of a burden,” He smiled, but it faded, “I do have to ask though, since he seems so much better, did you help him with… um…”

“His withdrawls?” She finished for him, setting her glass on the table, “Yes. It is… refreshing to see so much support for his struggles. Lady Cassandra seemed particularly relieved.”

Bastien, despite his usual dense mentality when it came to subtleties, caught the tone right away. “Yeah, she would be. He asked her to relieve him of duty on several occasions, but we would be lost without him. He is like a brother to us all.” He emphasized the all a bit to firmly, and she blushed, looking down. Feeling rather foolish, he blushed as well and cleared his throat. “I have to be honest, I’m a bit awkward most of the time, I tend to just… barrel forward or get embarrassed or both. So, I’m sorry if I am making you uncomfortable.”

She glanced back up and smiled, “A bit, but I was honestly wondering so thank you.” She seemed thoughtful for a moment, then gestured to his hand, “May I see your ring?”

Bastien blinked and held his hand out to her, watching her delicate fingers gently brush and twist Jean’s ring. She attempted to remove it, and he withdrew his hand rather quickly.

“Sorry, it was left to me by an older brother. It is all I have left of him and I never take it off.” He cradled the ring in his fingers, twisting it back into place and holding it there.

“I’m sorry… it’s just…” she seemed to consider a moment, then sighed and pulled the chain around her neck, holding the small pendent out to him. “I have its match.”

Bastien’s brow furrowed as he looked at the small circle in her hand. It held the same circle of running wolves, but delicate and with gemstones in their eyes. Bastien held them side by side, and there was no denying, they were a pair.

“Where did you get this?” His mind was racing, he’d seen that ring before. But where?

“My father gave it to me, he said it once belonged to my mother. She wanted to send me to the circle, but my father refused. He switched the rings and took me away, I don’t even remember what she looked like. All I can remember is bright red hair and kind green eyes.” She looked up at him and laughed derisively, “Though I suppose that would mean several hundred women.”

It wasn’t possible. Mother’s portrait? He’d first seen that ring in his mother’s room, a painting of her when she was younger, before she married his father. The portrait she had given him before he went off to the conclave. He’d stared at it so much, how had he not noticed the matching ring? That ring was on her hand in that painting, but he’d never seen it on her finger. Was he deluding himself to thinking he saw similar features in Maerin? He knew he was staring when Maerin touched his shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes…I just…” But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be possible. Perhaps she sold it when they married, but his parents both came from wealthy families, so why would she need to? And how did Jean wind up with its match?  

Try not to sound so utterly surprised, I had a love of my own once.

And Maerin’s mother had bright red hair and kind green eyes, just like his own.

“Wait here, just a moment.” Bastien stood abruptly, nearly knocking his glass over as he stood, pushing his way roughly out of the tavern. He raced up to his loft, winded by the time he’d arrived, digging frantically through drawers before he found it. Sure enough, Maerin’s ring was right there on his mother’s finger.

“Bastien?” Cullen’s voice made him jump and his eyes shot to the stairs. Cullen stood at the top of the stairs, a concerned and confused eyebrow raised. Maerin stood behind him, gripping his arm with raw worry in her expression.

“Ah, sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you it’s just… Look at this.” He held the portrait of his mother out to her. Cullen led her over to the light and she nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw the woman in the painting.

“Yes! That’s her!” She turned to Bastien, gripping his tunic in a supplicating gesture, “Please you have to tell me who she is!”

Bastien was dumbstruck. He simply couldn’t find the words to answer her. Fortunately, Cullen knew the answer.

“It’s his mother, Lady Mariane Trevelyan.” His voice seemed nearly as dumbstruck as Bastien felt. Maerin froze, slowly releasing her grip. Her eyes sought Bastien’s for confirmation, and he nodded.

“She gave the ring to my brother,” Bastien murmured, finally finding his voice, “He was the eldest of us four. Well, I guess now the second eldest… and he left it to me in his will.”

“I have siblings?” She pressed her palm to her forehead, “My mother is a noblewoman? And mother to the leader of the Inquisition?”

“I’m just as surprised as you are.” He murmured, twirling the ring on his finger. “So…um… do you want to hear about them?”

She glanced up at him with tears in her eyes, “Very much so. But… I don’t want to get my hopes up. Please, if you would, write to your mother, ask her to come here to meet me, or I’ll go to meet her. You could ask her about me, if you will, and see if she will admit to my existence.”

Cullen laced his fingers with hers and she looked up at him, smiling softly.

“It’s alright, I had my father, and he was wonderful. And thanks to him keeping me out of the circle, I have you.” She squeezed his hand and his cheeks began to color. She smiled, “I think I will turn in for the night. It has been… rather eventful and I need some time alone to think.” She turned to Cullen and, reaching up on her toes, pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Go enjoy your party and wake me when you come back.”

“Goodnight, Maerin.” Bastien spoke with as much force as he could muster.

“Goodnight, Bastien… I hope you are my little brother, I would be so proud to be your big sister.” And with that, she descended the stairs.

Cullen and Bastien sat in silence for a few moments, then looked at one another and scoffed.

“Well, our lives definitely aren’t boring.” Cullen grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can’t believe it. Is it strange that I hope it’s true?”

“If it is then I’m in the same boat.” Bastien laughed, “She is right though, we shouldn’t get our hopes up too high... That being said I don’t think I can stop it if I tried.”

“Regardless, you aren’t alone.” Cullen braced a hand on his shoulder and they shared a brief moment before both blushed at the intimacy of the situation. Clearing his throat, Cullen removed is hand.

“We, ah, we should get back to the party.” Bastien’s cheeks were stained red as he looked away, gesturing to the stairs.

“Yes, we should.” Cullen nodded, taking a step back and leading the way towards the stairs before pausing. “One more thing, since we are already in an awkward moment and I can’t make it worse… Were I your brother, I would be very proud to call myself such. I mean… I am proud of you regardless of relation… just…”

“Yeah… thanks.” Bastien grinned, and followed a still stammering Cullen down the stairs.

[basically-i-write-shit]

Here’s part 2 of 3 of my gift exchange gift for @tsukyamgiftexchange for @enterprisecaptainoikawa, who requested “aromantic/asexual spectrum tsukkiyama, punk tsukkiyama, band au, ice skating/yuri on ice au ahhh, professor/bibliophile au, tsukkiyama as best friends, really anything tbh bless” I didn’t know if she wanted band au as in orchestra or singing/etc. so I did both! Here’s the orchestra part:

                                                         ☆

“I like the cello part in the full-orchestra Schoenberg, don’t you, Tsukki?” 

“You’re only saying that because I play cello.” Kei rolls his eyes, looking up from his homework to his best friend who sits at his desk, fiddling with the keys on his instrument. Kei’s cello sits in the corner, where it will until he’s finished with his homework; then, it will be his turn to practice while Tadashi does his homework. Their daily routine. “You’re always looking to flatter me. And I guess it’s not too bad…” 

Tadashi giggles. “Oh, shut up, Tsukki, you love it mister first-year-and-already-second-chair-cello-san~” 

Kei scoffs, but he can’t deny it. 

“Whatever.” 

“You should play an excerpt in competition.” 

“Should I?” 

“Mhm!” Kei smiles at Tadashi’s bright smile as he nods enthusiastically. “You’d do great!” 

“Thanks. I’ll think about it.” 

Kei never has it in him to tell Tadashi ‘no’ and for good reason– a lot of Tadashi’s suggestions place him high in the ranks at competitions, and Kei wonders if maybe Yamaguchi can see the future. He wonders if the reason he wasn’t as surprised as Kei had thought he would be when he came out was because he saw it coming. At least he isn’t telepathic; that would be an issue. 

Suddenly, something hits Kei, something Tadashi couldn’t possibly see coming, and he smirks. “…But you have to play your solo from your string quartet with Hinata, Akaashi-san and Kenma-san in competition as well.” 

Though Yamaguchi had been playing oboe and viola since he was in elementary, he never joined orchestra club because he was bullied about playing “girly” instruments when they were younger; in fact, that’s how they met. Kei “saved” Yamaguchi (and his poor viola), in the younger’s words, from the bullies when they were eight. Kei convinced him to join orchestra halfway through their first year of high school, however, since his volleyball club dismantled due to lack of interest. The Karasuno high school orchestra welcomed him warmly.

Yamaguchi is the reason Kei plays his cello in competitions again, after having quit in elementary.

Tadashi’s eyes widen, and he immediately starts babbling out excuses, but Kei listens to none of them. 

“Ts- Tsukk– I– N- No, I– I couldn’t possi– Tsukki!..You know I can’t–” 

“You play it every day on stage for the orchestra, and soon you’re going to have to play it for our concert, so why not?” 

“I s- still need– p- prac– I need practi–” 

“You practice every day. You’ve practically perfected the piece.” 

“I– I– Ts– I–” Tadashi deflates, and Kei puffs his chest in victory. “…Tsukki, you know I’m not competition material…I’m n- not good enough…” 

Kei un-puffs his chest and glares at his stupid best friend. 

“You’re an idiot.” 

Tadashi’s head snaps up and he glares at Kei right back. “Thanks, Tsukki, that’s real nice of y–” 

“You’ll do just fine. What was the speech you gave me when I didn’t want to go into competition? ‘What more do you need than pride?’” 

Kei can’t help the small smile that graces his lips when a familiar flush of pink dusts his best friends’ cheeks. He can see the faintest bit of color through the bits of hair covering his ears. 

“That’s different, Tsukki…” 

“Is it?” Kei can see how uncomfortable his friend is, however, and he sighs. “You don’t have to if you don’t want, but…You’re better than you think. So please think about it?” 

Tadashi chews at his lip, not looking at Kei, and nods, slowly. “…I will…think.“

“Good.” Kei goes back to his homework, Tadashi starts his scales, and that’s the last of that. For now. 

                                                        ☆

“Ts- Tsukki, I’m nervous…” 

“It’s just a short solo competition, you’ll be fine.” 

“But what if–” 

Kei cuts Tadashi’s words off by grabbing his hand and squeezing. Tadashi’s hands are clammy and shaking, and Kei can tell his best friend is on the verge of a panic attack. He looks at the clock; twenty minutes before Tadashi’s competition group is called back stage. 

“Hey, let’s go somewhere, ok?” 

“Wha– Where–?” 

“Just follow me.” Kei stands in the bustling auditorium, glad it’s break time and that they’re not disrupting a performance, and pulls Tadashi lightly through the throngs of people loitering about. He leads Tadashi outside into the cool autumn air, and plops onto a nearby bench. Tadashi follows suit shakily, and they fall into silence, hands still clasped together. 

“You’re going to do just fine, so breathe, ok?” 

“Right.” 

“No, your voice shook. Say it again.” 

“R- Right.” 

“Again.” 

“Right!” 

Kei smiles. “There you go. Now, tell me, how’s your mother?” 

“Huh?” Tadashi’s head cocks, confused as to why Kei is changing the topic, but he gets the idea soon enough and smiles back at Kei. “O- Oh! She’s great! The doctors said that she’ll be able to come home soon. The pneumonia didn’t do all that much good to her condition, but, it’s slowly getting out of her system…” 

“That’s good. And auntie?” 

“She’s fine as well. Picking up more shifts at the hospital so she can spend more time with mama, so I don’t see her much, but she looks happy. Tired, but…happy. She’s always loved being a doctor, helping people, and working in pediatrics seems to make her happy, so I’m happy as well.” 

“That’s nice.” 

“Yeah! She says there’s this little girl there, an orphan – her name is Atsuko – whom she’s looking into adopting. She’s six, and she has some lung disease; I can’t remember what it’s called. But if she does adopt her, she’ll get to live with us! Isn’t that cool? Like, having my own little sister, even though she’s my cousin, technically. I’ve always wanted a younger sibling.” 

“It sounds amazing. Auntie has always been a kind soul. I’m sure she’d adopt the entire pediatric ward if she could.” 

Tadashi laughs – his first genuine laugh all day – and the sound is so pure Kei can’t help but laugh along. Tadashi’s shoulders seem to finally relax. Kei looks at his watch. Ten minutes until Tadashi has to go warm up. Ten minutes until Kei has to leave him alone backstage. He squeezes Tadashi’s hand, which is still connected with his own. They fall into silence. 

“I’m sure she would.” Tadashi says softly, squeezing back. His eyes fall shut and he leans against Kei’s shoulder. He chuckles lightly. “Y’know, I’m not even the least bit nervous anymore.” 

“That’s good.” Kei says with a smile. “That’s great.” 

“You always know how to make me calm down, even when I’m thinking I could die I’m so nervous.” 

“It’s the least I could do,” Kei says, “What with all you’ve done to help me in life.” 

Tadashi scoffs. “Sure, ok, Tsukki.” 

“Really!” 

“Mhm.” 

“You helped me through things when Akiteru turned out to be a liar, you kept me playing cello, you made me confident, you convinced me to get back in the competition scene…And that’s just orchestra-related stuff.” 

Tadashi flushes pink from his neck up, and Kei can feel his face burning when he hides it in his neck. “Sh- Shut up, Tsukki..! That’s nothing. W- We’re best friends, after all…” 

“…I’d like to tell you about all of the non-orchestra things, as well, but right now…” 

“Will the short program string players please make their way backstage to warm up, please. Will the short program string players please make their way backstage to warm up, please. Thank you.” 

“It’s time for you to win your first competition.” 

[neighbourskid]

Future?

(original date: 06 May 2017)

People keep asking me what I want to do with my degree, why I’m studying English and Art History. I’ve been asked this question so many times, I lost count. When I was in grammar school, people asked me what I wanted to do afterwards, what I wanted to study. When I was in secondary school, people urged me to go look at jobs so I could go into an apprenticeship afterwards. Other people urged me to go to grammar school. In the end, I repeated a grade so I could go to grammar school without having to do the entry exam. Why? Because I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. Or too many ideas. When I was in primary school, my best friend wanted to be a marine biologist. I had no real interest in marine biology. Nevertheless, in primary school I wanted to be a marine biologist when I grew up.

See, I never really thought about myself much when I was a child. I didn’t live much into the future, I always lived in the moment. Of course, I looked forward to things. Like seeing my dad again the next weekend. Or that holiday that we were planning for a while now. Or going to the swimming pool next summer.

I remember my mom telling me once that she always thought I would be too dependent on my brother. My brother and me, we’re pretty close, I think. We weren’t the “typical” siblings that fight a lot because they are siblings. Of course, we had our rows, but I think most of the time we’ve been kind to each other. I think what played a lot into that, is that we’re only 18 months apart. We were the same height for a while and some people even thought we were twins. We also shared a lot of interests, I guess. Our parents never forced me into this typical girl role. Of course, when I was four, I think, my godfather gave me a doll for Christmas. I burst into tears upon seeing it. The next year he got me police cars. My mom and I always had our fights over clothes, but she never really forced me to wear dresses or exceedingly girly things, if I didn’t want to.

Our parents treated my brother and me pretty much the same. When my brother got a gameboy for Christmas that one year, I got one as well. I wasn’t forced into liking super girly things, and I don’t think my brother was forced into being super manly. I’m sure, if I were interested in STEM fields (or good at them anyway), my parents would support me in studying in them. I’m sure if my brother would’ve wanted to, I don’t know, be a professional dancer? They would have supported him.

I never really thought much about what I wanted to be when I grew up, though. My brother knew very early on that he wanted to make games and now, several years later, he studies game design. He’s there.

People keep asking me what I want to do with my degree, and honestly? I have no fucking idea. When I graduated secondary school I went to grammar school because I didn’t know what I wanted to do in my life, who I wanted to be. When I graduated grammar school, I tried working for a year, because I didn’t really know what to study yet. I was unemployed for the better bit of a year. I’ve started studying English at university last summer. I am in my second semester now and in one month it’s already finished again. I have 4 semesters left getting my Bachelor at this university. What I want to do with my degree? Not the faintest idea.

Okay, well, that is not quite true. I know what I would like to do with my life, and I suppose my English degree is only helping me achieve that. But it’s not an obvious final destination for that degree. My peers will become teachers or work in advertising, PR, as linguists or do research. Me? I have seemingly unachievable dreams.

When I was in 6th grade, I wanted to be a mangaka, I wanted to draw mangas for a living. I even had the presentation we had to have about jobs about mangakas. My teacher criticized that it was a somewhat invented job (joke’s on you, Mrs W, every job was invented at some point). I soon dropped that dream because I found out just how little life mangakas have once they’ve managed to produce something worthwhile. At the same time that I got into mangas, I also got into fan created stuff related to that. I scrolled through pages beyond pages of fanart, I read some good and a lot of really crappy fanfics, and when that wasn’t enough anymore, little me, who had no computer at that point, started to handwrite fanfiction myself. Handwrite. On paper. Or when we weren’t at home, I wrote them in unsent text messages on my crappy old phone that didn’t have a note application yet. I still have a box full of pages scribbled full with ideas and stories I wrote when I was probably about twelve.

I’ve been writing stories for nearly ten years now. I started in German but from 8th grade on, I wrote in English as well, and once I was in grammar school, English was the only language I wrote in. That’s why I’m studying English. I want to improve my English. Make it flawless. Exercise that muscle, write as much and as often as I can. If I could be a writer, I would take it in a heartbeat. It’s not easy and not something you can study at university, but at least I can study something to help me with my writing.

What I tell when people ask me what I want to do with my degree? Sometimes that, sometimes not, because it’s not all of it. I don’t know if being a writer is the one thing that I want. Especially, what kind of writer do I want to be? That question ties into one of my other dreams.

This might be obvious, but I love movies. I absolutely love going to the cinema, I love the experience of it, sitting in a room with a handful of strangers (sadly, nowadays it isn’t more), experiencing the same thing and leaving the cinema, not as strangers, but as a collective, as a group, as people who have something in common, who have experienced something together. I love that. But I also enjoy watching movies alone at home. I do it all the time. I love watching tv series. Getting into that excitement of what will happen next. Of course, I always whine about how I have to wait a week when I’m caught up with a show and can’t just binge-watch through it all, but it’s actually a very good feeling. You get to think about it for a while and then (hopefully) get the answers to your questions. What I love about the cinematic media, is that it can make you think. It can give you questions, make you reevaluate opinions you had, thoughts you had, knowledge you thought you possessed. Movies have done so much for me. I’ve learned so much about myself through movies and tv shows. I come out of the cinema inspired, ready to go and change the world. I watch interviews or panels from conventions, I hear actors and directors and writers tell stories about their work in the film industry, about their experiences, their life and I… I feel so inspired by that. These wonderful, beautiful, intelligent people create worlds out of thin air, out of nothing, and kids, teenagers, adults, so many different people see these movies and get inspired, they are touched by it. That is so beautiful!

I am so often inspired by movies and I see what they have done for me and I…. I want to give that back. To pay that forward. I know that there are a lot of kids out there who are like me, who find themselves in movies, and I would like to give this back to them. To create things that inspire them. Make a movie that will change their life. That’s what I want. I want to inspire people. Give back to them what the film industry has given me.

Do I want to be an actor? I don’t know. Maybe. I’d have to try it out. I don’t… I don’t actually really care that much what I’d do, I just know I would want it to be there. I would happily bring cast and crew coffee every morning if it meant I would be part of something bigger, something that will someday inspire someone to do great things.

Right now I feel like going into screenwriting would be my number one choice. It has film and writing combined. It also helps that my brain usually comes up with story ideas in cinematic from rather than written. It’s hard writing a scene in a book when your brain supplies things like “establishing shot backed with lord of the rings style music” when you can’t actually write music into your book.  So yeah, I think screenwriting is my choice at the moment.

Why I don’t tell that to people when they ask me what I want to do with my English degree? Because they look at you like you’re a crazy nutcase or a poor child with a dream that will never come true. I know, I live in a small ass country not even close to where I want to be. I know I still have a long way to go. But why look at me like I’m mad? Didn’t you ever have dreams? Did you not want to go out there and change the world? I can not and will not believe that your dream has always been sitting in a stinking office from 9 to 5, typing numbers into a computer and whining about how crappy the coffee in the cafeteria is. If it is, then good for you and your mediocre life. If you gave up on your dream? That sucks, man, and I’m sorry. But please stop shitting on my dream.

I’ve always been a dreamer and I will never not be one. So what do you care if my dream seems unachievable? It’s not your dream. What do you care if I fly too close to the sun? It’s my own damn problem if I fall, not yours.

So please, I ask you kindly, if you feel like asking me what I want to do with my English degree with that wonderful undertone that screams ‘you should’ve chosen some other degree’? Fuck off.

[yenrps]

Acting is the expression of a neurotic impulse. It’s a bum’s life. The principal benefit acting has afforded me is the money to pay for my psychoanalysis.  — Marlon Brando

CHARACTER SUMMARY

Fame has always been an unavoidable part of his life, no point in downplaying or omitting that. It’s hardly manageable for a kid growing up not to endure whispers in the hallway and people poking questions at his mother’s health and whether or not she will make a comeback. For Alexander, dodging all of this unwanted attention was a tiresome sport in his childhood, and continues well into his adolescent years.  Because his family is one  rooted in the public eye. Almost everyone, mind you, except for him. If there is anything about Alexander that is undoubtedly certain, it’s that he hasn’t got the faintest idea what he wants to do with his life, not least of all because his older siblings have all commendable carriers in the limelight, all of which have served to rekindle their station as a celebrity clan, of sorts.

By contrast, Alexander knows he’s the outsider,  the quiet one, the dreamer and artist;  the one branded as a genius because some doctors once insisted that his linguistic capabilities far surpassed that of his peers. But what he wants more than all these promising labels is a shot at normalcy - at being a normal kid without the need to impress anyone or live up to this idealized and glamorized idea what he ought to be.

The only impasse is his passion: acting, namely, which requires an audience he is not ready to face, as aimlessly as he tries to figure out who he is, and how to be comfortable in his own skin. Only when he can shed his skin does Alexander breathe freely, secure in the constraints of being somebody else. Poetry, drawing, acting - these three are his loyal companions. In a way, all he needs is right there, in art, for it opens up the possibility of sharing without exposing himself. The fear of being misunderstood is much too crippling to be courageous. His motivation, his fuel, therefore, is to find himself in between piles of different personalities, hoping he’ll feel comfortable with being just himself some day.

APPEARANCE DESCRIPTION

Generally, off stage run-ins with Alexander vary greatly. Even his pitch and voice texture seems more a spectrum than a fixed tone, as he mostly just carries on being a poseur around people - including but not limited to what he sounds like. To customers at the shop, his voice is quiet yet attentive and pleasant. Soft, in short, so that regulars have quickly come to appreciate such a polite and soft-spoken boy, in spite of his easily forgettable appearance from short-cut, jet black hair to light-brown, kind yet perceptive eyes and high collared shirts. Every now and then, though, his tattooes peek through, tiny art bits crafted mostly by Avery, his co-worker and friend, from colored to black and white. Most motives convey his personality, all of which are placed in private or easily coverable places. From swallows to lizards and trampled roses, everything is there in his rapidly growing collection of tattoos. In the hope that, someday, there will be a person special enough to uncover and look at him;see him.

PERSONALITY DESCRIPTION

What you get will be an expedition of masks; a panorama, one more vibrant and beautiful than the other. But most importantly, it’s what people want to see. This, Alexander will readily and willingly display without any word of complaint. A contagious grin, a lilt in his voice as he responds - optimism all around. Beneath it, however, loom self-absorbed doubts, all-defying pessimism down to almost nihilistic streaks and self-pity - the ugly, labyrinthine passage he allows scarcely few to see. Nobody wants that, he’d argue, withdrawing instead even further from himself to welcome others, and to be regarded as a positive influence. The only thing he can’t readily fake off stage is confidence - especially towards assertive, fiercely capable and sure-footed personages.

What are Alexander’s greatest gifts to aligning talent and technique as an actor are likewise his greatest weaknesses beyond art: hypersensitivity and introspection. While it is easy to become immersed in a role, it has become quite the chore to be just himself, and so the acting never ends. 

Examined in close, intimate moments, it is said he is too intense, and his doubts and overwhelming sensitivity a turn off. It’s not that he is a fragile boy about to break; the crux boils down to his fear to be misunderstood and to lose any chance of finding friends - or most notably a partner - to accept him as the compassionate, tactful, sensual man that he is, without looking away from his self-consciousness, the tiring transitions between two absolutes (e.g. blind idealism and crushing pessimism), his struggle to relate to others, and his inability to manage in a practical world.

Essentially, Alexander is a liar with the penchant for it, missteps notwithstanding. Most of what is appealing about him remains an act in the end, no matter how free, daredevil-like and fun he may be around you - any closer scrutiny and one will knock over Pandora’s box, to put a top to his energetic demeanor, and the ‘thinking while doing’ philosophy which he has adopted and taken to heart. Because, at his core, he is either dumb or lion-hearted enough to still believe there is a place for authenticity and idealism in this piss-poor-poseur production that is this world?

SKILLS / COMPETENCES

Technically, Alexander speaks three languages to varying degrees of proficiency starting with his mother tongue, Japanese, and ending with Avery’s insistence on teaching him German. English is undoubtedly the language he has gained fluency in while only being able to come up to a lower intermediate level in Japanese, which secretly bothers him more than he lets on, not least of all because it puts a barrier between his grandparents and himself when he’s visiting – and his siblings, to some extent, as he is the only one struggling – so it equally annoys him that, even though both languages are hardly comparable in any objective sense, he seems to be having a much easier time learning German where he’s already at a lower intermediate level despite only having studied it for a little over two years.

Now, having always had a natural affinity for languages, Alexander easily picks up new languages with little difficulty. His heart, however, beats in accordance with the bard’s works, hence his decision to have loitered around England for a while to pursue an English degree. No art school, despite his parent’s attempts to pester him into giving it a try. His artistic prowess notwithstanding, Alexander has likewise undergone training as an aspiring actor, even having starred in a few low-budget productions at his local theatre back in his hometown. Indeed, he even is in charge of an acting course for children from nine to thirteen – naturally with the main focus being on Shakespearean plays.  

INTERPERSONAL MANNER

Despite genuine efforts being made, Alexander is not the ideal friend he thinks he is, often being at odds with how he wants them to act and what they’re really like. This, in turn, accentuates his inability to sustain his empathy off-stage.  Consequently, there is this disconnect between him and others, this distance that cannot be breached no matter how buoyant or otherwise uncomplicated he comes across. As a result of this, Alexander has been called selfish, self-absorbed, whiny, vain, pretentious - just too much work.

Having always been the odd kid cradling outrageously expensive special editions of classics and Classics alike, he isn’t necessarily close to his family. At least conventionally, Alexander returns the sentiment of love - really, he does - but neither can they identify, much less understand them - nor can he understand their motivations for pushing him, relentlessly so, to publish his works and move up the prestigious ladder of receiving the recognition they believe he deserves. Put simply, his tendency to idealize people - to dehumanize them, in a sense - and to admire anyone and everyone on a pedestal puts him at a disadvantage and, in the same vein, in the unpleasant position of never feeling close to anybody. 

Inspired by: an actor’s panel I found on Youtube, Dandelion, very loosely (TW)