#playing with fire during mid autumn was my childhood

[chronologiical]

belated mid autumn!

[onomatophia]

title: the fools who dream

pairing: naruino; implied sasusaku

notes: wrote this as a birthday gift for myself. rewatched la la land and it made me..... Feel Things. this movie hurts so fucking much. that 7-minute What Could've Been sequence was one of the most emotionally taxing experiences of my life

also: naruto and la la land are not mine (i wish)

— 

here's to the ones who dream

foolish as they may seem

here's to the hearts that ache

here's to the mess we make

—

it starts at a wedding.

she; a struggling singer working on small gigs here and there, hoping to catch a break and make it big in the world someday, and

he; a clumsy busboy aspiring to be a successful chef and restaurateur one day.

they were dreamers. falling in love was not in their to do list, especially not on a mid-july day in the middle of a wedding they're not even invited to but are paid to attend to do their jobs. their hearts were too busy yearning for faraway dreams for it to start beating for another person.

but fall in love they did, anyway.

it was but a typical day. they were just meant to do their jobs, go back into the comfort of their apartments, drink booze, and watch whatever it is that's on the television until they fall asleep.

he did not plan to stumble about in the reception area, spill a few drinks, hear her singing, and ogle at her majestic form in the stage, clad in a lavender dress with her blonde hair let down to her waist that he imagines is as silky as the satin sheets on his bestfriends' apartment.

she did not expect to catch the eyes of a blond haired man with his shirt drenched with red wine, standing in the side of the ballroom looking like a lost boy, feeling like she's drifting as she falls into its ocean blue depths.

it was like straight out of a romance movie. there they stand, a few feet apart, eyes locked with each other, she was singing a love song, he looks like lovestruck fool and everything was suddenly on pause. everyone stopped dancing, bored looking aunts stopped asking for more drinks, the groomsmen frozen as they try to flirt with the bridesmaids.

it was only them, a love song, and a once upon a time with a promise of a happily ever after. a love story to tell their future children about.

—

it unfolds slowly at first. a few dates, flirting here and there, texting each other during work, holding hands, nighttime strolls towards ichiraku for dinner after her gig, plucked flowers for her from his apartment neighbor's plants, chaste kisses on the lips every night.

they exchange stories about their childhood, first dates gone wrong in the past, her favorite songs, his favorite food, funny anecdotes about his two bestfriends who finally got married after years of tiptoeing around each other, and why he likes the color orange so much.

he finds out how she came to be a broke singer from being a science major. she came to know he wanted to be a chef like his late father and how no one wanted to hire a college dropout with no prior work experience and who did not even go to a culinary school.

he learns that music is her soul and that she loves jazz, classical music and rock. she finds out he secretly likes taylor swift and beyonce even when he keeps insisting that he's a fan of the beatles and queen.

she tells him she will hold sold-out concerts one day and there will always be a seat in the front row reserved especially for him. he tells her he will own a restaurant one day and he will add her favorite food on the menu and name it after her.

they fall into her bed on a warm thursday night, where fixing her broken lightbulb in the bathroom, turned into a few teasing to a passionate make-out, and before they knew it, they're already bared of their clothes. they memorized each other's bodies with their hands, filled the room with sighs and words of tomorrow's promise, their names echoing in the night like a prayer. they filled each other's blank spaces, every touch felt like a fire burning through their skin, every kisses felt like what sinners go to church to. it was an unfamiliar dance yet they still manage to fall into step and meet each other halfway like they've been doing this all their lives.

they're a few steps away from love, but they're getting there anyway.

—

they begin to learn each other.

slowly, he took up space in her life. his jokes, his touches, boisterous laughters, the color orange, the taste of miso ramen, the calluses of his palms, and the stars in his eyes tucked into the lyrics of the love songs she wrote.

he gradually filled her heart the way his clothes slowly piled up on her sofa and ends up taking space in her closet. their toothbrush, an embarrassingly bright orange one and a soft lavender one rests inside a chipped giveaway mug. now there is a bottle of chocolate syrup beside the maple syrup, milk cartons taking the place where beer bottles once stood, vegetables replacing the unhealthy amount of bacon stocked in the fridge and her once empty cupboard were now filled with ingredients for ramen.

and if he could, he would write a volumes worth of books about how she makes him feel. but he can only tell jokes, let her take every one of his hoodie jackets, make her coffee in the morning and tea in the afternoons just the way she likes it, tuck her hair into her ear, sink into her as if his life depended on it, and touch her in places that elicits gasps and pants in a silent way of his that shouts i love you.

she adapts his weird mannerisms, he starts to mimic her slangs. he learns to cook her favorite food, she sings taylor swift songs that he will not admit he likes. he became her favorite audience in her nighttime gigs, she became his food taster even when he thinks her palate is as bland as noodles without sauce. he is now her muse and she, his favorite customer he serves his delightful dishes to every night.

he buys her a strawberry flavored ice cream and lots of tissues when she comes home from a failed audition. she attempts to cook spaghetti and meatballs for him after another failed job interview but always ends up making a mess in the kitchen which is okay because it makes him laugh.

they develop a habit and routine; she sleeps on the right side of the bed with her purple pillows, he on the left side with his orange ones. he will wake up at seven and start to cook breakfast because he will not allow her to live off on coffee alone throughout the whole day on his watch. she will wake up at eight, eat bacon and pancakes with him and kiss him goodbye when he leaves for work. a double date once a month with his brooding best friend and his charming and cheerful wife that she instantly gets along with. and they fight about ugly orange jackets and hair caught in the shower drain which follows intense hours of making love.

he's the housewife, she's the repairman. he washes the dishes, does the laundry, the cooking, the cleaning. she fixes the leaking pipes on their kitchen sink, repairs the broken chairs, and checks the cable. together, they go grocery shopping, grouts the kitchen and bathroom tiles, paints their room blue, and water the ugly plant he brought home with him one sunday afternoon. sometimes they forget to clean for weeks and leave the apartment like a dump site and that's okay.

holiday now involves a cheap boxed wine, pizza, ramen, monopoly board games, a very cheesy christmas movie playing on the tv, and dancing awkwardly on top of the upholstered brown couch they bought.

they loved each other on autumn afternoons in the pumpkin spice lattes they shared together, on winter mornings in the bundle of their scarves and coats, on summer evenings slicked with sweat and bodies moving together in a beautiful rhythm, and on spring dawns when he leaves a trail of kisses on her shoulders that makes her think that maybe it's gonna be like this forever.

in the small of her apartment, with paint peeling off the walls, scratched papers containing her sprawled handwritings flying everywhere, mugs with cold coffee on top her piano, and an ugly plant standing beside the ugly couch is where they found their home and their refuge. it is messy and small but in this place, she is the best singer songwriter in the world that has ever lived and he is a world renowned chef praised by every critics. in this place, their dreams are within reach and everything seems possible.

—

and this is how it falls apart:

reality starts to take a hold of their life. they are nearing their thirties and he realizes that part time jobs isn't going to cut it anymore. he accepts a job offer from an old friend for a work that pays more.

she gets an offer from a recording company in new york and for the first time, she is going to reject a chance to make it big in the world because she doesn't want to leave him. she doesn't tell him any of this.

like how they started, it unfolds slowly.

- dinners started to get cold.

- a series of apologies and excuses that only gets old.

- she loses her favorite audience in her nighttime gigs.

- mornings of waking up to the left side of the bed already made. cold nights of preparing to sleep with the left side of the bed still made.

- he loses his passion for cooking and starts to give up.

- she stops singing for him. the piano in the living room started to get dusty.

- arguments reserved for tomorrow because they're too exhausted to fight.

- waking up one day and not recognizing the person they share the bed with anymore. even the faces they see when they look into mirror is unfamiliar to them.

- a major fight breaking out one cold friday night.

- cold, harsh words coming out of their mouths. words they cannot take back.

- she finds herself writing songs about heartbreak one day.

- the food he cooks started to taste bitter in his mouth.

- their home started to get cramped with unresolved anger and untold secrets.

- "we're hurting each other, aren't we."

- "i'm sorry."

- "i'm sorry, too."

they were sandcastles, meant to stand beautifully after being built so carefully, but is always meant to be crushed in the end.

—

how unfortunate it is, he thinks, for things to end. to invest so much into something you believe would last knowing it fell apart with your own doing. to have a taste of something perfect only for it to slip away from your grasp in a blink of an eye.

how unfortunate it is, she thinks, for packed boxes, awkward voice messages, a wilting ugly plant, ripped off scratched papers, deleted numbers, habits to unlearn, regret for all the hurtful things said to one another, and her sitting on the floor wearing one of his shirts and trying not to miss him be the culmination of a year spent in love.

—

this is how they say goodbye:

they sit at a park bench near her apartment and watch the people going about in their lives for the day, not knowing that today marks the end of something beautiful.

he finds out about the offer she rejected and in his left hand is a plane ticket to new york. in his right hand is her hands and her heart. in his eyes are a million apologies and a promise of a love that is never going to fade away.

she thanks him for not giving up on her. in her smile is an assurance that it's okay. in the forehead kiss that lasted too long says that he is her great love. in the way she rests her head against his shoulder tells him that she will never forget.

and in their goodbyes are oaths of achieving their dreams no matter what the odds are.

—

it ends at a wedding.

she; a successful singer, millions of copies of her two albums already sold around the world, and is currently on a world tour, and

he; an owner of five-star restaurant, praised by various critics, and is always packed every night.

she sings at a wedding, this time not as a job she was paid to do, but as a gift to an old friend. and it is not just a typical day. today is a special december afternoon where they both see each other again for the first time in five years.

there is no accident in the way he turns his head and seeks her gaze. there she stands on the platform, clad in a velvet red gown, and still looking perfect as the first time he saw her six years ago. he feels the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders upon seeing the way she moves that he recognizes with familiarity and upon hearing a voice that used to make his heart sing.

as she starts to sing, she deliberately locks eyes with the man who captured her heart six years ago. there he sits on his assigned seat in front of the reception area, looking as handsome and ruffled as she remembered, and so different from the lost boy who once stood in one side of the dancefloor with his white shirt drenched with red wine.

this time, there were no pause. this time, the background and everyone around them started to fade. this time, time didn't stop for them but it moved backwards to some time six years ago and forward to a very different future. a past where nothing went wrong, where mistakes are easily fixed, and there were no words to take back. a future where they were the ones getting married in this very day.

hidden in the song she sings are a million alternate realities, a montage of what-ifs, echoes of what-could-have-beens, and the promise of a future long gone.

lost in the depths of each other's eyes, they can picture it. a story where there were no hurdles and obstacles to overcome. it starts on a mid-july day in the middle of a wedding, where everything is perfect and their dreams are not so far away. in this story, he didn't take his friend's job offer and she tells him about new york. in this story, their love only grew stronger and nothing kept them apart. she catches a big break and he goes with her and both of them achieved their dream together in another country. she holds sold out concerts at big stadiums, and there he is on the front row, on a seat reserved especially for him. featured in the restaurant he opened were his father's recipes and a weird pizza flavor named after her. the new apartment they moved to was bigger but just as messy and filled with love than ever. the ugly plant he bought was still alive and her cheap piano didn't gather dust. in this story, there were no habits to unlearn, no happy memories to regret, no cold nights to write sad songs about.

a story started with a wedding when they were still struggling dreamers and a story that ended with their wedding when they finally achieve their dreams and the only thing left for them to chase after was their happily ever after.

the song ends and they both come back to reality. and in this reality, it was another person who sits on the front row of her concerts instead of him. a different name and a different favorite food were written on the menu of his restaurant. and this is not their wedding.

this is his wedding.

this is nothing like a romance movie. this time it wasn't just the two of them in the scene. this time includes him and his bride sitting together with their hands clasped and looking all kinds of perfect, an engagement ring on her left hand that clasps the mic, and smiles from each other that says thank you for the wonderful journey they shared six years ago.

it was a once upon time gone wrong, but they did get their happy ending anyway.

it wasn't a love story. it was a story of passion and struggles and people you meet along the way that will always have a special place in your heart. 

a story to tell future dreamers about.

—

and here's to the fools who dream

crazy as they may seem

here's to the hearts that break

here's to the mess we make

— 

end

—   

(italicized words were from the lyrics of The Fools Who Dream from the movie La La Land sung by Emma Stone, written by Justin Hurwitz / Benj Pasek / Justin Noble Paul)

[madscientistjournal]

The Essence of Sprout

An essay by Professor Caldwell Mook, as told to Nick Morrish Art by Leigh Legler

It is not often that I agree to become personally involved in one of the scientific experiments that I am investigating. Generally, I prefer to observe and deride from a safe distance. However, Doctor Felix Happensnapper’s research into sensory enhancement intrigued me greatly.

Many years ago, as a callow youth living in rural England, I was persuaded to play in a village cricket match. I was allocated a fielding position close to the batsman; a position with the apt name of “silly mid-off.” After a while, I made the mistake of concentrating on a problem of mental calculus, rather than the game in progress. It was the turn of the rival team’s captain to bat. In response to some heckling from the crowd, he swung energetically at the ball which promptly struck me hard on the bridge of the nose.

Interestingly, before I passed out, I clearly recall being able to calculate the velocity and vector of the offending projectile with considerable accuracy.

When I came round, I had lost a large amount of blood and much of my sense of smell. My body efficiently replaced the missing blood cells, but my olfactory nerves were never the same again. I consider this to be a gross design flaw and were it possible, I would certainly have complained to the manufacturer.

Since this unfortunate incident, I have been unable to discern anything but the most pungent aromas and the strongest tastes. Over the last year, I have compensated for this by dining extensively on Goat Vindaloo, a fiery curry dish from south-east India, which even my acquaintances from the Indian sub-continent consider uncomfortably hot.

As much as I enjoy the sensory experience, my new diet has put something of a dampener on my social life, as the after-effects can put be somewhat off-putting to those with a normal sense of smell. I had been searching for a more convenient solution to my problem, so when I heard of Doctor Happensnapper’s work, I put aside my usual skepticism and offered myself as a subject for his experiments.

“We have developed efficient hearing aids, so why not scent aids, taste aids, or even touch aids?” he asked when we met at his Hampshire laboratory.

Although housed in a Victorian Gothic building studded with sinister-looking pinnacles and gloomy towers, the laboratory itself was perfectly clean and modern. I understand that the myriad spider’s webs in the foyer are merely there for effect.

“As you can see, I have been experimenting with a series of sprays, gels, injections, and electrical shock therapies to both enhance and degrade the efficacy of the sensory nerves.”

I am aware that electrical shock treatment is now considered the gold standard amongst para-rational medical practitioners such as Doctor Happensnapper. However, I suggested we begin with more conventional treatments, since their effects are usually temporary and are less likely to cause scarring or memory loss.

The doctor began by offering me a patent nasal spray which he said would fortify my damaged olfactory nerves. I tried it, and within a few minutes, I was able to detect the scent of new mown grass drifting in through an open window. I was delighted by this result and congratulated Doctor Happensnapper on his formulation.

Gradually, I began to detect more smells, both pleasant and unpleasant. The intensity of the experience increased exponentially, and I soon became aware of a strong odor of curry exuding from my skin.

I had for some time wondered if my personal hygiene was suffering due to my poor sense of smell, and I now had considerable evidence to support this hypothesis. I asked his assistant, Nurse Mundy, a large bearded gentleman with little discernable bedside manner, if there was a shower I could use. I followed his directions, but as soon as I entered the bathroom, I was overcome by the stench of chemicals, air fresheners, and drains and immediately passed out.

I awoke some hours later on a hospital bed. Doctor Happensnapper did not appear unduly concerned but made notes on my condition and agreed to use a lower dose next time. He suggested we move on to the sense of taste which, I found, had also diminished as a result of the accident.

Nurse Bundy applied several unpleasant tasting droplets on my tongue to collate what is commonly known as a taste map. From this, the doctor was able to deduce which areas required the most enhancement and which were working satisfactorily.

He produced a viscous gel, which the nurse spread over the relevant parts of my tongue. I suffered a certain gagging reflex, but the taste was not unduly unpleasant. Nurse Bundy then fed me small pieces of food, such as broccoli, chocolate, anchovies, and so on.

My experience of each flavor was indeed heightened, and my opinion of the doctor’s methods was somewhat restored. However, when the nurse returned an hour later to repeat the tests, I found that everything now unaccountably tasted of Brussels sprouts. Now I am not one of these people who detest the noble sprout, but the intensity of its bitter flavor soon overcame all others.

My distress was clearly evident to Nurse Bundy, who attempted to remove the gel with an electric toothbrush. Unfortunately, the spearmint flavoring of the anti-bacterial rinsing fluid only exacerbated the all-encompassing sprout sensation. Overwhelmed by this vegetable excess, my brain again decided that a brief period of unconsciousness was required.

However, when the nurse returned an hour later to repeat the tests, I found that everything now unaccountably tasted of Brussels sprouts.

Once I had recovered, Doctor Happensnapper returned, appearing even more excited by the results of this latest experiment.

“Do you not see what this means? If we can enhance the sprout reaction in a subject who has no aversion to its taste, then surely we can also reduce it in those to whom it is a complete anathema. The boon to mankind and also to my research budget could be immense. Imagine what the Brussels Sprout Growers Association would say if I could make their product universally acceptable.”

I consented to assisting him in his continued research, but only after a suitable fee was agreed, the amount of which I am not prepared to disclose. I was introduced to Doctor Happensnapper’s wife, Ingrid, a tall, emaciated-looking woman with disconcertingly hairy hands and a limited command of the English language. She distilled the essence of sprout from a large cast iron pot filled with the vegetable, which she had been stewing over an open fire.

Once the potion was ready, she wasted no time before passing it Nurse Bundy with a nervous wink and a grimace. The nurse began by applying a high-concentration Emla cream to my sprout taste receptors. He then administered several drops of essence of sprout to each side of my tongue and waited for it to take effect. The inhibiting cream certainly reduced the adverse reactions noted previously but on the left side only.

“I see you are uni-sprout intolerant,” explained the doctor. “You have a tongue asymmetry, which means that half your taste buds are more sensitive than the other half.”

He advised Nurse Bundy to double the strength of the cream applied to the right-hand side. Although I could now no longer feel large parts of my tongue, or my face for that matter, it did even out the taste sensations. However, I did not find essence of sprout any more pleasing to my taste.

It reminded me rather of the cabbage soup my grandmother used to make. Needless to say, visits to her house are not a fond childhood memory. As sad as I was to hear of her unfortunate accident with my nephew’s skateboard and the London Underground train, there was a part of me that was inappropriately overjoyed that I would never have to taste her cooking ever again.

I concluded that Doctor Happensnapper’s scheme to extort money from sprout farmers was doomed to failure. However, I decided not to mention this to him until I was certain his fee was securely in my bank account. I consider that his sense enhancement experiments may one day bear fruit, but I shall wait until his techniques are at a more mature stage of development before subjecting myself to Nurse Bundy’s tender ministrations once more.

On a positive note, my sense of taste remains somewhat improved. I have relinquished my Indian curry diet and have recently developed a fondness for Thai cuisine. I look forward to the renewal of various social relationships which have languished in recent months under the miasma of Goat Vindaloo.

Since the conclusion of my investigation, however, I have been unable to so much as look at a Brussels sprout without shuddering. In the autumn, I am seriously considering taking a sabbatical somewhere in the far east until Thanksgiving, Christmas, and other sprout-related festivities are safely in the past.

Professor Caldwell Mook holds the Mithering Chair of General Negativity at the University of Leeds, England. He specializes in pre-emptive risk analyses for technology that has yet to be invented. Professor Mook regularly offers discouragement and derision to scientists and engineers around the world.

Nick Morrish is an increasingly mad engineer who lives in Hampshire, England, where his eccentricities are considered quite normal. During a long and futile career, he has worked for a number of frankly certifiable, multinational companies. He clings to the last vestiges of sanity by writing serious and truthful stories about the nature of existence. Since no one else seems to observe truth in quite the same way, his work is often mistaken for satire or fantasy.

Leigh’s professional title is “illustrator,” but that’s just a nice word for “monster-maker,” in this case. More information about them can be found at http://leighlegler.carbonmade.com/.

“The Essence of Sprout” is © 2018 Nick Morrish Art accompanying story is © 2018 Leigh Legler

The Essence of Sprout was originally published on Mad Scientist Journal

[sunflowerseedsandscience]

By the Dim and Flaring Lamps: Part Three, Chapter Four

Part One: One | Two | Three | Four Part Two: One | Two | Three | Four | Five Part Three: One | Two | Three 

(Illustration by @morewinepls)

SEPTEMBER 1863 NEAR FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA

The nights and the mornings begin to grow cool as the year passes from August into September, though the afternoons remain fairly warm. There's a structure to their days, as they wait for the commanders from either side to make a move, and the predictability of the schedule helps the time to move along much more quickly than it would were they left to do nothing but sit around from dawn until dusk.

Mornings begin with as much of the soldiers' breakfasts as they're able to stomach, which varies from day to day, depending on how old the bacon is, and how many weevils can be found in the bread. At the cooking fire one morning, Private Jorgensen shares a trick with Scully and Mulder that he's learned during picket line duty with men from another regiment. He drops his square of hardtack into his cup of coffee and allows it to soak until it breaks into pieces, which he then retrieves, scalding his fingers slightly in the process. The weevils fall out of the broken pieces of bread, which has softened enough by that point to be easily chewed. Then he skims the weevils off of the surface of the coffee and drinks it.

The first time Mulder watches Jorgensen demonstrate this process, he balks, though Scully copies him without hesitation. After a solid week of insect-infested bread, however, he cracks and tries it. He's relieved to discover that Jorgensen and Scully are right: the weevils leave no other flavor behind in the coffee, or if they do, the potent, bitter brew is more than strong enough to conceal it.

"I think that this is payback," comments Jorgensen, fishing a broken piece of hardtack out of his coffee.

"For what?" asks Scully.

"For every time I ever complained about my wife's cooking," Jorgensen replies. "It wouldn't surprise me if we found out she was paying someone to make sure the bread with the most bugs was sent my way." Mulder and Scully laugh.

"So this is all your fault, then," says Mulder. "I should assign you to do the cooking for the entire regiment for the rest of the war. Maybe then you'll return home to your wife with a renewed appreciation of what goes into preparing a meal."

Out in the field, beyond the edge of the encampment, men from a different regiment are choosing up sides for a game of baseball. Mulder watches them longingly. Jorgensen eyes him, grinning.

"Ought to get a game of our own going," he comments.

"We'll be drilling soon," Mulder counters.

"After, then?" asks Jorgensen. "Or are colonels too high and mighty to play in the dirt with the rest of us low-lifes?" Mulder laughs in spite of himself.

"I would pound you into the dust, Jorgensen," he says.

"I'll believe that when I see it," Jorgensen retorts. "Do they teach baseball at Harvard, Professor?"

"That's Colonel Professor to you, Private," Mulder says mildly. Jorgensen chuckles and turns to Scully.

"What about you?" he asks. Scully shrugs.

"I've never played baseball," she says, and Jorgensen's mouth drops open.

"Never? Not even when you was a kid?" he asks. Scully shakes her head. "What'd you do when you finished your chores, then?"

"Read books, mostly," says Scully with a shrug. Jorgensen looks positively scandalized.

"What the hell kind of childhood did you have?" he asks.

"The kind that ended with me being the best-educated person in the history of my family," Scully retorts, glaring. Jorgensen is not impressed by this. Downing the rest of his coffee, he climbs to his feet, shaking his head in disgust as he walks away. Mulder turns to Scully.

"You've never played baseball?" he asks. "Really?" She glares at him, then glances around to make sure that they're completely alone.

"Were there a lot of girls who played baseball in Culpeper or in Fredericksburg, Mulder?" she asks, in a voice that's barely above a whisper.

"No, there weren't," he admits, keeping his voice low as well. "But you're not exactly like the girls I grew up with, Scully." She narrows her eyes at him. "I mean that as a compliment, I promise." She continues to look skeptical a moment longer, before sighing and drinking deeply from her cup of coffee.

"I would have liked to have played," she says. "I tried to, once, but my brother Bill wouldn't let me join in with him and his friends, even though my brother Charlie was all for letting me. I went to my mother to try and get her to intercede, but she, of course, took Bill's side."

"And your father?" asks Mulder.

"He was away at sea," Scully says. "Which was true for a good deal of my childhood." They sit in silence for a time, finishing their breakfast and watching the early risers across the field beginning their game. An idea begins to form in Mulder's mind, taking shape slowly, and a smile slowly spreads over his face.

"How would you like to learn how to play, Scully?" Mulder asks, hoping his voice doesn't betray his excitement. Scully cocks an eyebrow at him.

"You're going to teach me how to play baseball?" she asks.

"Well, some of it," Mulder says. "I've seen you throw rocks, so I know I don't need to teach you how to throw. And I've seen you catch your daily ration of hardtack when the quartermaster is being lazy and tossing it at the men instead of making the soldiers line up to receive it, so I know that's not a problem. So really... the only thing that leaves is the right way to swing a bat." Scully frowns.

"I wasn't aware that there was an incorrect way to swing a stick of wood," she says, and Mulder feigns offense.

"Scully, you have no idea what goes into it," he tells her. "There's proper form, proper timing, follow-through... it's a hell of a lot more than just 'swinging a stick of wood,' as you so condescendingly put it."

"So you want to teach me how to swing a bat, then?" she asks.

"That's right," says Mulder. Scully mulls this over for a moment as she rinses her empty coffee cup with water from her canteen.

"All right," she agrees, "but I can't right now. I'm posted down on the riverbank until supper tonight."

"That's fine," Mulder says. "Better for us to wait until after it's dark outside, anyway." Scully frowns at him, confused. "You'll understand when I show you, I promise."

The day, for Mulder, seems interminable, now that his plans for the evening have been made. He feels a tiny twinge of guilt over what he's plotting, but he tells himself that really, it's perfectly innocent. He'll be teaching Scully how to swing a baseball bat the same way a father might teach his son.

Well... maybe it won't be exactly the same.

The regiment drills, takes a break in the heat of mid-day (though it's not as oppressively hot as it's been; autumn is definitely on its way), and then drill again in the afternoon. Just after Mulder gives the order for the regiment to fall in, as the sun is dipping below the horizon, he sees the daytime pickets making their way back into the regiment's camp, Scully among them. As she's digging out the remainder of her day's rations, preparing to cook her bacon over one of the fires, Mulder goes in search a soldier from what had, until two months ago, been his company, who is finishing his meal by a different fire.

"Private Pendrell," he says, and the slight young man leaps to his feet, saluting so enthusiastically that he knocks his uniform cap right off of his head.

"Yes, Sir, Colonel! Sir!" he barks, and Mulder smiles. Pendrell, who cannot possibly be older than eighteen at the absolute most, was always a good friend of Scully's, before she and Mulder had both received their promotions. He knows that Scully still makes a point to share meals with him, when she can.

"At ease, Private," Mulder says, but Pendrell remains stiff as a board. "I was wondering... do you think I could borrow your baseball bat?" Pendrell is disproportionately excited to be of service.

"Of course, Sir!" he says. "It's in my tent, I'll go and get it right now." He whirls on his heel and takes off, dashing through the rows of tents as though the fate of the Union depends on how quickly he can retrieve a baseball bat for his colonel. The other men sitting around the fire chuckle in amusement, shaking their heads.

Scant minutes later, Pendrell reappears, out of breath and clutching a roughly-hewn wooden bat, which he places in Mulder's hands before stepping back and standing at attention. Mulder examines the bat closely. It's carved from raw rood, unfinished, with no varnish, the handle darkened from contact with many sweaty palms.

"Did you bring this from home, Private?" Mulder asks.

"No, Sir," says Pendrell, shaking his head. "I carved it out of a fallen tree back in June." He looks sheepish. "It's not perfectly round, Sir. I haven't got the tools with me to get it nice and smooth. I'm sorry for that."

"Don't be sorry, Pendrell," Mulder reassures him. "I'll bring it back before lights out tonight. That all right with you?"

"Of course, Sir!" says Pendrell. "Keep it as long as you like!"

Carrying the homemade bat, Mulder returns to where he had last seen Scully and finds her just finishing up her evening meal. With a jerk of his head, Mulder indicates that she should get up and follow him, which she does, jogging to catch up.

"Where'd you get that?" she asks Mulder, tilting her chin at the bat.

"Borrowed it from Private Pendrell," he says. "I'm gonna teach you how to play baseball, Scully." She grins and walks on eagerly by his side, into the gathering darkness of the evening.

"Shouldn't you have a ball, too, then?" she asks. "I was led to understand that the ball is sort of a central part of the game."

"We'd just lose it in the dark," Mulder says. "We're only going to work on your batting form for now." Scully nods, and they continue on, until they're under the eaves of the trees that border the field in which the regiment is encamped. Glancing back towards the flickering campfires, Mulder gauges the distance between them and the rest of the men and decides that, in the near-total darkness out here away from the fires, nobody will be able to see them. He turns to Scully and smiles.

"Get over here, Scully," he says, surprising himself with how husky his voice suddenly is. Scully looks a bit apprehensive, but she obeys, stopping when she's so close that Mulder can see the moonlight glinting in her eyes. He takes her by the shoulders and turns her so that they're facing the same direction; then, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, he steps closer, puts one arm on either side of her, and holds the bat in front of her.

If Scully finds his proximity to be too forward, she doesn't say anything; instead, she reaches out and takes the bat, carefully positioning her hands in between his. "Now, don't strangle it," he tells her. "You just want to shake hands with it. 'Hello, Mr. Bat. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.' 'Oh, no, no, Lieutenant Scully. The pleasure's all mine.'" Scully lets out a giggle- probably the first giggle that Mulder has ever heard from her- and he feels his stomach drop to somewhere around the vicinity of his knees.

"If anyone were to see us right now, it would raise some eyebrows," she chuckles.

"Why do you think I took you all the way out here?" Mulder asks. He draws the bat back, so that it's over her shoulder, and her hands follow along. He lets go, briefly, to raise her right elbow a tiny bit higher, then returns his hands to bracket hers on the bat. "Now, we want to... we want to go hips before hands, all right?" Scully nods. "We want to stride forward and turn. That's all we're thinking about. So, we go hips... before hands, all right?

"All right," she agrees. He drops his left hand, cautiously, until his fingers are just barely grazing her hip through her uniform. Pressing gently against her from behind, expecting her to turn and sock him in the jaw at any second, he turns his hips into the hit, taking hers along for the ride, and brings the bat forward in a slow-motion swing.

"Good, just like that," Mulder says approvingly. "Again, all right? Hips before hands." His hand on her hip is firmer this time, and the space between their bodies- already minimal- becomes nonexistent. This close, he's aware of how rapid Scully's breathing is, and he suspects that if the world were not washed colorless in the moonlight, her cheeks would be flushed red. Still, she doesn't pull away.

In fact, she presses closer to him.

"Again," she says, and the husky tone of her voice fully ignites something inside of him that, until now, had only smoldered. His fingers tighten on her hip, and he hooks his chin over her shoulder, bringing his mouth down to the very edge of her ear.

"Right," he says, and he's amazed that he's retained the power of speech. "We're going to wait on the pitch. We're going to keep our eye on the ball. Then, we're just going to make contact. We're not going to think. We're just going to let it fly, Scully, okay?" She shivers as his breath dances over the shell of her ear.

"Mmm-hmm." Mulder looks out to their left, imagining the pitcher winding up, getting ready to throw.

"Ready?" he asks, and Scully nods. They step into the swing together, rotating their hips in perfect concert without breaking contact, swinging the bat and turning into the imaginary pitch. Mulder can almost hear the crack of the ball on the bat in his mind. He and Scully hold the position a moment longer... and then Scully lets go of the bat and turns to face him. His left hand skates along the curve of her waist until it comes to rest at her right hip, and too late, he realizes that there's no longer even a pretense of an appropriate reason for him to be touching her.

And yet... he can't seem to let go.

Scully looks up at him, biting her lip adorably, and Mulder acts without thinking. The hand on her hip slides around to her back and he pulls her to him, bending his head and pressing his mouth to hers. She inhales sharply, surprised, but she doesn't pull away. There's a muffled thunk as the bat drops to the ground, and Scully's arms are around his neck, and she's leaning into him, giving back as good as she's getting as they kiss.

It's overwhelming, the passion that suddenly courses through him. Mulder had certainly never thought of himself as an expert in the art of kissing, but until this moment, he had not realized that it was possible for one woman's kiss to be so much more intense than another's. Never, never in his life, has he felt anything even close to this.

Scully pulls back suddenly, eyes wide in the moonlight, realization of what they've just done dawning on her face.

"Mulder, we can't," she says, as she works at getting her breathing back under control. "You're my commander. And you... you're already promised to someone. You're engaged, Mulder."

"It's only a presumed engagement," he protests weakly. "Nothing is official. I haven't asked her to marry me... hell, Scully, I haven't even asked her father for his permission."

"But still," Scully insists, "you're courting someone. And even if you weren't... Mulder, is this the time or place for any of this?" She gestures back across the field, to the legions of soldiers settling into their tents for the night. "Neither of us can afford a distraction like this- especially not you. You have an entire regiment looking to you to lead them, and you can't spend your time thinking about me."

"It's too late for that, Scully," Mulder says. "I already do." She closes her eyes against his confession.

"Mulder, I'm the only woman within twenty miles of you right now," she says. "And that's not likely to change, as long as the war continues. How do you know you're not feeling this way- or convincing yourself that you feel this way- just because there aren't any other options readily available?"

"That's not why," he says. "You could put me in a city peopled entirely by women, Scully, and I would still feel this way." Scully drops her face into her hands.

"I can't... I can't listen to this right now," she says. "Mulder, please, think about what you're saying. We're in the middle of a war, I am trying desperately not to draw attention to myself to avoid being forced to return to a life I don't want, and you have someone else who loves you and is waiting for you to come home again." She shakes her head sadly. "It could be an absolute disaster, Mulder," she says. "It could destroy both of our lives." She turns and begins to walk away.

"Where are you going?" Mulder asks, disliking the trembling in his voice.

"Back to camp," says Scully, not turning around. "To sleep. I've been on guard duty all day and I'm exhausted." She strides off across the field, her head hanging down, without waiting for him to answer.

Mulder swears under his breath. "So stupid," he tells himself angrily. "So incredibly stupid. Well done, Mulder, you may have just ruined the best thing in your sorry excuse for a life." He bends down and picks up Private Pendrell's bat, resisting the urge to swing it angrily at the closest tree. Instead, he trudges back towards camp, following Scully's path, hating himself a little more with every step.

He finds Pendrell's tent and ducks his head inside just long enough to see that all four occupants, Pendrell included, are already asleep. He places the bat just inside and allows the flap to fall back. He makes his way through the lines of tents, stopping occasionally to return a salute or to speak with one of his captains, doing everything he can to put off the moment of returning to his tent, terrified that Scully will not be there, that she'll have staked a claim in some other tent, amongst soldiers who hadn't just done their best to make her extremely uncomfortable.

At last, he can delay no longer, and, feet dragging, he makes his way slowly to his own tent, the regimental colors staked in the ground outside, flapping lazily in the soft night breeze. He takes a deep breath... and enters to find Scully lying curled up on the ground. Mulder sighs in relief. Scully stirs slightly, but does not look up. He resists the urge to insist that she get up and take the cot- it's his turn to have it tonight, but he would readily surrender it to her- because he knows, intuitively, that such a gesture would not be well-received tonight, after the scene in the woods. Instead, he contents himself with the knowledge that she is at least amenable to the idea of trying to maintain the status quo, to keep things as they were before he had been so impetuous and presumptive.

Mulder strips off his jacket, vest, and shirt, and stretches out on the cot, lying on his back and listening to the flags fluttering outside the tent. Scully's breathing is light, and he's relatively certain she's not asleep yet, but she doesn't say anything, and Mulder is too nervous to speak. Even if he wasn't, he has no idea what he could possibly say.

He's convinced he'll never get to sleep, but he regulates his breathing, times it with hers, and eventually, his eyelids begin to grow heavy. He rolls onto his side, ready to drop off, and his arm flops over the side of the cot, his hand landing on the grassy ground, next to Scully's sleeping roll.

Mulder is just beginning to doze off when he feels small, warm fingers creeping across his. Scully takes his hand in her own, squeezing reassuringly. A tremendous weight is lifted off of Mulder's chest, and he squeezes back, smiling. Scully's head is tucked into her arm, and he can't see her face, but somehow, he knows she's smiling, as well.

He finally falls asleep knowing that, one way or another, they're going to be all right.

[andryuska]

REALLY  LONG CHARACTER SURVEY. RULES. repost, don’t reblog ! tag 10 ! good  luck ! TAGGED. stolen off the dash! TAGGING. @extasiie @moscowsdragon @goodcousin @dearbewildered @inburgundy @anastcsie @bolkonskxya @youngwiife 

BASICS. FULL  NAME : Andrei Nikolayevich Bolkonsky NICKNAME : Andre, Andryushka (and many more, see this post) AGE : mid/late 20s - early 30s BIRTHDAY : November 13, sometime in the late 18th century. ETHNIC  GROUP : White NATIONALITY :  Russian LANGUAGE / S : French, Russian, English, German. SEXUAL  ORIENTATION : Greysexual. ROMANTIC  ORIENTATION : Demiromantic. RELATIONSHIP  STATUS : Verse and year dependent - Married in 1805, single from 1806 - 1809, courting and then being betrothed to Natasha in 1810 - 1811, single again in 1812. Generally dating Natasha in modern college verse, and single in modern verse. CLASS : Titled Nobility HOME  TOWN / AREA : Bald Hills, Russia CURRENT  HOME : Bugocharovo, Russia, as well as various other estates. PROFESSION : Adjutant to General Kutuzov, member of Military Council, Army Officer.

PHYSICAL. HAIR : Dark brown, and kept fairly short. What slightly longer parts there are near the top of his head are significantly wavy, but not necessarily curly. Parted on the left. EYES : Dark brown and very intense, made prominent by dark eyelashes and slight bags underneath.  NOSE : Average and pretty much not notable. One nostril is slightly larger than the other. It has never been broken. FACE : Conventionally handsome, though slightly asymmetrical. He has fairly well defined lines with his cheekbones and jawline ( though the latter is hidden under a short and well kept beard ). His eyes are deeply set and averagely far apart, and dark rimmed as well. He has no laugh lines, but his forehead has a couple wrinkles on it from stress, and there’s a crease between his well-shaped eyebrows that becomes especially visible when he’s troubled by something. LIPS :  Thin and usually pressed into a thin line. He’s usually either neutral or frowning. COMPLEXION : White and pale, but not to the point of being quite noticeable. Has a better tan on his face and hands than everywhere else, on account of wearing a uniform. BLEMISHES : Two small moles on his neck. A small birthmark that’s paler than the rest of him on his left hip, where the bone protrudes a little. SCARS : Some small, faded scars on his arms from childhood roughhousing. Larger scars on his side + back from being wounded at Austerlitz ( he was knocked over the head while carrying the standard into battle, and in lying there, was likely injured further in being trampled or by stray artillery fire. ) TATTOOS : None. HEIGHT : 6′0″. WEIGHT : 170 lbs. BUILD : Fit, but on the thinner side. FEATURES : Generally assertive and adult-looking. His features make him look responsible, though not entirely friendly. As said, he’s conventionally handsome. ALLERGIES : None. USUAL  HAIR  STYLE : Well-kept, and otherwise left as it is. USUAL  FACE  LOOK :  Andrei’s resting expression is a rather annoyed one. He doesn’t naturally smile or frown, but has a neutral mouth, and his eyes give off a very intent sort of apathy and indifference. He looks like he’s bored with everything and has seen it all before, and is irritated to have to experience anything at all. Of course, as soon as someone he likes engages him, or gets him on a topic that he has opinions about, he’ll animate in a very intense way, take on a very perplexed and troubled expression in arguing for what he thinks is correct. He very rarely smiles, and when it does, it’s usually small and somewhat veiled, and often without any real joy. USUAL  CLOTHING : A staple to any of his outfits is black boots and trousers. At home, he usually wears a shirt that’s somewhat open at the collar, and often prefers suspenders to a belt. Most of his shirts are whites or light blues, with minimal patterns, and most suspenders are darker colors, again without a lot of vibrant patterns. He tends to roll his sleeves. In going out, he has a heavy grey coat that’s fairly long, with leather sown into the shoulders for protection against rain and cold. His more formal wear is usually his military uniform, which consists of a green coat darker gold embellishments, occasionally worn with a sash. There are white trousers and a black leather belt to go with these. In terms of accessories, he has a saber and a pistol, both worn off a belt for that specific purpose, though he prefers not to carry these things around with him.

PSYCHOLOGY. FEAR / S : Failure, lacking a proper legacy, appearing vulnerable or weak, being completely isolated and unreachable, being inadequate, intensely emotional discussions... ASPIRATION / S : At first, Andrei wants very hard to define himself as a military commander and to rise to greatness in leadership. After Austerlitz, he makes it a goal to reform the military code as to bring more order to warfare. Once Natasha breaks her engagement to him, however, Andrei wants to punish Anatole on a very low level, and otherwise has not life goals or aspirations, he’s just tired of living. POSITIVE  TRAITS : Intelligent, polite, considerate, loyal, reflective, determined, responsible, trustworthy, committed, thoughtful. NEGATIVE  TRAITS : Irritable, cold, tends to over analyze, doubtful, selfish, easily bored, self-isolating, tends to internalize, unfriendly, condescending, MBTI : INTJ ZODIAC : Scorpio TEMPERAMENT : Melancholic VICE  HABIT / S : Paces relentlessly, escapism via intellectual discourses, doesn’t hold eye contact, clicks / plays with writing utensil ( or whatever is in his hands ), occasionally argumentative on purpose. FAITH : Russian Orthodox, but not strictly devout or heavily practicing.  GHOSTS ? : Undecided. AFTERLIFE ? : No. REINCARNATION ? : No. ALIENS ? : No. POLITICAL  ALIGNMENT : Conservative, and loyal to the Russian Empire. ECONOMIC  PREFERENCE : Used to living with wealth, though largely unconscious of it. He doesn’t care much for luxuries, and instead would rather his money be used for functional purposes and necessities. SOCIOPOLITICAL  POSITION : High class. EDUCATION  LEVEL :  Taught both at home and abroad by his father and a variety of hired tutors. Extremely well-read, and knowledgeable of politics, philosophy, and history. Still has some education to complete in military affairs. His poorest subject is mathematics.

FAMILY. FATHER : Nikolai Andreevich Bolkonsky MOTHER : Unknown, died when he was young. SIBLINGS : Marya Bolkonskaya EXTENDED  FAMILY : None of note. NAME  MEANING / S : Manly, brave. HISTORICAL  CONNECTION ? : It’s likely that the Bolkonsky family was modeled after the historical Volkonsky family, which had a few Russian generals who would have been Andrei’s age during the course of the Napoleonic wars. Additionally, it’s likely that Andrei was named after his grandfather.

FAVOURITES. BOOK : Leviathan, Thomas Hobbes. He thinks it fairly correct in many of its assessments, and himself has little optimism about human nature. MOVIE : Dunkirk (2017) dir. Christopher Nolan 5  SONGS : I Am a Rock - Simon and Garfunkel // The Show Must Go On - Queen // Smoke Gets In Your Eyes - The Platters // Tell My Father - Civil War // Miserere Mei Deus - Allegri DEITY : None. HOLIDAY : None. MONTH : None. SEASON : Autumn. PLACE : His study at home. WEATHER : Partly cloudy and somewhat cool. SOUND : Natasha’s voice when she sings. SCENT / S : Vanilla, cold autumn air, pine forests. TASTE / S : Rye bread, white tea with sugar. FEEL / S : Finely spun wool that’s very soft, being held by someone he loves / trusts, cool polished wood, cold marble, clean linens, general smooth, cool or cold surfaces. ANIMAL / S : Snowy owls, barn owls. NUMBER : Three. COLOUR : Blue.

EXTRA. TALENTS : Content analysis, writing academic prose, understanding political problems, organization and planning, debating and arguing, leadership. BAD  AT : Casual conversation and small talk, complex mathematics, handling emotions in a healthy way, comforting others, being supportive. TURN  ONS : Infectious laughs and smiles, unburdened happiness and brightness, private / secret intimacy, possessive talk ( you’re mine / you belong to me / etc. ), gentle and genuine reinforcement. TURN  OFFS : Overdone emotions and extreme acts of affection, publicity and PDA, vulgar talk, idiocy and ignorance. HOBBIES : Reading and writing. TROPES : Byronic Hero, Awful Wedded Life, Intelligence Equals Isolation, The Stoic. QUOTES :  “To spare oneself from grief at all cost can be achieved only at the price of total detachment, which excludes the ability to experience happiness.” - Erich Fromm. // “The majority of the people of that time paid not attention to the general course of things, but were guided only by the personal interests of the day. And those people were the most useful figures of that time.” - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace //  “It’s not given to people to judge what’s right or wrong. People have eternally been mistaken and will be mistaken, and in nothing more so than in what they consider right and wrong.” - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace.

FC INFO. MAIN  FC / S : Nicholas Belton ALT  FC / S : Blake DeLong OLDER  FC / S : None YOUNGER  FC / S : None VOICE  CLAIM / S : Nicholas Belton GENDERBENT  FC / S : None.

MUN QUESTIONS. Q1 : if  you  could  write  your  character  your  way  in  their  own  movie ,   what  would  it  be  called ,  what  style  would  it  be  filmed  in ,  and  what  would  it  be  about ?           A1 : Okay, so if I made a movie about Andrei’s life ( it would be sort of a biopic, but it would mostly focus on the wars ) it would be called War Weary and it would be a pretty stylized drama. I’d want to use a lot of symbolic methods for exposition and have mostly just natural sounds, and hold off on an elaborate soundtrack. It would start with the sky at Austerlitz and end with the Borodino wound, so it would kind of go full circle. It would get like three Oscars, I promise. Q2 : what  would  their  soundtrack / score  sound  like ?           A2 : It would be largely instrumental, and done in late classical style. Lots of minor keys and broken chords. It would have to give the impression of thoughtfulness, of never having any stillness, as to represent Andrei’s inability to stop thinking of things. The only really bright part would still have to be slow, and wouldn’t come to the very end. Heavy use of stringed instruments and piano, with some underlying percussion. Dave Malloy would compose it. Q3 : why  did  you  start  writing  this  character ?           A3 : I read War and Peace, and identified a lot with Andrei right at the beginning. That kind of gave me the idea of making a blog for him, but at the time, I wasn’t really in RP at all. After reading the book, I made a blog, and it sat there for a bit before I finally decided to start to actually put effort into it. INTJ solidarity also played a part, and encouragement from others on RP blogs that I did try and bring back later in this past summer. I really don’t make blogs lightly, and I don’t make a lot of them, so it really must have been a strong connection, because here I am, writing Andrei. Q4 : what  first  attracted  you  to  this  character ?           A4 : He’s so disinterested in social situations and other people, like he comes in to Anna Pavlovna’s soiree and just... Does not want to be there at all, basically insults a bunch of people, then goes off and complains about it to his only friend. That’s me. That’s a thing I have done. So yeah, I kept an eye on him since. Q5 : describe  the  biggest  thing  you  dislike  about  your  muse.           A5 : He can be such an asshole sometimes, let me tell you... Like there are reasons behind it, which you can find in numerous headcanon posts, but he can just come off in such a terrible and cold way. It’s especially bad when it’s to the people who are trying to help him / be good to him. it kills me that he pushes them away in favor of just isolating himself instead of dealing with his problems. Q6 : what  do  you  have  in  common  with  your  muse ?           A6 : Lonely. Single. One friend. In seriousness though, all those things, plus some more. We share a personality type and a general cynicism about the world and about other people. Honestly, I probably have a lot of his bad traits, which isn’t great, but hey, if there’s one thing Andrei and I can’t do, it’s change for the better. Q7 : how  does  your  muse  feel  about  you ?           A7 : We would probably be intellectual rivals... I can see us fighting over politics and philosophy, on account of having rather different ideological views. But like, not in an angry way, in a courteous and debating way. I don’t think Andrei would like me, to be fully honest. Q8 : what  characters  does  your  muse  have  interesting  interactions  with ? A8 : ANATOLE KURAGIN  ( blame extasiie, kay made me aware of anadrei ),  Pierre, Natasha, Marya B and Marya D ( especially in my modern college verse ), Sonya ( aka bring on the Angst ), and a whole lot of others. Q9 : what  gives  you  inspiration  to  write  your  muse ?         A9 : Reading War & Peace. There’s a few sections that I go to and reread if I don’t have muse - Andrei’s introduction through to his dinner with Pierre, his return from Austerlitz and the trauma that follows, sections with Natasha, his last conversation with Pierre, and his death. These usually get me thinking in character and it helps to read the source to get the style of prose right. For modern college verse, which I write in a lot, I can usually just go right into it without a lot of inspiration, because college!Andrei and I have plenty of similarities. Q10 : how  long  did  this  take  you  to  complete ?         A10 : I didn’t do it all in some sitting, so I don’t know. A couple hours at least.