#pose is clearly inspired by my chemical romance

[dystopeyes]

three cheers for falling in love with the enemy

[straykidsupdate]

ALBUMS OF THE YEAR: STRAY KIDS FORGE THEIR OWN PATH ON MIROH

IN THE GREATER K-POP LANDSCAPE, WHEREIN MELODIC SOUND IS MAINSTREAM, ‘MIROH’ IS FEARLESSLY DEFIANT

The opening line of "Boxer" is a perfect introduction to Stray Kids: Translated, it goes, "Hello, I’m a young man who can fly anywhere." It's a confident declaration, at once cheeky and polite, and it speaks to the Korean boy group's signature tenacity. It's charismatically delivered by main dancer Lee Know, the intensity building with every word. "Everyone, attention!" he spits before the song erupts into a flurry of chaotic synths and brazen emotions. It's loud and relentless, representative of the bold sound Stray Kids have been carefully honing since their pre-debut days in 2017 — and of the group itself: eight young individuals navigating the labyrinth of adulthood. (A ninth member, Woojin, left the group in late October 2019 for personal reasons.)

That tempestuous coming-of-age journey is seeped into their ambitious March EP, Clé 1: MIROH. Inspired by the word miro, or "maze" in Korean, MIROH kicked off a confident new chapter for Stray Kids, beginning to answer the introspective questions posed by their 2018 I Am... series of EPs, which focused heavily on the theme of identity. Who am I? Who am I trying to be? And importantly, who do I want to be? With MIROH — the first in the Clé trilogy, which also includes June's Yellow Wood and December's Levanter — these important questions persist, but Stray Kids strengthen their resolve as they charge away from the systems that seek to control them and into the thorny, often scary unknown.

That maturity isn't just reflected in the lyrics and production, so thoughtfully crafted by the members themselves, but on Clé 1: MIROH as a whole. Released a year after their debut, the group's fourth EP is their strongest and most cohesive body of work. Etched into these seven songs is not just a story, or a concept, but a collective journey from self-doubt to resilience. The album's intro track, "Entrance," invites you into the chaotic world of MIROH — rich in texture, pulsating beats, and ad-libs from other songs on the album — with assurance.

At first listen, "Miroh" sounds like an odd choice for a lead single. It's a cacophony of sounds, rhythms, chants, and animal noises that doesn't seem to follow any familiar song structure. There's no real melody, just powerful rap verses over a repetitive bass line. But the hook is massive; it's meant to be screamed at the top of your lungs, like the K-pop imagining of a My Chemical Romance headbanger — that is, if Gerard Way had been less a fan of The Misfits and more into EDM. It isn't a song so much as a heightened experience.

In the greater K-pop landscape, wherein melodic sound is mainstream, "Miroh" is fearlessly defiant. It's unabashedly noisy, and its message is resilient. As Stray Kids rush into the maze before them, they do so with impenetrable confidence. "But there’s no time to rest," Hyunjin smoothly raps on the second verse. "I’m alright, I’m holding on and I keep on going / I just need to look ahead and run."

Running is kind of their thing. Stray Kids have been releasing music at a tireless pace since "Hellevator" premiered in October 2017. The angsty pre-debut song established the JYP Entertainment-repped boy group's grungy style and affinity for explosive EDM drops. They made their official debut in March 2018 with "District 9," a genre-agnostic track about disaffected youth with in-your-face energy and staggering rhythmic intensity. Since then, they've released six EPs, particularly impressive for a group who write and produce all of their music.

Members Bang Chan, Changbin, and Han — otherwise known as the production trio 3RACHA — are responsible for a heavy majority of the group's discography. They're credited lyricists and composers on every Stray Kids track to date and have been making music together since their teenage trainee days, uploading self-produced mixtapes to SoundCloud and YouTube. The other members also participate in the songwriting process; they all contribute lyrics to the mixtape songs that are part of each physical release — like MIROH's "Mixtape #4," a rearranged version of 3RACHA's "Broken Compass" about the importance of trusting yourself and following your own path, no matter how scary the road ahead looks.

Stray Kids challenge these fears throughout MIROH. "Victory Song" is an anthemic rallying cry to move forward with confidence and bulletproof ego. "Who else is like me, there’s no one," Han raps. But that bravado starts to crack on "Maze of Memories," a dizzying track that stimulates the feeling of wandering in hopeless pursuit of an end that's nowhere in sight. "Now I run for an answer that I cannot see," Han laments. There's an uneasy cadence to the track as it switches between two tempos; it's disorienting and visceral, like the experience of growing up. "Chronosaurus" is similarly introspective. The song, inspired by leader Bang Chan's own fascination with time, personifies the phenomenon as a monster they must outrun. "Day and night, every day," Seungmin sings. "I am afraid / I think I'll get caught."

Time is a continuous theme for Stray Kids. On the EP's standout track "19," written and produced by Han, they yearn to stop time. It's a confusing paradox, the desire to grow up but fearing the real meaning of being an adult. But the ways in which Stray Kids empathize with this conflict is precisely what makes them the voices of their generation. "Twenty years old that I wanted to become so badly," Han raps. "Did everybody go through this same experience or am I the only one that’s anxious?"

And while main rappers Changbin and Han get plenty of room to flex on the album — Changbin's aggressive bite is a perfect match for Han's more melodic flow — MIROH smartly showcases rappers Hyunjin and Felix as a testament to their growth. Hyunjin's versatility is his strength. On "Maze of Memories," he switches up his flow effortlessly, a potent mix that leaves you breathless. Elsewhere, Felix delivers one of the album's smoothest verses on "Victory Song" with a newfound sense of confidence. Vocalists Seungmin and I.N also shine in unexpected ways; Seungmin's English rap on "Maze of Memories" is a genuine highlight, while youngest member I.N. soars on "Chronosaurus."

Throughout the Clé series, the members of Stray Kids are running toward something that is never clearly defined. That's the point: the realization that the destination doesn't matter nearly as much as the journey. But the journey isn't an easy one. Sometimes the voices inside their heads get too loud, too consuming, and feel insurmountable. But that's what makes MIROH a seminal work from the young group — just because you can't see your way out of the maze doesn't mean you should stop trying.

Find all of MTV News's 2019 Albums of the Year right here.

Source: MTV News

[mysticsparklewings]

I will be with You

When you go, just know that I will remember you If living was the hardest part, we'll then one day be together And in the end we'll fall apart, just as the leaves change in color And then I will be with you, I will be there one last time now --My Chemical Romance, "It's Not a Fashion Statement, it's a Deathwish" ____ It's rare that I'm this proud of an artwork I've created. ^_^ Usually, there's some glaring issue or just an assortment of small things I'd still change if I had the patience and/or artistic ability to do it. Or even just some things that I feel like could've been done better, even if I know it did the best I could. This time? No. Not right now, shortly after it's been completed, anyway. I'm sure years down the line from now I'll look back and feel at least slightly different. But as it stands now, while I'm sure it has its faults, I am truly happy and truly proud of what I've created here and whatever faults are there aren't bothering me at all. So what then is this, exactly? This my dear Sparklers is a visual love letter to the band I discovered just a little too late but was still there for me when no one else was all the same. Earlier this month, I uploaded a different piece of art to celebrate the announcement of My Chemical Romance's Return, but even when I uploaded that one I was already thinking of doing another one, this time something that was more obviously fan art. But not just fan art as I've done for them in the past (Exhibit A, Exhibit B, and Exhibit C), but something extra-special and fun. I really did go into creating this wanting it to be as I described it above; a visual love letter to this band that I love so much and could not be happier that they're back. As such, I've squeezed in as many references as I could: 1. The female figure is molded after Helena from the album Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge 2. The male/skeleton figure is supposed to be Pepe (that's what Google said his name was, anyway), the icon and seemingly marching band conductor from The Black Parade album 3. On Pepe's hat, I replaced the usual symbol with the Candle symbol that's been featured in the band's Return artwork 4. They fade into leaves based on the line from It's Not a Fashion Statement, It's a Deathwish (a song from Three Cheers) that I quoted at the top of the description 5. behind them is Party Poison's mask, as featured in the Danger Days music videos 6. on the mask, I replaced one of the black triangle shapes with the hanging man silhouette from I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love 7. The rest of the background is inspired by the covers for the Conventional Weapons releases (which in my mind I count as essentially an unofficial fifth album) (Debatable) 8. Their touching hands could be an indirect reference to the line "And as we're touching hands, and as we're falling down" from Demolition Lovers, a song from Bullets. That's at least one reference each (Three Cheers technically got two) for each of the main releases, plus one directly related to this new era we don't know much about yet. It's not an exhaustive "spot the reference" game, but I'm glad I was able to incorporate as many as I did. Now that I've explained them, maybe I can talk about my process without having to stop to re-explain each reference as they come up.   After some brainstorming, I got this image in my head of Helena and Pepe in this pose (inspired at least partially by this pre-existing fanart I've seen many times before) , which to me is a "renaissance dancing" pose but I'm sure there's some other better way to describe it I haven't thought of. I tried for a very long time to find a reference image of this exact pose to help me get the proportions and general anatomy right within my own stylization, but for the life of me, I couldn't find anything close enough to suit me and I really didn't want to have to settle for something else. As such, I'm sure the proportions and anatomy are off, but even so, I think I did pretty good considering. The main issues I ran into during sketching were mainly balancing the energy between the two characters--which I do think I managed in the end--Helena's skirt, as she's supposed to be holding onto it with that hand you can't see, and Pepe's torso. Originally, I was planning on doing this piece traditionally, but once the sketch was finished it almost immediately clicked into place that I'd be better served to do it digitally, considering what I wanted to do with the mask in the background already, as well as the leaf-fade. (The Conventional Weapons reference hadn't been planned yet, and it was technically only made possible later on by this piece being digital.) Luckily, doing things digitally meant that Pepe's torso was fixed pretty easily. It was too thin in the sketch, but all I had to do was select the right lines and move them out a bit in Photoshop. He's still a bit thin and not super buff, but personally I'm letting that go because...I mean, he's at least part if not all skeleton. If anyone's going to be too thin, wouldn't it make sense that it's him? Helena's skirt I did end up happy within the sketch but...we'll come back to the skirt in a moment. Pepe's...face? looked a bit odd in the sketch, but other than that, once I was happy with that foundation, I scanned it in and got to work on digitizing everything. I went over my lines for Helena and Pepe the way I normally would for something like this if a little intentionally messy instead of trying to get them super clean--as I thought that might be appropriate here--and then I paused with them to work on the mask behind them. The mask admittedly came out very poorly in the sketch, just because I bothered to look up no references for it whatsoever once I decided I was going to make this digital and I knew I could just draw half of it and flip it over. And I'm glad I didn't start trying to follow my sketch lines for it at all because looking up actual references showed me that would've been way off. While I had my reference up, I ended up going in and basically full-coloring and detailing the mask right then. That's the beauty of digital work; a lot of steps can be done basically out of order from how you'd have to do them traditionally and it doesn't matter because you can just move layers around and adjust effects later. I went with this pseudo-soft shading based on the colors and shadows I was seeing in my references, even though I wasn't sure yet exactly how I was going to shade Helena and Pepe. I figured that even if I used a different method for them that I could either go back and adjust the mask as necessary or that it wouldn't matter since the mask was part of the background anyway. Once that was done, I went back to ponder my two figures and the leaf effect that I wanted to do with them. And again, I went a little out of order here, as I ended up filling in the silhouette of Helena and Pepe with a blanket layer of gray so I could see how them blocking the mask was going to look (and I figured based on past experiences I might need the blanket layer in white later). From there, I went into working on the fading-to-leaves effect. My logic was that I'd need mostly the silhouettes of the leaves and then I'd get what I wanted after playing with layer effects or something. This assumption ended up being correct, but we're not there yet. As I worked, I kept looking at my "finished" messy lines. Something just didn't feel right. Honestly, I couldn't tell you where the idea to do this lineless look came from, but it got in my head as I was working and I kept looking at the lines I had and not being happy to just color those in as I normally would, shade it, and call it a day. I tried. I tried really hard to ignore the urge to at least try it and carry on as I was. I'd already come this far, and I'd be done so much faster if I stuck to the plan...But!! Clearly I lost that argument with myself. You know what though? I'm glad I did! I don't think I've ever done lineless art like this before, not counting my watercolor work where that's just part of the process to me. But digital? Certainly not. Human figures? Also no. I've come close in the sense that I've shaded my art before, turned off the line layers before, and thought, "oh hey that almost works without the lines because of the shading,"  but not much farther than that. Naturally, I wasn't even sure how or where to begin, so I went with what came naturally to me. I started by just filling in the lines as I normally would have, and then I went back layer by layer and went back and forth between having the line layer (with the opacity brought down somewhat already so I could sort of see what I was doing) on and off to try and balance the shapes between what they looked like with and without the lines. It's weird because if you ever try this, it's a little like having to figure out a bunch of individual silhouettes that make one whole one, except you need them to be a little more defined if you want them to make visual sense. That step and the next one, the shading, are tied in my mind for which one took me the longest. For the shading, I really just went in blind, using hard-edge cell shading, though originally I planning to come back with some soft shading in certain areas later. The soft shading ended up not happening partly because I liked it much better than I thought I would without it, and I thought the hard-edge shading made the figures pop a little more compared to the background. The thing about this was the same issue I run into with my lines nowadays; to get smooth shapes I spend a while going back and forth between putting color down and erasing it, and sometimes undoing and redoing the same line a dozen times to get it right in one stroke. But that's really my own fault for being stubborn and trying to work solely within Photoshop and not use other programs, as I know good and well I'd have less of that issue if I'd hop into Paint Tool Sai and use the linework layers in there. What can I say? I live up to my Capricorn sign by being as stubborn as a goat. Anyway. The biggest challenge to figure out the shading for was Helena's skirt. I think I would've still had issues with that though even if I colored and shaded my normal way, with the lines and everything. It's just the position it's in that complicates things. I actually did a good amount of shading in reverse here, where I'd make the base layer the shadow color and then the layer on top would be the regular color, as in some cases it just seemed easier to do that than the other way around. The part of Helena's dress around the top, for example. Or Pepe's pants (what little you can see of them). Additionally, I ended up leaving the feather attached to Pepe's hat alone and not really smoothing it out, as I thought the roughness and inconsistencies worked really well to make it seem more feathery. With enough patience and persistence and much back and forth among the various layers, I made it through all of that. I was a little concerned at first about some of my color choices and if the shading was too harsh in some places or not, but I mellowed out as I worked and ended up not making make adjustments after the fact. For instance, originally I thought I'd go back and make Pepe's...skin? closer to a true white and this fleshy off-white color was more of a placeholder, but the longer I worked with it, the more I didn't want to change it. It actually makes sense, given that his hands are normal (as they are presented in official artwork and other fan art not made by me) and that bones usually are naturally more of an off-white color. And I also think it just looks really good next to Helena's pale skin. The hands were a special challenge in regards to both shading and coloring, as hands like to be the more complicated part of a drawing more often than not, but even that I managed to get through with a lot more ease than I would've bet on. The other thing about that is that I was surprised once I got through the steps at how much better Pepe's face looked in comparison to the rest of the drawing. As I mentioned before, it looked odd in the sketch. But one I had most of the colors for him and Helena filled in digitally, the contrast or something just made it look infinitely better. (Combined with a hefty dose of earlier back-and-forth making adjustments to his jawbone area.) Originally, I thought I might use the same cell shading for Helena's eyeshadow. However, while I was still thinking of adding some selective soft shading, I added it using one of the brushes I'd used on the mask earlier. It looked so good to me that even after I tried added the soft shading with it like I planned and decided I didn't want/need it anywhere else, I kept it. And for the record, Helena's hair is kind of the wrong texture (it's officially more straight than this) and she's missing this little netted veil thing she's supposed to have, but I had a very specific vision in mind, so those were the two creative liberties I took with her design. I say it's fair game since I took a liberty with Pepe's hat to get the Return reference in. And besides, those two details being off doesn't make her totally unrecognizable if you know who Helena is in the first place. Once they were done, I spent longer than I bothered to document playing with the leaf layer I'd made earlier to try and figure out how to get the effect I wanted. Sparing you the boring details of my trial error, as I'm sure this description will be long enough without them, I eventually determined the best thing to do was to have one layer of the leaves on top set as an "overlay" layer, and another behind/beneath Helena and Pepe. Then I went back and extended my color and shading layers to extend down over the leaves, and I arranged and clipped the layers accordingly. Technically, the overlay layer wasn't necessary, but it added a little extra dimension that I really liked. By that point, it was my second day of working digitally and getting late, but I had to do one more thing before I could go to bed with my mind at ease that night. With Helena and Pepe done, I turned the mask back on (I'd turned it off so I could focus on them without it distracting me or otherwise getting in the way) and I felt like they weren't standing out enough against it. The bright yellow color was competing too much for my eyes' attention. So, after trying the "stroke" blending option in white and that looking God-awful, I added a new layer between them and the mask and manually gave them a white outline. It wasn't a perfect solution, and I knew that even then, but it was enough that I could sleep soundly knowing how far I'd gotten with the artwork. The next day I had to take a break from working on this to bust out a painting for the challenge I decided to take on this month, but I went back to this as soon as I could after that was taken care of. When I came back to it, I acknowledged that I technically could've left it as it was and call it finished. But I still didn't like how obnoxious the mask seemed for a background piece and it felt...I don't know. Almost hollow, in a way. It was a cool graphic, sure, but I wanting something more than that. Again, I'll spare you most of the nitty-gritty details. But long story short, I played around with layer effects and filters for a while until I had blurred the mask out just enough that it wasn't so obnoxious but also so looking at it directly didn't make me nauseous, and the edges were softened so it felt more like a true background piece and not just an accessory that had been plastered carelessly back there. It was only after I started saving off versions with different backgrounds--one with no background, one with white, one with black--that I realized I was missing a golden (semi pun intended) opportunity to incorporate a Conventional Weapons reference/allusion. Which was exciting because I'd previously been disappointed that I couldn't think of a good way to do that. I went back and forth on layer styles and adding texture with brushes and things for a while on that too, but you can see what I ultimately settled on. It's not a 1:1 to the CW covers, but I'm really pleased with it anyway. I did end up adding a bit more to the white outline in a few places and adding a drop shadow to Helena and Pepe so they'd pop a bit more (it almost makes them look like paper cutouts to me!), but really the only other thing I had to do after that was add my watermark. It took roughly 3 days of work from start to finish, but I was honestly surprised by how fairly smooth the process went. Especially considering the new things I'd tried along the way. I can only assume it's because of just how much my heart was really into making this piece. As I said before, I am truly proud of how this piece turned out. I love it. I love it, and I love the band that inspired its creation. Even the title says a lot here, I think. I picked this line that's repeated at the end of It's Not a Fashion Statement, It's a Deathwish, as it was a leading inspiration with the leaves and everything, and after looking at the lyrics I realized how fitting that line is for this. I discovered My Chemical Romance two years too late, two years after they broke up in 2013, but I've stuck by them ever since, and I will continue to do so, with whatever the unwritten future holds. They've changed, as anyone would over the course of six years, but they came back anyway. Even if it's just for a few shows and they're gone again. Or if it's going to be so much more than that. They. Came. Back. And that's not an easy thing to do a lot of the time. And so, I show my solidarity. I will be with you, MCR, no matter what comes next. You were there for me, and now it's my turn to be there for you, even if it as just another fan among the crowd. And that's really all I have to say on the matter. ____ Artwork © me, MysticSparkleWings ____ Where to find me & my artwork: My Website | Commission Info + Prices | Ko-Fi | dA Print Shop | RedBubble |   Twitter | Tumblr | Instagram

[secretcinema3]

Ten Thoughts Inspired By: A Bout de Souffle

1. Before I ever saw the film I saw this poster. As soon as I laid eyes on it I knew I had to see the film. It radiated cool energy. And that title. At once a declaration of the film’s style and the viewer’s response to it. A promise and a boast. Stylish. Sexy. Breathless. But its original title, A Bout de Souffle, translates as Out Of Breath. That’s a B-movie title, slang for death, like Chandler’s The Big Sleep. Consider if they’d used that as the English title instead. Would the film have attained such a cool reputation? Just imagine it on the poster. Stylish. Sexy. Out Of Breath. Suddenly it’s not so much an intimation of awed wonder as middle-aged decline. My younger self probably wouldn’t have been so impressed, but so what? Does it matter? A title’s just a title, after all, a way of identifying one film from another. Sure, mostly, but it’s not always that simple. Consider these titles for example: Stranger Than Paradise. Some Like It Hot. White Heat. Touch of Evil. Now each of these could, at a push, describe what happens in their respective films, but I don’t think that’s what’s going on when we read them. They’re not merely labels, they’re suggestive, free-floating, haikus of compressed mood. Yes, a good title can define a film, capture its essence, but it can also add to it, deepen it, complicate it. It’s a chemical reaction. Just think of the mysterious, symbiotic relationship we have with names and they have with us. Do they shape us, do we grow into them? If you don’t believe this then consider these possible alternative titles for the films above; Losers. TransAmerica. Mother Love. The Mexican. Does it make a difference? It’s hard to say, but this much is clear, the anonymous translator tasked with finding an English version for A Bout de Souffle clearly thought so.

2. The film of tomorrow will not be directed by civil servants of the camera, but by artists for whom shooting a film constitutes a wonderful and thrilling adventure. – Francois Truffaut

The famous dedication is to Monogram Pictures. Monogram were a poverty row studio specialising in cheap genre flicks, serials and westerns. So what was the attraction for serious French cinephiles like Truffaut and Godard? Well, for starters, because they were largely ignored they were an undiscovered continent, ripe for reappraisal. They often relied on genre conventions, offering rich ground for theorising, for detecting encoded meanings, hidden ideas, themes build up across a body of work. Also because they had less to lose they could show the seemier side of existence more freely than bigger studio productions, the kind of exploitation subjects considered beneath proper art. Some French critics saw passed all that bourgeois respectability, understood that the life of a petty thief could be as worthy of great art as the noblest king, that an absence of craft or style might represent a film’s psychological meaning, its hard indifference to the lies of romance. They understood serious artists could exist outside the mainstream, might find the fertile confines of genre more to their liking, might prefer playful indifference to highbrow pretension. But even the worst of these films taught them about innocent enjoyment, the pleasure of transformation, how much easier it was to bring the moves, clothes and dialogue into your life when they were ritualised, repeated, how cliches spoke to the yearnings inside ordinary people. By dedicating his film to Monogram Godard was sticking two fingers up at the industry, rejecting its middlebrow concerns with craft and rules, aligning himself with the outsiders, the dreamers, with those great American values of outrage, adventure and play. This is a game, he’s telling us. We’re playing here. So can you.

3. The famous opening line is: I’m an asshole, a provocation from the start, followed by a close up of a scantily clad girl on the front of a newspaper, lowered to reveal our hero, Michel, hat over his eyes, puffing on an enormous cigarette. He’s cool, but posing too, a kid playing dress-up. Then he runs the side of his thumb across his lips. It’s a signal. To us. Thumb across lips. That’s all it takes. Your Bogie. Your life is a movie. It’s hard to appreciate now the impact of this message. A Bout de Souffle was one of the first films to acknowledge people’s desire for movie grace in their lives, wanting their everyday existence transfigured by it, blessed with purpose and shape, ordinary personas imbued with unified glamour. You don’t need to be famous, a star. The magic isn’t out there somewhere, owned by producers, studios, agents, fans. It’s in you now, once you’ve seen the film, it’s yours, a gift, not a privilege. This is what cinema is, the democratisation of play. It’s an evolutionary tool, teaching poor regional kids moves and gestures to help them escape impoverished lives, to face the twin terrors of adolescence and neighbourhood streets. After all, when you live in a non-verbal environment knowing how to stand on corners with cool indifference is a vital art. This is another thing the film is already telling us. The street is a movie set too.

4. We first see Patricia ambling down the Champ-Elysees in her flat shoes, sweetly calling ‘New York Herald Tribune!‘ She’s played by Jean Seberg, proof that nationality is a notional concept at best. She’s supposed to be the American chick but comes across, in her clothes, her manner, her cropped hair, as ineffably French. It’s hard to imagine any other contemporary American actress playing the part, actually American but spiritually in tune with the Frenchness of the whole enterprise. (The film too is at once American in its conventions and French in its style and ideas.) It was that way from the start. Her screen debut was as Saint Joan (1957), hand-picked from 18,000 hopefuls by Otto Preminger. It was Preminger again who brought her to France the following year to play the spoiled Celine in Bonjour Tristesse. The same year she married film director Francois Moreuil. By the time of A Bout de Souffle they were divorced and she’d taken up with French author Romain Gary, marrying him in 1962. Was it fate or inclination that drew her to the French and them to her? Or was it the hair? The gamine prettiness? Whatever it was, it went on, until her tragic, mysterious death in 1979, found dead in her car on the same Parisienne streets she’d watched Belmondo play dead on all those years before, back when they were all young enough to think of death as a romantic game, something to be bargained with.

5. Leaving Patricia behind Michel passes a poster for a film called Ten Seconds To Hell (1959), its tagline proclaiming ‘Live dangerously till the end!’ It’s a lovely moment, not just for the renegade cheek of using the poster without permission, but for the serendipity of it being there in the first place, articulating the film’s key theme – defying death. (You know you’re in the zone when the world starts to speak to you like this, send you secret messages, when you see connections everywhere, when you start to believe there’s no such thing as a coincidence, that luck, in fact, is just fate in disguise).

6. Once you accept the rule of death thou shalt not kill is an easily and naturally obeyed commandment. But when a man is still in rebellion against death he has pleasure in taking to himself one of the Godlike attributes, that of giving it. This is one of the most profound feelings in those men who enjoy killing. – Ernest Hemingway, ‘Death in the Afternoon’

‘It is solely by risking life that freedom is obtained,’ Hegel wrote, somehow defining the essence of A Bout de Souffle over a century before it was made. The spirit of the film may be its exhilarating sense of freedom, it’s jazzy liberation from social, artistic and cinematic conventions, but it’s also obsessed with death, from its title to its conclusion. Or rather, with invoking it in order to feel more alive. If the taking of life could, as Hemingway suggests, ward off your own death, than so could acting it out. In this sense, the film is as ritualistic as a bullfight, a bloodless rebellion against death. Just as ancient Greek rites evolved into formalised drama, the death of a tragic hero offered to the gods rather than the sacrifice of a goat, so too with cinema. It may be a game, Godard suggests, but it isn’t frivolous. It’s as serious as any religion, as vital to our happiness as freedom itself. It was a message that hit the new decade like a Molotov cocktail, starting a creative blaze that lasted twenty years and engulfed the old Hollywood studio system in its wake.

7. ‘What is your greatest ambition?’ Patricia asks the novelist (played by director Jean-Pierre Melville) at the kind of pretentious press conference only the French would have. ‘To become immortal‘, he replies, looking straight into the camera, ‘and then to die‘. It’s a joke, a contradiction. He might as well have said his ambition was ‘to wake and then to dream’. It’s an impossibility, mutually exclusive states, waking/dreaming, immortality/death. Except, of course, there is one place where the impossible can happen. When we watch a film, especially in the dark of a cinema, what else are we doing but dreaming while still awake? And when we watch the great stars of the silver screen like James Cagney, Bette Davis or Steve McQueen, what else are we doing but watching the dead walk again, forever alive in their films, made immortal by them?

8. Which is what Bogart represents in the film, not just a role model but an icon of immortality. Dead only three years when A Bout de Souffle was made, already he’s becoming a cult, his moves, clothes and dialogue remembered, repeated and fetishised. But why Bogie? What was it about him that so obsessed the French? Maybe he was, in some way, more French than other Hollywood stars, more ironic, fatalistic, ugly? Maybe the characters he played, men with secrets, with shadowy pasts, were more in keeping with a nation haunted by defeat, collaboration and existential dread? Whatever it was it went deep, just think of the hats and coats in Melville’s own films like Le Samourai.

Of course, the Bogart of The Maltese Falcon, Casablanca and The Big Sleep was also the coolest man on the planet, a dream of tough grace under pressure. He crystallised the essence of cool long before Brando and Dean turned up, a man’s cool, not a grumpy adolescent’s, someone who’s lived, seen things, been betrayed by events, by his own heart, hides his honour like a dirty secret. But we know it’s there, we know he does care, does know which side is right, he just won’t be played for a sap any more. Being a man, he seems to say, is a moral act. If you don’t know how to read people, if you don’t know when to keep quiet, if you don’t understand that sometimes cynicism is just the truth no one wants to hear, then you deserve what you get, you leave yourself wide open, cannon fodder for con men, Nazis and certain kinds of women.

9. Then there’s the lovely extended scene in Patricia’s apartment. She arrives home to find Michel in her bed. What follows is spontaneity, calculation and natural light, cultural allusions everywhere. She poses before a poster of Renoir’s Mlle Irene Cahen d’Anvers and asks who’s the prettier. He caresses her bum and asks can he piss in her sink. She washes her feet and tell him she’s pregnant. He sits beneath a Picasso figure wearing a mask. She quotes from The Wild Palms by William Faulkner: ‘Between grief and nothing, I will take grief.’ Michel says he’d choose nothing. ‘Grief‘, he adds, ‘is a compromise‘. They talk, flirt, test each other and eventually make love, fumbling under the covers like kids, not sure what their parents really do under there. The claim that capturing Seberg’s beauty on film matches Renoir’s achievement on canvass is hardly worth noting now. But it’s a reminder of a time before the triumph of popular culture when film was considered an upstart medium, devoid of true craft, a nickelodeon distraction for immigrant hordes and over-excited housewives, not something to be taken seriously as high art. This was the fight Godard, Truffaut and the rest of the Cahiers du Cinéma critics were waging in the late 50s, rescuing great artists like Hitchcock and Hawks from the neglect this pompous snobbery had consigned them to.

And what about Michel’s claim that grief is a compromise? Is it an existential statement, like Beckett’s ‘every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness‘, or is he just trying to sound cool. Is he suggesting that emotions are a refuge, a refusal to accept the truth? It’s an interesting idea in an age when personal grief has become everyday currency. Would Bogie give in to grief, cry and wail, take to his bed, sell his story to the tabloids? No, he wouldn’t. He’d take it inside him, order a drink, light a cigarette, another lesson learned, another test passed. The cigarette is vital of course. Just consider how important they were in all this. Michel smokes non-stop throughout the film. Even his dying breath is a puff of smoke. Can you imagine a time when smoking was this cool? When things weren’t ghosted by consequences, by health warnings, when people drank at work and smoked in cinemas, weren’t constantly fretting about their health, short-changing their youth for a few extra years at the end? When looking cool now was more important than being alive then? It’s all about how you look, y’see, masks, uniforms, encoded signs, the transformative power of objects and faces. ‘The mystery of the world is in the visible, not the invisible,’ as Oscar Wilde rightly pointed out. Open your eyes (and dream). We’re being movie stars here. They’re immortal. They never die of cancer or liver failure.

10. ‘The film of tomorrow will be an act of love...’ – Truffaut

Above all it’s a film about love, love of cinema, love of life through cinema. There really was no difference to these young men. Cinema was life. Watching a beautiful woman and capturing her on film was the same thing to them. It was very chauvinistic, of course, but very romantic too (essentially the same thing). Romance has no time for feminist aspirations. It wants to be taken out of this crappy world, wants to idealise, heighten, improve. It’s foolish, a youthful folly, but where would we be without it? For a few brief years, as the world woke up from it’s post-war slumber, a handful of young men believed that cinema was the new language of happiness and truth. A Bout de Souffle bottled that moment. It’s a time machine. The spirit and energy of that moment can be revisited every time you watch it. You could even say it’s immortal. Or to put it another way: Devil in the Flesh. Rififi. And God Created Woman. Scarface. A Bout de Souffle. The best film around.

[megabadbunny]

Rose x Ten, post GitF-au/fixit; angst, fluff, romance, more angst, and possibly some smut later, but this part (and all parts on ff.net) is sfw (minor exception for brief language). And a huge thank you to everyone who left a comment encouraging me to continue, as well as everyone who didn’t completely lose patience with me--this chapter is dedicated to you lovely peaches!!! <3 <3 <3

(full-size image)

Minuet, Part IV

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII

The next day, the Doctor’s behavior can only be described as jumpy.

“And here we have the great lakes of Therran Vox!” he announces, throwing open the TARDIS doors to reveal a bleach-bright vision of sparkling water and dazzling white sky. “Not to be confused with Academy-Award-winning actress Charlize Theron, mind, nor the lakes of TheronnEx, though much of the plant life is certainly related, evolutionarily speaking.”

The Doctor plucks three umbrellas from their resting-place against the TARDIS wall, tossing one to Rose and Mickey each in turn before stepping out of the TARDIS with an umbrella of his own. “Something like third cousins, maybe third cousins once removed, maybe twice,” he continues. “Bit hard to know for certain, sort of tricky trying to gauge that sort of thing when your generations span centuries and solar systems. Speaking of reproduction, did you know that the Therranian water lily is one of the few angiosperms in the known universe that can reproduce via spores? Well, they don’t technically reproduce via spores, per se, but their pollen has been known to hitch a ride on them a time or two. Sort of like a botanical hitchhiker, only on a semi-mesoscopic scale. And when you’re talking spores and pollen able to withstand the vaccums of space, well, that sort of explains the galaxy-hopping, doesn’t it? Though the waterlilies on TheronnEx have a sort of unfortunate expired meat smell about them…”

Rose stretches and yawns, ignoring the Doctor’s prattling in favor of taking in the sights all around her. She’s surrounded on all sides by an intricate network of perfectly round lakes, connected only by slim strips of grassy land. Reflecting the world above—everything from willowy trees to the pearl-white sky to the metallic towerlike structures reaching high up, up, up into the swollen candyfloss clouds—the lakes glimmer and sparkle like a collection of mirrors, glasslike and silver and still. Stepping closer to one of the lakes, Rose inspects a tree by its banks, whose slender roots creep gently into the water. Her eyes travel over the trunk, which stretches high into the morning air, lifting its canopy of paper-thin roots far above the water surface. It doesn’t take an architect to observe the similarity between the trees and the tower structures, whose engineers clearly looked to the willows for inspiration in constructing both the complex, interwoven-strut foundations of the towers as well as their observation decks spreading up above. Rose jumps as a handful of water droplets fall across her upturned face, just before a light drizzle descends all around, tiny water droplets singing through the air before they land with a series of dainty plops and splashes. Their touch on the grass releases a mild fragrance into the air, something delightfully fruitlike and soft.

It’s absolutely wonderful, a proper exotic alien planet, and Rose lifts her face completely toward the sky, eyes closed as the rain peppers kisses on her cheeks. God, she’s missed this.

Without even thinking about it, Rose reaches for the Doctor’s hand, but he sets off at a brisk pace before her hand can do anything more than brush against his, blathering on about para-symbiotic relationships and rhizomes and apomixis and god knows what else.

(Scratch that earlier thought—he’s ridiculously jumpy.)

“Is this normal?” Mickey asks under his breath.

Rose watches the Doctor as he wanders off, chattering loudly to no one in particular, and she tries to ignore the sick feeling bubbling up in her chest, the hurt aching in her gut. It’s just because she didn’t sleep well last night, she reasons. For all that she had dreamed of being back aboard the TARDIS, snuggling into her bed replete with plush foam and soft blankets and squishy pillows, she slept absolutely dreadfully. Probably she’d just got used to the hard and unforgiving beds back at the palace; certainly the lack of sleep can’t be blamed on anything else. Or anyone, for that matter.

Great fat rain droplets smack against her head like a dozen tiny missiles and Rose wipes water out of her face, deploying her umbrella with a sigh. “No,” she replies. “This is new.”

“Did something happen last night?”

“No. Nothing happened.”

Rose knows Mickey doesn’t believe her, would be able to tell by his suspicious silence even if she couldn’t see the eyebrow arching off his forehead, but mercifully, he doesn’t press for more. Instead, he proffers his arm to Rose, standing ramrod-straight like he’s posing for a school formal photo. He would look a little silly even if his umbrella wasn’t covered in bright yellow smiley faces.

“C’mon, babe,” he says in response to her questioning look. “Let’s go for a stroll and you can tell me all about your adventures back in fancypants France.”

Rose smiles despite herself. “Are you sure you’d rather hear about that than whatever thrilling greenhouse trivia the Doctor’s throwing our way?”

“Nah, we’ll just make sure to toss a few uh-huh’s and oh how fascinating’s his way every once in a while.”

Threading her arm through his, Rose laughs.

 **

 “…and here it is!” announces the Doctor, several thousand steps and two grumpy and wet-shoed humans later. The trail stops at an impressive, five-meter tall wall, rainbow-bismuth-colored and extending as far as the eye can see in either direction; the Doctor presents it all with a flourish of his umbrella. “The main attraction, the big to-do, the pièce de résistance—the grand Temple of the High Chauncery, perfect for viewing Therran Vox’s universe-renowned celebration of transient luminous events!”

He turns to Rose and Mickey with a wide grin, only to be met by a pair of identical blank stares. “Oh, come on,” says the Doctor, undeterred. “Mickey, you must have heard me mention the High Chauncery’s luminous wassail at least once!”

“Pretty sure I’ve never heard any of those words in my life,” Mickey replies flatly.

“So what’s a transient luminous event?” asks Rose. “I mean, luminous—that means light, right?”

“Right you are,” the Doctor replies, and is Rose just imagining it, or does he meet her gaze even less than usual? “The term refers to electrical phenomena produced during a thunderstorm.”

“So, lightning,” says Mickey, unimpressed.

“Well, yes, if you want to be reductive,” the Doctor responds, rolling his eyes. “But it’s not just lightning, it’s spectacular lightning. Like I said, phenomenal. Lots of worlds experience it, Earth included, but on most planets the events flash by so quickly, so high in the atmosphere, that you can’t observe them with the naked eye. That’s what makes the storms on Therran Vox so special; the chemical composition of the atmosphere here makes for an event that’s far more visible. You can catch the light show in all its glory, from front-row seats! Nothing quite like it in the universe, but why would I tell you when I can just show you?”

He raps his knuckles against the gate wall and a small round window opens in the metallic surface, a liquid movement like oil springing away from soap. A humanoid face appears on the other side, her eyes a fascinating multicolor, her forehead bedecked in rows of ornamental dots.

“Invitation?” the owner of the face inquires.

The Doctor produces the psychic paper from his jacket-pocket. “Sir Doctor and his traveling companions, Dame Tyler and Majordomo Smith of the Powell Estate,” he says rather grandly, “here to view some of the universe’s finest luminescent theatre!”

“Of course, your Grace,” replies the gatekeeper, peering at the psychic paper through the rain. She turns around and issues a curt nod to her comrade (another humanoid, another set of ornamental dots), and the window in the wall slowly opens up, widening by inches into a round doorway.

“Your timing is most fortuitous, sir—all of the other guests have already arrived, and we’re closing the outer shield any moment now,” the gatekeeper continues. “Per your itinerary, the first ritual doesn’t take place until the morning, but that gives you the evening to settle in and enjoy the first stirrings of the storm. In the meantime, Votary Uruud here will give you a quick tour through the Temple before showing you to your quarters, and we’re happy to take your luggage for you as well—”

“Sorry, sorry,” says the Doctor, his eyebrow arching in confusion. “Our quarters?”

“Our luggage?” asks Mickey under his breath.

“Yes, Sir Doctor, your quarters. For the duration of the event.”

The Doctor blinks. “The duration of the event,” he repeats, his eyebrow arching further.

“For the month, sir.”

The Doctor’s eyebrow has now arched so high it’s in danger of disappearing into his hairline. “Right,” he says. “The month-long ritual. The month-long ritual storm celebration. The month-long ritual storm celebration for which we are totally, completely, and utterly prepared. With luggage and toiletries and things. For a month.” He tugs on one ear. “Except—”

“Oh, silly us!” Rose interrupts, throwing her hands up in mock-surprise. “We left all of our things back at our ship!”

“Yes, quite!” the Doctor agrees. “So we’ll just run back and grab it all, shall we?”

Rose and Mickey nod vigorously.

Glancing at each of them, the gatekeeper’s face wrinkles in concern. “Forgive my impudence, your Graces, but it’s too late to turn back now. You won’t reach your ship before the Allstorm arrives.”

“The Allstorm?” Mickey asks, incredulous even as rain dodges his umbrella to splatter against his cheek. Rose elbows him in the ribs and he clears his throat. “I mean, of course, the Allstorm!” he laughs nervously. “I know what that is. Sure, why not?”

“Thanks for the warning, but we’ll take our chances,” says the Doctor. “Bit of rain will do us more good than harm.”

“Please, your Graces, I must protest—the blessed High Chauncery is a generous man and will supply you with all that you could need. You mustn’t remain outdoors any longer, it’s not safe—”

No sooner has the Doctor turned to leave than a great bolt of lightning splits open the sky, followed by a blast of thunder so violent it shakes the ground beneath everyone’s feet, their ears ringing after. Looking skyward, Rose can’t help but notice that the formerly friendly-looking clouds appear significantly more ominous now, less fluffy-pink and more threatening-red and heavy with rain. They cluster overhead, slowly blocking out the sun, and Rose watches as the world is painted crimson around them. She suddenly thinks of Sunday school, of pharaohs and plagues and endless night, of storms that send blood pouring from the skies and swelling in the rivers. She shudders.

Another barrage of thunder strikes, so loud Rose can feel it in her bones, rattling her teeth. The Doctor heaves an impatient sigh. “Our quarters it is, then,” he says reluctantly.

The gatekeeper beams at him. “Oh, very good, sir. Thank you, sir. Welcome to the High Chauncery’s Temple of the Allstorm!”

 **

 While the storm rages overhead, its searing white lightning and murderous clouds all-too-visible through a ceiling that, to all appearances, seems to be made of a thick stained glass, Votary Uruud leads the Doctor, Rose, and Mickey on a tour of the opulent beauty that is the Temple. They show the party through a marble-lined courtyard into a veranda replete with columns and overflowing in ornamental greenery and other Votaries carrying a generous surplus of niblets on trays. Mickey and Rose inspect the food eagerly, sampling things spicy and salty, sugary and sweet; Rose tries not to notice how the Doctor, strangely, avoids all of the niblets altogether. The veranda opens to a garden lush with flora of every color imaginable, vibrant vermillion and stunning cobalt and brilliant fuschia and everything in-between. Some of the flowers bloom as large as dinner plates, others as small as thimbles, and Rose watches in fascination as each of them slowly turn their faces toward the sky, almost as if they’re looking for the storm, like they can sense it.

“They’re lumosynthetic,” the Doctor murmurs to Rose. “They’ve evolved to feed off light from any source, even lightning in a storm. You should see them when the real storm starts.”

She nods in response, and wonders at how he doesn’t lean in nearly as close as usual, how he draws away so much quicker.

The garden leads to a chamber of swimming pools nearly identical to the perfectly round lakes outside, save that their water glows with the otherworldy light of bioluminescent algae. At Uruud’s gentle urging, Rose and Mickey each dip a hand into the water and delight at the glow that dances across their skin, lingering in a smattering of ghostly footprints several moments after leaving the pool.

In addition to the wonders that call the Temple home, Rose, Mickey, and the Doctor also encounter other guests as they dutifully follow Uruud, people of all shapes and shades and sizes, everyone from other Therrans to bird-people with special goggles to fish-people with special suits to upright rhinoceri and even a group of New Earth’s cat folk, though thankfully, Rose notes, none of them appear to be nuns. Almost all of the Therrans bear the same dots on their faces as Uruud and the gatekeeper, all in different numbers and configurations. One such woman, a gorgeous figure clad in a semisheer gold and scarlet gown with facial markings to match, watches them from the safety of her richly-clad party, her eyes lingering on the Doctor long after he walks by.

(Half a year ago, Rose would have threaded her arm through the Doctor’s and shot the woman a dagger-filled glance until she drew back in surprise, would have done it without even thinking. Now she just bites her lip and silently wishes for the woman to slip on a banana-peel.)

As they pass through the menagerie afterward, peering through latticework enclosures at a host of incredible creatures (winged lizards and scaled mammoths and jewel-skinned snakes, oh my), Rose starts to notice the walls around them—wide as they are, and as full as the space is between them, it’s sort of difficult to tell, but she could almost swear they were curved. In fact, she thinks, stepping closer so she can fit her palm to one wall’s smooth surface, she would be willing to bet that all the rooms in the Temple are built this way, round-walled and circular like the lakes outside.

“It’s like a ripple,” she realizes aloud when the party reaches the entertainment library, whose walls are lined with curving shelves that are not packed with books or movies so much as hundreds upon hundreds of glowing white orbs.

“Beg pardon?” asks Votary Uruud with a polite small.

“The Temple. It’s built like a ripple, isn’t it?”

Uruud’s smile brightens into something genuine then. “It is indeed, your Grace!”

“You’re not wrong,” says the Doctor thoughtfully. “The Temple is made up of a series of concentric rings, each split into different chambers for different purposes. The deeper into the Temple you go, the smaller and more important the chambers become—entertainment and feasting and grand ritual gives way to spaces of study, sleep, work, and personal worship.”

He pauses for a moment, musing. “And with the glass ceiling exposing everything to the gods above, I’d imagine you’re right—from a bird’s-eye view, the structure would look just like a ripple. Well-spotted, Rose.”

“Your Graces are most observant,” says Uruud, beaming at each of them in turn. “Although few are as resplendent as the High Chauncery’s Temple, each of the Allstorm Temples is inspired by the form of water in honor of They Who Provide.”

“Who’s that? Like a bunch of gods?” Mickey asks, interest piqued.

“They are one god,” Uruud replies, and then, continuing in much the same fashion as someone reciting an oft-spoken Bible verse, “for just as our gods cannot be tamed by earthly will, neither can man nor woman tame the form of water.”

Confused, Rose and Mickey both turn to the Doctor. “They Who Provide is the genderless water god,” he explains. “Our hosts don’t really adhere to a binary the same way you lot tend to. Gender isn’t assigned at birth, but rather chosen at the coming-of-age. You choose one or the other, or both, or neither, and you can change it at any time.”

“So which one did you choose?” Mickey asks Uruud. “If that’s not a rude question or anything,” he adds hurriedly.

“I follow in the footsteps of They Who Provide,” replies Uruud, bowing their head in deference.

“So, like, do you have a special party for it, or something? Like a bar mitzvah?”

Uruud laughs, quickly sobering after. “Forgive me, your Graces! I’m merely surprised—even though the Temple receives a great many honored guests for each Allstorm, most of them seem to prefer the delights of our leisure chambers and pleasure rituals rather than inquire after our ways. Storm bless them, but…”

“Let me guess,” Rose cuts in with a grin. “They’re all either snooty prigs, entitled prats, or insufferable know-it-alls who love telling you how to do your job?”

“Oh, I would never dare besmirch the name of our honored guests,” replies Uruud, the very picture of politeness even as a spark of mirth twinkles in their eyes. “But I also wouldn’t dare argue with the wise words of such an honored guest, either.”

“Of course not,” Rose replies, tapping the side of her nose.

A chirping sound fills the air then, and Uruud lifts their wrist to check their watch (or at least Rose assumes it’s a watch, though she imagines they probably call it a timekeeper or something fancy like that). “And now, your Graces, I must assume my other duties for the evening,” says Uruud. “However, I would be happy to show you to your quarters first!”

They rap their knuckles on a blank patch of wall, just like the Doctor did earlier, and just like before, a round doorway opens up, widening like a mouth. Uruud steps through, Mickey following after; the Doctor pauses, however, so Rose does as well. She watches him as he stares up through the ceiling, his hands tucked in his pockets, his brow wrinkled in deep consideration.

Rose draws a deep breath. All right. They’re alone, now. Just the two of them. No big deal. They can still be normal. Right?

“Penny for your thoughts?” Rose prompts.

The Doctor’s eyes narrow at a particularly bright arc of lightning dancing overhead. “I’m still mulling over what the gatekeeper said. For the duration of the event, for the month. But I checked and double-checked the TARDIS chronometer before we stepped out, and this is the wrong time of year for the Allstorm, I’m sure of it. I wanted to show you two the sights, to be sure, but this isn’t quite what I had in mind. It’s like trying to buy a dog and receiving a coyote instead. I wouldn’t have brought us here if I’d known…”

Sighing, he shakes his head. “At any rate, why would so many people willingly lock themselves up in one building for an entire month? Spectacular lightning-show or no, that’s a dreadfully long time to be cooped up in the same building.”

“Well, Uruud mentioned other stuff too, pleasure rituals and whatnot,” Rose points out. An unfortunate thought pops into her head and her eyes widen in alarm. “Oh god, that’s not like a fertility ritual or forced-mating thing, is it?”

“What? No!” laughs the Doctor. “It’s just regular ol’ fun, sanctioned by the god of your choice. Feasts and plays and weddings and galas and drinking a little too much of the holy libations, that sort of thing. An Allstorm is always an excuse for celebration.”

“Even if it’s taking place at the wrong time?”

“Even if.” The Doctor quiets then, suddenly thoughtful. “Still, though. An entire month? Granted, it’s been a few decades since my last visit. Not to mention, they don’t call it the Allstorm for nothing—it covers the whole planet, wrapping all of Therran Vox in a brilliant display of water and light. But you’re talking about something that lasts a few days, a week, tops. Certainly not a whole month!”

“Well, I’m sure Uruud would be happy to tell us more about it, if we asked,” Rose suggests. “Maybe it’s a one-off thing, or—I don’t know, maybe things are just different now.”

The Doctor’s gaze shifts to her, and Rose could swear a shadow flickered across his face for just the briefest second. If she didn’t know any better, she would say it looked a little like sadness. Or worse, resignation.

“Yep,” he says, his voice clipped even as he smiles. “You’re probably right.”

Rose frowns. It feels like something just happened, like she just said the wrong word and the Doctor shuttered the gates after, but she can’t put her finger on it, and the Doctor hardly seems in the mood to help. He brushes past her without another word, following after Mickey and Uruud through the round doorway, hands firmly tucked in his pockets.

Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, Rose lingers for a moment after, wondering. Guilt and frustration bubble up in her gut, churning in equal measure. Is this just how it’s going to be between them, now? Awkward and distant and stiff, and forever?

(How the hell is she supposed to fix this?)

 **

 “My sincerest apologies,” says Uruud, frowning as they peruse the screen of their wristwatch. The light from the screen bathes their face in a gentle blue, highlighting their dots in stark relief. “I’m so sorry, but I cannot seem to find your names in the database. I can only think the electrical interference from the Allstorm is affecting our information network…”

“Oh, it’s no worries,” replies the Doctor with a breezy wave of the hand. “Just chuck a few rooms our way, any rooms will do.”

“Of course, sir. I have two rooms available; will that suit the needs of your party?”

“If you need additional space,” calls a soft voice behind them, smooth and silken, “I would be delighted to share.”

Rose and the Doctor turn to see the red-and-gold woman from before, her immaculately-painted crimson mouth spread in a beatific smile, and god, she’s even more beautiful up close. Voluminous black hair, eyes as blue as lapis, features that couldn’t be more perfect if they’d been chiseled by a master sculptor; Rose can’t blame the woman for being so beautiful, or showcasing it so well (how can she, when even she can’t tear her eyes away?), but the self-assurance she projects, the confidence in her gait as she strolls up to their party, looking the Doctor up and down, makes something burn in Rose’s chest, twisting and growling like a tiny little green-eyed beast. This, Rose thinks, is a woman who has received everything she has ever wanted, and has no doubts now that anything else she wants will soon be hers as well.

And then there’s the fact that the Doctor hasn’t said anything to rebuff her, and Rose fumes, and worries, and wonders if—

"He’s taken,” she blurts out.

In her periphery, Rose sees the Doctor glance her way, his expression unreadable. The woman, however, offers her an imperious look that she knows all too well. Her gaze travels over Rose, appraising. Rose is suddenly very aware of what she must look like right now, all damp jeans and dripping umbrella and shoes squelching with mud. But she didn’t spend half a year in the French court for nothing; she draws herself up to her full height, chin up, and looks the woman square in the eye, offering a sly smile.

“Thank you for your kind offer, but I’m afraid we can’t accept,” Rose says, the words falling into place like the dials on a slot machine. “See, he’s married—”

“To Mickey!” the Doctor interrupts with a mad grin.

Now it’s Rose’s turn to stare.

What?

The Doctor just beams at the noblewoman, his smile gigawatt-bright. Rose turns to Mickey for help, for a dose of sanity, for anything, but he can’t offer anything useful; he’s too busy looking surprised.

“Ah, it feels like it was just yesterday,” the Doctor says wistfully, looping an arm around Mickey’s shoulders. “Quite possibly because it was just yesterday. It’s all still very new, you see. Bit of a whirlwind affair. Almost completely unexpected. But the heart wants what the heart wants. Isn’t that right, Peaches?”

“Erm,” says Mickey.

“And we thought, what better place to honeymoon than Therran Vox during the Allstorm?” continues the Doctor. “I wanted a trip to Barcelona, personally, but I just can’t say no to this face.” He tenderly pinches Mickey’s chin and Mickey looks very much like he wouldn’t mind being swallowed up by the floor right about now. “He’s a dreadful romantic, my Mickey.”

“Peaches?” Mickey asks, voice faint.

“We’re still figuring out the pet names,” the Doctor whispers conspiratorially to the noblewoman, and Rose fights the urge to roll her eyes, or stomp her foot, or maybe to scream. “Like I said, it’s all very new. But we’re very much in love, isn’t that right?”

Mickey shoots Rose an uncertain look, and the Doctor tightens his arm around Mickey’s shoulders until he yelps in surprise. “So in love, right, darling?”

“So in love it’s almost unbelievable,” Mickey replies through a teeth-gritted smile.

“So in conclusion, my dove and I would be more than happy to share a room,” the Doctor finishes.

“Very good, sir,” replies Uruud, relief washing over their face. “Now, if you’ll just follow me, we’ll get you settled in!”

“Anyway, thanks again for the generous offer!” the Doctor calls back to the red-and-gold woman as he follows Uruud down the corridor. Mickey trails after the two of them in something of a daze, as if he still can’t quite believe what’s going on. Rose can’t say she blames him. She’s having a little trouble processing it all herself.

(So is she just supposed to pretend that everything is normal, then, except when the Doctor starts to feel flighty? Five and a half months she waits for him, she waits, and at the end of it he’ll shout and then fall silent and then act all remorseful, he’ll insult Rose and then apologize and then, out of nowhere, apropos of nothing, grab her and kiss her, not six hours after he was ready to jump through that window and leave her and Mickey stranded, not six hours after he was kissing another woman? And then after all that, the mood swings and the almost-confessions and the bullshit refusal to discuss anything that truly matters, and now he’s the one pushing her away? And what, is Rose just supposed to accept it, roll with the punches, fall in line like a good little tin soldier? She’s just supposed to stand there and take it?)

The guilt from earlier subsides, a tide drawing back to reveal a shore littered in broken shells and bits of glass and something black and sticky, an oil spill slowly staining the sand.

“Rose?” Mickey calls from down the corridor, stopping to wait for her.

Hands balled into fists, Rose follows after them, wondering how her day could possibly get any worse.

***

Next Part (forthcoming)

***