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liquor-and-intellect · 5 years ago

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WHEN WE ALL FALL ASLEEP WHERE DO WE GO? H.S AU part three: you should see me in a crown

Jay is force to be reckoned with. She does what she wants and the consequences aren’t as bad she’d expect. She stays out late, drinks with her friends and sleeps with Kai- who may or may not have a girlfriend.

When Jay meets Harry, her life seems to slow down. Feelings start to slip through the hard exterior that she’s worked so hard to build. She could finally learn to be vulnerable and overcome the scars left by her childhood that she didn’t realize went to deep.

Follows Billie Eilish’s Album.

part three: you should see me in a crown

“Tell me which one is worse

Living or dying first

Sleeping inside a hearse

I don't dream”

- you should see me in a crown//Billie Eilish

*warning: mentions of drug use and trauma*

Little bare feet padded across the hardwood floor, making their way down the hallway. She was silent as she knew her mother would get upset when she would get out of bed past her bedtime.

But she was up because she couldn’t sleep. She remembered the days when she was younger- five or so- and her father would read her a book until her small body would succumb to the embrace of unconsciousness. She missed that. Her heart ached at that memory; she didn’t understand what she did wrong to make him act so differently sometimes.

She had heard the front door open while she’d been staring at the glowing stars on her ceiling. The time was 2:03 am, she knew this because her Barbie clock said so. When she heard his familiar grunt, she knew she wanted him to read her a book like the good old days. That’s the words she would use.

She had it planned out in her head as she crept down the hallway. Her nightgown with the words “princess” on the front making a swishing noise as she moved, and she prayed her mom would not hear.

Her father wasn’t in the living room by the door, but she heard a thump in the bathroom, so she made her way towards it. She could wait for him if she needed to.

The door to the bathroom was slightly ajar, the light casting a small projection into the dark hallway.

She pressed her hand to the frame. “Daddy?” she whispered.

The door made a creak that would have woken the dead as she pushed it open and she almost froze thinking of how upset her mother would be. She wouldn’t be able to play on the computer for a week.

She couldn’t stop the squeaking hinges as it hit the wall of the bathroom and her jaw froze in shock.

Laying on the bathroom floor was her daddy. A needle protruding from his arm with deep bruises around it, like the needle she gets when she visits the doctor.

Did he need a shot? she wondered. Was my daddy sick?

She noticed the pill bottle in his hand, but paid no attention to it because it meant nothing to her at the time, it wouldn’t be until later that she would realize that her desire to be around people who used would just prove that subconsciously she wanted to feel closer to her father.

The little girl was ten. The police would argue with her mother later that she should have been old enough to know to get help when she saw him initially. She should have known to get help when she witnessed her daddy convulse on the ground and the foam escape past the lips that used to kiss her on the forehead. She should have known to get help when he stilled and his body became cold and his blue eyes that held the color of the ocean just like her own, rolled into the back of his head.

She should have known.

But whether she did or not, she still didn’t move until the early morning hours where her mother found her sound asleep on her deceased father’s chest, hoping and praying that her daddy would wake up.

The screams of her mother that echoed through her skull that day would make it hard for her to even listen to her mother speak for the rest of her life.

I woke up with a sheen of cold sweat layered over my face.

There was no jerking of limbs or dramatic gasps of air when I awoke from my nightmare. It happened too often for me to be surprised of what I would see every time I closed my eyes.

It didn’t mean it would hurt any less though.

I sat up, rolling my shoulders back and massaging the everlasting knot in my neck that I had grown accustomed to.

Here’s what we are going to do, I told myself, as I filed away the hurt and pain of that day that I never let myself feel unless it was in the naked hours of the morning, we are going to channel this energy into something else. We are not going to think of that day.

So what did I tell myself next?

That I was going to make today my bitch.

With no ill intentions on my part, but rather lack of patience, I snapped at Hunter this morning as she asked excessive questions about how she acted last night.

She stopped talking after that.

She knew me well enough to not push me when I was in these moods and for that I was grateful. I wasn’t completely unaware that I was somewhat of an enigma to my friends. They knew Jay, the Jay that lived here in Los Angeles. The one that waited tables and drove them home. They knew nothing about my past or where I came from. Every time they had asked personal questions, I would be quick to shut down the conversation. They learned swiftly within our relationship that vulnerability and transparency were not traits that I was welcomed to.

“I just felt like we had a lot in common, you know?” Hunter told Winnie at our kitchen counter as I sat mindlessly flipping through a magazine.

Winnie had woken up not long ago and had shuffled her feet loudly to the kitchen where she poured a cup of coffee. Hunter and her had been talking quietly across the counter.

I snorted. “Please, all you shared was that ashtray.” It came out wrong, but I wasn’t in the mood for correcting myself. She could take whatever she wanted from my remark.

Winnie rolled her eyes, tugging a strand of her blonde hair as she leaned forward on her elbows. “Jay,” she scolded. “you don’t have to be such a bitch.”

I widened my eyes at her. “Bitch? You forget if it wasn’t for me, you two wouldn’t even had made it home,” I snapped back, the venom I laced into my voice had colored my words.

Hunter sunk further back into her seat. She hated confrontation.

Winnie threw her hands up in the air. “Then don’t fucking come then!” Her voice rose an octave. “It’s not like you have any fun anyway. You’re too busy being a prude and sitting there judging us like you’re somehow better than us. At least we aren’t sleeping with a guy who has a girlfriend.” She pushed a thumb to her temple as if the crescendo her voice took added to the pain that her hangover was providing.

Bite my tongue.

I reveled in her silence as she waited for me to respond, to come back at her even harder—but that wasn’t even my ammo. Sure, I was fire and spice a majority of the time, but I knew when to bide my time correctly and her silence was my favorite sound that I have ever heard her make in that moment.

I stood up and walked out of the room.

I didn’t have time for this shit.

Later, we would make up and talk this out. She had been holding this in for a long time and I had mostly provoked the situation—which I should have felt bad for. But today, I did not.

…

Seven p.m. came too quickly.

A majority of my afternoon was spent pacing my room nervously. I didn’t go on dates very often, we usually just skipped the semantics and went straight to the bedroom. Especially since I started sleeping with Kai, I hadn’t had the desire to look for anyone else to take home, so I was a little rusty when it came to the world of dating.

What was I supposed to expect from this event? Were we going to go to his place after and have sex? Did he think that I was girlfriend material? What exactly did he see in me that was so interesting with me provoking his coworker and scrubbing a cheap wine stain off my pants in a house full of cigarette smoke?

I tried to push those thoughts to the back of my mind and remind myself who I was. I didn’t believe in love, I didn’t date, but I do live impulsively and recklessly enough to actually go tonight.

Well, I would have canceled had I had his phone number.

But his car was coming to a stop in front of my apartment and I was standing in my window in my nice lacey camisole with an over-large gray cardigan hanging off my shoulders and I couldn’t bring my feet to move.

What the hell was I doing?

Harry didn’t know my thoughts, but he got out of the car and walked to the front door—long legs and all— as if it was completely natural. Clean white sneakers adorned his feet and his arms were snug underneath a jean jacket and he looked damn good.

I sighed as I heard the knock on the door.

I didn’t recognize this nervous mess of a person I was. So, I did the only thing I knew how to do and slipped on my leather heeled boots and strolled to the door as if I had zero fucks about anything in the world.

Make ‘em bow, I told myself as I plastered a smirk on my face and opened the door.

His appearance almost made me falter- almost. If I thought Harry looked good from the window, he was absolutely breathtaking standing in front of me.

His hair was it’s usual mess of curls but by the way it dipped slightly to the side, I could tell that he had meticulously placed it that way. He pushed a hand through it. “Wow,” he breathed. “you look great.” I had almost forgotten about the accent.

Almost.

Not waiting for him, I closed the door behind me and waltzed around him. “You should see me in a crown then,” I called over my shoulder, the clicking of my boots echoing off the sidewalk as his laughter trailed behind me.

…

“So, I really want to hear more about you.”

I glanced up from the plate of grilled chicken marsala I was enjoying, noticing Harry’s green eyes landing on me with intent from across the table.

After I had settled myself into his car—not giving him a chance to open the door for me—he had brought me to a nice American styled café that overlooked the beach. Besides nightlife, I hadn’t ventured out into L.A very much since moving a couple years ago. So the light breeze of the night and the scent of the salty air was refreshing and surprisingly made me feel somewhat lighter.

“I don’t really talk about my past,” I answered, punctuating my sentencing with a fork in my mouth.

He smiled. He had a way of taking my rude, sarcastic remarks and finding them interesting. “I didn’t ask about your past,” he breathed. “I asked about you- the present.” The Edison bulbs that hung above us glittered in his irises as his gaze rested upon me.

I quirked an eyebrow. “Isn’t someone’s past the most important thing about them? Like, what has made them… Them?”

Harry shook his head, causing a strand of hair to fall in front his green eyes. He brushed it back. “I totally disagree. A person is not defined by their past.”

I snorted at that statement. A person had to be defined by their past. Those mistakes, sins, regrets… They weave your vary soul. The stain those past offenses caused on you was not something that could just be washed away with a couple sleepless nights and a guilty conscience. You can’t just remove that part of yourself—just like you couldn’t remove half of your heart and live to talk about it.

“You don’t believe that?” he asked and the look in his eyes made me feel like this was a piece of me that he was trying his hardest to figure out.

He shouldn’t waste his time.

I shook my head. “Of course, I don’t.”

Maybe he felt my discomfort from the way I shifted in my chair, because he changed the subject. “What’s your full name?” he asked.

“Jay Elise Holland.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Jay isn’t short for anything?”

“No it is not, Harold.”

The laugh that slipped past his lips erupted deep from his belly and it made me feel… warm. He threw his head back and his eyes screwed shut as his shoulders shook. I didn’t even think it was that funny, but the way his chuckle floated across the table of a candle and chicken dish to my receptive ears delighted me in a way that I hadn’t felt in a very long time.

My cheeks rose as a tug of a smile played on my lips.

He took note of it, letting his gaze take in the small smile. Thankfully, he didn’t say anything further about it.

I quickly changed the subject. “So, when did you move to L.A.?” I asked.

He cocked his head to the side. “Me and my mum moved ‘ere when I was seventeen,” he said, taking a long sip of his water, his green eyes twinkling with unknown mischief.

“Why?” I asked. It was blunt, but I didn’t care.

He breathed out a light laughed and looked down. I swore a rosy color appeared on his cheeks and my heart soared slightly. “I can’t tell you. This is a first date and it is too embarrassing,” he finally chuckled, looking back up at me.

My fork made a clink as I set it on the table. I crossed my arms and leaned closer. “You have my full attention now.”

Harry groaned, running a hand down his face as he looked everywhere but me. “Okay, so like… fuck,” he grumbled. “This is so embarrassing. You know boy bands, right?”

I nodded slowly, not following his connection.

He took a deep breath. “I moved ‘ere because my mum wanted me to… like… audition for one.” He scratched the back of his head.

I pursed my lips. “And did you get the part?”

Reluctantly, he shook his head. “No,” he responded bashfully. “I didn’t, but we stayed anyways and I went to uni- or college- for marketing and the rest is history.” Broad shoulders shrugged.

Taking a deep breath, I let it out in a sigh. “That…” I searched for the right word. “is definitely something.” I settled with.

He chuckled at that and I couldn’t help but let a breathy laugh out as well. I had never heard so much chuckling in such a small span of time.

“What kind of music do you listen to?” he asked, pushing his empty plate away from and settling back in the chair.

I opened my mouth to speak and then shut it right back. I didn’t know the answer to that question. In my mind, I couldn’t think of the last time I had played music for the fun of it. The complicated answer was that I didn’t listen to music because I didn’t like to experience what it made me feel… so in the end, I just stopped. When I was younger, I loved music. I would dance in my living room with bare dirty feet and recite every word to the Top 100… Now?

The simple answer, “I actually don’t listen to much music.”

Harry tried with every atom in his body to not let the shock show on his face, but it was there and extremely evident. His deep, elongated words formed a shocked sentence of “You… you’re joking, right?”

I shrugged and looked down to pick at my fingernails. “Why would I fucking joke about that?” I mumbled. It was hard not to ice my words over, but I did it anyways.

A breath through his nose filled his chest, but he didn’t waver from my coldness. “You just haven’t found what you liked yet.”

Harry was quick to warm up my icy demeanor as he swiftly paid for our food. I still felt a pinprick of guilt that I wasn’t the type of human who didn’t listen to music. If we were being honest, I didn’t know how to. It didn’t stop me from wishing that in that moment I could have been different, just so Harry could relate to me a bit more.

Who the fuck was I?

We walked along the beach, sand kicking up at our shins as we continued with the low-tide shore. The sun was already down, but the glowing of the nightlife above the boardwalk glittered off the receding waves. They also found themselves reflecting in Harry’s eyes.

“Coffee or tea?” Harry asked, filling the silence.

“Huh?”

“I just want to know more about you—and since you seem to be wanting to know more about yourself as well, I thought I’d do us both a favor.”

I snorted. “Coffee.”

He nodded. “Makes sense.”

I stopped. “What does that mean?”

He took a couple steps before realizing I was now behind him. When he turned towards me, the breeze blew his hair across his face. “You are a coffee person. Coffee people are usually more mysterious.”

“It’s a drink,” I retorted.

“It’s a fact,” he argued back.

I continued walking.

“Blue or green?” he continued.

I thought of the color of his eyes, of new beginnings and growth. “Green.”

“If you knew you wouldn’t fail, what is one thing in the world you would do?” his voice hummed like a lullaby.

“Be a different person.”

…

We spent the rest of the night talking and while nothing substantial about myself was revealed to him, the conversation maintained. About work, school, my roommate and friends and Harry’s neighbors. They were loud on Fridays but quiet on Sundays, watered their garden on Mondays but forgot about it on Wednesdays. Harry was observant and that small part of him greatly intrigued me.

Our steps scraped the sidewalk as he walked me to my front door around midnight. I didn’t know what he expected from me after buying my food and spending the evening alongside me.

“Do you want to… come in?” I asked, almost sheepishly although I wouldn’t admit it.

He gave me a smile. “Jay,” he gasped. “this is a first date.” Harry punctuated the sentence with a wink.

I laughed, turning fully to face him and taking in the way he looked in the streetlamp of my townhouse.

Then, he caught me off guard.

Harry took a step toward me, putting a tentative hand on my cheek to encourage me forward just slightly. A small movement that resulted in his lips grazing mine and a dusty suitcase of butterflies opening itself up in my stomach and taking flight through the marrow of my bones. It was exhilarating. I found myself leaning further into it, enjoying the gentle way he kissed me as if I would shatter into a thousand pieces.

Harry allowed me to deepen it further, my hand finding its way to his hip as our lips slid over one another. I grazed my tongue against his gently, causing his breath to hitch slightly as I felt the reverberations through his lips.

He pulled back to soon, catching his breath and letting his gaze fall over me. Exhale. “I’ll see you soon, Jay,” he whispered to me, letting his hand fall from my cheek, a smile playing on his lips, and backing away from me to his car.

I watched him shut the door and pull away from the curb, a dopey smile on my face. When I realized I was smiling, I also realized why I had been in such a bad mood this morning. How my soul was black and stained and I could never forget about it. How people like me would never be deserving of people like Harry.

The hard exterior glazed itself over my eyes like a film.

I had to fucking forget about him. I had to.

The self-destruction that usually took over when good things happened was settling in my bones once more. I knew the signs too well and I still couldn’t stop it.

Grabbing a bottle of vodka from the cabinet, I took the stairs to my room one by one. All I could see was the blood of my father on the marble, reminding me why I couldn’t be happy. Taunting me, encouraging me to fully self-destruct and never come back.

I got to my room and sent a simple text.

You up?

Kai quickly responded. They always did.

“ Visions I vandalize Cold in my kingdom size Fell for these ocean eyes “

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry fanfic #harry au #harry styles imagines #writing #when we all fall asleep where do we go

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asarahworld-writes · 5 years ago

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Merry Christmas @vicapuleti ! I, @asarahworld, was your Zombies Secret Santa. You mentioned a love of Zeddison, Zoey, fluff and angst, and AUs. Well, it’s not quite an AU, but it is future fic where they’ve gone off to college. We’ve got Zed. We’ve got Addison. Zoey makes an appearance. And without further ado...

Chapter 1

It had been six months since Zed had gone off to the state university on a football scholarship, six months since Addison had been accepted at her parents’ alma mater, and four months and thirteen days since the last time they had seen each other if you didn’t count the five minutes after the game two months ago. The daily phone calls had slowed down to weekly; text messages became a quick thing to fire off between classes.

Addison was ploughing through a slough of research for her Writing Studies essay on “Classic Literature As Viewed Through a Modern Lens” when her phone buzzed. Automatically, she reached for it and immediately flipped it over upon seeing that it wasn’t the cheer squad’s captain, Juliette Viconte. (Unlike Seabrook High, the university squad had only one captain.) She stared at the screen of her laptop, thinking. She had just finished writing a decent-sized paragraph on Romeo and Juliet, exploring how if the leads hadn’t been so quick to act that the play would not have been the tragedy and leading into a comparison between the original storyline and modern adaptations. Star-crossed lovers destined to be apart. Ultimately, every version of the play needed to end tragically, otherwise the message Shakespeare had intended behind the story was lost in the happy ending.

She stared at the screen of her laptop, thinking. That was definitely the line of reasoning her professor would be looking for. And yet she couldn’t help but see herself and Zed in the characters. Two young people from feuding families (societies) fall in love. A relationship built on stolen moments. The relative innocence of one character balancing out the harsh reality lived by the other. Theoretically, modern technology provided ease of communication that could have saved Romeo and Juliet from tragedy. And yet, it was clear that just because one had the ability to communicate directly, that wasn’t necessarily going to happen.

She grabbed a pen and started re-working her notes. Maybe this essay wouldn’t follow the professor’s expectations. But Addison had her own ideas.

Her phone buzzed again. Addison, in the middle of frantic scribbles, fumbling, turned it off.

“Hey, this is Addison-”

“Hey, it’s me,” Zed said cheerfully. It was so nice to finally hear her voice.

“-so leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.” The accompanying beep following the end of the recorded message startled Zed, and he realized that he had reached her voicemail.

“Hey, it’s me,” he started over. “I know it’s getting old, but the captain’s scheduled another practice and of course it’s happening Saturday morning. Abraza garzi’ska, ag gar-gargiza ru,” he said softly, reverting back to Zombietongue. Zed smiled gently as the memory of when they had officially decided to only use Zombietongue for endearments. As horrible as that fight had been (not that it could even be considered to be a fight as they had resolved their issue without any drama), they were so much stronger for it.

“This relationship is with you, too, Zed,” Addison had said angrily. “I want you to be able to be completely yourself. And that includes being able to speak Zombietongue around me. Excuse me for thinking that that was a reasonable request.”

That hadn’t been it at all. But despite his best efforts, Zed had failed to properly explain what exactly he felt about his girlfriend’s wish to become fluent in his native language. Zed hadn’t even been certain that he himself knew why he was against the idea.

All that he knew was that Addison now sat by herself at the front of the classroom during Revised Local History, cheerleading practice was after football practice, and that the cheerleaders once again had their own table in the cafeteria.

“Zed, you’re overthinking this,” she’d told him when he’d finally confessed his fear. “History’s hard enough as it is without having you right beside me. You realize that you have gym the period before, right? So either you walk in and your hair’s still wet and there’s water rolling down your neck from your hair or else gym ran late and you didn’t even have time to change, let alone shower, and you,” she laughed nervously, “to be honest, you always smell amazing but especially then. I need to pass history. Surely you can get by without me for one extra hour,” she’d said, giggling.

“When you put it like that, how can I say no?”

“That’s what I love about you. Always willing to listen,” Addison had said with a smile. “As for cheer, well, during your practice, we’re up in the weight room. It takes a lot of work to be able to do this stuff.” Addison had been counting her rebuttals off on her fingers. “And as for lunch, some of the new kids seemed like they needed a friend. And the cheer squad is a family. We’ve gotta be there for each other.”

“Abraza garzi’ska… ag gar-gargiza ru,” Zed had said tenderly, threading his fingers through Addison’s.

“Gar-gargiza…,” Addison’s smile had grown softer. “Ag gar-gargiza ru,” she’d repeated. “I love you.” Suddenly, her gentle smile had turned into an excited grin. “Does this mean I get to learn more Zombietongue?” Zed had only laughed, repeating his declaration of love softly in her ear.

Writing annotated notes for her essay had taken her far longer than she’d anticipated and when Addison finally checked her phone, she was startled to see that it was nearly two a.m. She stumbled across the room to her bed and was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

Addison had learned during her first semester why you didn’t take an eight a.m. course unless there was no other choice. However, being an underclassman came with certain disadvantages. Being one of the last to choose courses was one of those disadvantages and with that came fewer course options. Taking English was mandatory for all students and Addison hadn’t had any other options to fill that credit without waiting another semester. So she begrudgingly took the Writing Studies course, wondering why she hadn’t looked for one during her first semester despite her parents’ insistence that she take it easy her first semester.

When the alarm went off at six, Addison immediately hit the snooze button. Once. Twice. Three times the alarm was silenced and Addison lay in bed. The phone rang.

“Addison, where are you? Class is starting in five minutes and you know that Professor Jackson docks points if you’re late!” Bree’s hushed panic broke Addison’s sleepy haze. She leapt from her bed, quickly changing into the nearest clothes that weren’t pajamas, and swept everything off her desk into her bag. She sprinted to the classroom, from the D building up to A, and up the flight of stairs to the second floor, barely making it in the back door as the prof began class. Luckily, she’d grabbed a notebook and pen in her rush, and was able to at least take notes.

The rest of the day passed in a similar haze. Everything was a mess, but salvageable. After her three-hour English lecture, Addison had another three-hour lecture (this time for Anthropology), followed by a short dinner break and cheer practice; practice ran much later than usual as the neurotic captain was more obsessed with perfection than Bucky had been at his most neurotic. Just like that, the day was over and Addison flopped into bed, exhausted.

Sleep, shower, repeat.

Wednesdays she worked part-time in a café down the street from the main campus. Though the pay was negligible, the hours were steady and gave her a reprieve from the stress of being a student. Seven a.m. to three p.m., then she was back to cheer practice and homework. Thursday was spent organizing her English notes and drafting her essay, Friday was another eight hour shift at the café and studying for her Anthropology midterm. The weekend only provided more of the same. When Monday came, her first draft was finished and Addison treated herself to a relaxing bubble bath. To her surprise, it was only six o’clock.

The phone rang.

“Hey, sweetie,” it was her mother. “How’s school? You didn’t call us yesterday, is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” she lied. “I mean, I guess I’m just stressed with midterms and my essay.” I haven’t spoken to Zed in a month. There’s only so much you can communicate in a text and I only get to see him during the games. Missy continued to press her daughter and Addison continued to say what she wanted to hear. When her mother ended the call, Addison sat staring at the phone.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang. No answer.

The phone rang.

“Zoey!” Zed couldn’t help smiling as he answered the phone.

“Hey,” his little sister replied enthusiastically. “Did Addison tell you she enlisted Miss Zàrate to work with the Zombeans while you guys are at college?”

Zed nodded in remembrance. “Yeah, said that someone had to make sure you rascals kept up with practice,” he joked.

“Is she there?” Zoey asked. An innocent enough question, but one that tugged his dead heartstrings anyway.

“Uh, no. It’s the end of the semester, everyone’s pretty busy with final projects and exams. How’s your schooling going?” Zed changed the subject. He didn’t want to talk about how the past few weeks had been hard, how they hadn’t even talked on the phone, much less seen each other. Zoey happily told him about Zombeans and her experiences at her new school. She talked about their Dad and Puppy, about the changes to Zombietown (the rusty gates had finally been removed, there was a bus that took the kids into the human part of town for school and a regular city bus connecting the neighbourhoods “we get to take the regular school bus with the humans to the bus stop,” she’d explained solemnly), and everything else that was important to an eleven-year-old girl.

“When are you guys coming back to Seabrook?”

Zed sighed. “I don’t know, Zozo. Probably pretty quickly after the semester’s over. Five weeks maybe.” He could practically hear her pouting over the phone. “I miss you and Pops and Puppy,” he said. And Addison.

“We miss you too,” Zoey assured him. There was a brief pause while she said something to their dad. “Dad says I should let you get back to school stuff. And he wants to go over my homework. I told him it’s fine, but…”

“Math?” At his sister’s hum, Zed continued: “you just gotta keep checking. Try to memorize the uses of each formula and always check your work. At the end of the day, all that matters is that you pass.”

“Thanks, Zed.”

“Hey, isn’t it just about bedtime?” He could practically hear her rolling her eyes. Laughing gently, he told her good night and hung up the phone.

MISSED CALL. ADDI. Read the call display. Zed cursed, a mix of English and Zombietongue, and hit the speed dial.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang. He cancelled the call, not wanting to hear her voicemail again. Instead, he sent a few messages. Fifteen minutes and a response later, he texted Addison.

U R FREE SAT! PICK U UP @ DORM @ 430. SEE U GORGEOUS.

He added a green heart emoji at the end of the message, slowly smiling.

When he woke up the next morning, there was a new message from Addison:

YOU MEAN LIKE A DATE? followed by a single pink heart.

It was Tuesday. He had three days to plan the perfect reunion date.

Zombietongue and translations all taken from Ly’s amazing masterposts. @unusual-ly

Zombeans belongs to Sarah @fist-it-out

Abraza garzi’ska, ag gar-gargiza ru. | Sorry garzi’ska, I love you.

#ZomSecretSanta2019 #vicapuleti #zombies #zeddison

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thepencilnerd · 6 years ago

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𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐲 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 || 𝐦.𝐲.𝐠.

coup de fou·dre- noun; derived from the French word for a strike of lightning, it describes a sudden unforeseen event, often in reference to love at first sight

➳ Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

➳ Summary: Love at first sight didn’t exist. To you, this was a fact. Living in the city of love and lights, therefore, couldn’t have been more ironic. Paris wasn’t just the destination for hopeless romantics and tourists alike, but it was also home to hundreds of hidden treasures that were nestled around ecah street corner. Fate and destiny weren’t exactly concepts that you ever believed in, but how many times does it take for a chance encounter to turn into something even the universe couldn’t explain?

➳ Genre: AU! Fluff, star-crossed encounters, barely a soulmate AU

➳ Word Count: 9.5k

a/n: a few phrases in French but they will be translated in italics, and my French is very extremely rusty so please forgive me

Waking up to the Parisian sun was one of the many things you cherished about living in the city. The open balcony window allowed an ambient breeze to blow into your studio apartment as sunlight streaked through the untied curtains.

Reluctant to part from your disheveled bed sheets and scattered comforters, you took a glimpse at your alarm clock that read 8h47. Forcing yourself to come to terms with the fact that you had to get out of bed sooner or later, you threw your legs over the edge of the bed and hauled yourself up.

It was a lazy Saturday in your quiet apartment, but the impending doom of going back to work on Monday motivated you to enjoy as much of your weekend as possible. When you applied for your university’s Study Abroad for a Summer program, you never imagined that you’d end up transferring to and graduating from Sorbonne, let alone living in Paris to this day. California never really had anything for you to begin with, and you’d lost contact with your parents after you moved out at 18.

From infancy into adolescence, your family began falling apart at the seams. Your mom was barely home, and instead found more pleasure in placing bets and melting the plastic off of her credit card at casino resorts, while your dad couldn’t deal with the stress he got from watching her ruin their entire bank account. He didn’t care much about her livelihood, but when money was thrown into the equation, he went manic.

Being on the dean’s list actually paid off in helping you form close relationships with your counselors and teachers; ones that your parents could never give you. As they had grown well aware of your situation at home, they made sure to take your work ethic and mediocre grades into account when you handed them your transfer application forms. Putting in a good word for you, they helped you realize that family wasn’t confined to blood relations, but rather the extensive bonds that you formed with those around you.

When the opportunity to move out presented itself on a silver platter, you took it without a single ounce of hesitation. Life was hell with or without your family, so why not just get away from it all together?

It was no secret that France was a timeless country. While cities around the world began to construct office buildings and fall into the trend of modern sky-high architecture, France itself was a living and breathing historical artifact. Most buildings had been left untouched and undemolished since the Renaissance era, and they were constantly being maintained and restored like fine artwork.

Passing through each and every street, there wasn’t a single spot exempt from being anything but breathtaking. Even the street art was a sight to see. One of your favorite “touristy” spots was the Parc du Champ de Mars. The first few weeks into spring was when the flora in the park was at its peak. Nestled just behind the Eiffel Tower, the long field was a hotspot for tourists, families, friends, and couples all the like. Throughout the entire week, the park was full of vibrant and lively energy as people gathered to celebrate in the lush green grass.

The Eiffel Tower was unquestionably your favorite place. Nestled in the 7th arrondissement, or sector of Paris, the Tour Eiffel was an icon in and of itself. Known as a culturally recognizable historic monument around the world, it wasn’t just all talk. Although the climb up the tower was grueling and enough to meet your monthly exercise requirements, the view from the highest observation deck was unrivaled.

From the top, you could feel the clean air coursing through your lungs as you took in the view. The Arc de Triomphe was at the heart of the city, with the arch being the center median for twelve streets that ran through it. On the rare occasion in that you’d take the lift up to the deck at night, the whole city came to life as lights that beamed from lampposts, streetlights, and cars illuminated the entire heart of Paris. To describe the sight in words was impossible, and it made you feel like a tourist in your own city.

Every morning before you left the house, especially on days that you didn’t feel like doing anything, you prayed silently and reminded yourself to be grateful for the opportunity to live in a country that some would sell their left kidney just to visit. Thankful for waking up to breathe another day in this reverie of a city, you trudged to the bathroom and washed up.

Once you had settled into the city and stabilized living like a somewhat put-together adult, you had made it your goal to explore as much of the city as possible through any means possible. Most of the time, however, it involved stopping by at the most tourist clustered destinations. Although there were hundreds, if not thousands, of hidden treasures like restaurants and rustic flea markets, you found much more joy in hopping on the metro and letting it fate decide where it took you.

Wrapping a scarf around your neck, a necessity when the spring air was still in its early beginnings, you gathered your remaining things into your bag and hurried out the door into the awaiting city outside.

Weekends typically started off late, as you had formed a habit of sleeping in on Saturdays and crashing early to wake up early on Sunday, but your morning routine always consisted of some kind of coffee to jump-start the day. Your cozy apartment building nestled in the 7th arrondissement of Paris was not only home to the Tour Eiffel but was also a hotspot for trendy cafés and restaurants all-the-like. On almost every street corner and turn of the road, a bistro or eatery occupied the lot, and outdoor seating made them all the more inviting. With a warm and homey atmosphere, even admiring the happy customers was a delightful experience.

About a block or two from your flat building was one such café– Maison de Raphaël. You had heard stories of the original owner, Raphaël Beaumont, had fallen in love and met his wife at a café and was inspired to start his own business with her; a sign of their new journey as lovers and partners until their passing. The business was then inherited by his children and his children’s children to carry on, a constant reminder of how cooperation, understanding, patience, and hard work had the ability to build something magical.

The familiar ring of the chimes on the door was like music to your ears as the scent of freshly ground coffee and steaming hot baked goods rushed to flood your senses. Not to mention the bustling customers, golden colored hanging lights, and rustic feel that made the place feel like a second home.

Distracted by the hectic atmosphere, you tripped on your footing as you bumped into a random person. “Sorry!” Ducking your head and murmuring a quick apology, you immediately that your English slipped out accidentally. Before you could get a chance to rephrase your sentence, you found yourself at the front of the counter in the presence of your best friend.

“Y/N!” Amélie shouted, reaching over the counter to envelop you a bear hug. “Quoi de neuf? / What’s up?”

You couldn’t help but smile in return at her constantly vibrant and bright personality. “Rien de nouveau / Nothing new,” you shrugged.

“Mademoiselle?” another voice rung from the kitchen. A nickname you had earned your first visit to the café as the “lost American,” you craned your neck to the buzzing kitchen, quickly waving to Amélie’s uncle, Pierre, as he gave you a toothy grin before resuming his cooking.

“Still learning English?” you asked intuitively.

Clearing her throat meekly, she stood with her chest puffed out and chin held high as she began speaking in English with a faint accent. “The weather is quite nice today, wouldn’t you say?”

“Very nice,” you complimented her choice of sentence topic. “Je parle pas francais, désolé / I don’t speak French, sorry.” Holding your hands up jokingly, she giggled kindly at your submission to the French language.

In the years that you had lived in France, you were still in middle school level and more than uneasy with verb conjugations. You were also eternally grateful that your job didn’t require that much face-to-face conversation, as everything in this age was done digitally, therefore, virtually.

“Come on,” she scoffed. “You’re fluent enough.” Scrunching your nose at her unbearably kind nature, her French accent still laced her words as she spoke English, but it was one of those things that non-French speakers swooned over.

“Whoever invented verb conjugation is the devil,” you groaned. “Can I have—”

“One café au lait coming right up,” she hummed, knowing your order by heart. Zipping around the tiny back bar like a dancing fairy, her quick hands crafted an award-worthy latte within minutes. Signaling you to find a spot on the swivel stools that lined the window, you maneuvered through the crowded groups of people waiting in line and met her halfway. “L'heure du déjeuner! / Lunch hour/break!” she shouted, her voice ringing through the back kitchen.

Sitting comfortably on the vintage seats, the sunlight hit your skin softly as light from outside peeked through the glass. A tray with two large cups was placed on the table as the scent of fresh coffee and steamed milk immediately found its way to your waiting nose and eager mouth. However, you always took the time to admire the steamed foam artwork that Amélie meticulously painted. Every day was a different masterpiece; some days were tulips and vines, while other days were cats and feathers. Today, it was a perfectly swirled and classic rosetta.

Plopping herself down on the stool and raising it to meet your taller stature, you giggled lightly as you lowered yours, helping her in her efforts. Patting her frizzy curls down, she swept the bangs from her eyes and gave you a sheepish grin.

You had met Amélie almost as soon as you had moved to France all those years ago. A quiet and bashful girl, your coffee addiction was fed by none other than the great-granddaughter of Raphaël Beaumont himself. In a flurry of terrible French and broken English, the two of you quickly bonded after your first turmoil of an encounter, sharing common interests in the world of fashion and cultures from your respective birthplaces. While she helped you pick up French, you began to teach her English and fuel her dream to move to New York to start her own clothing line; a dream she had apparently had since preschool.

“Don’t tell me,” you hummed, quirking your lips into a smirk and knitting your eyebrows as you gestured to her vibrant red top. “New fabrics from the flea market?”

Nodding proudly, she smoothed out the lace overlay that decorated the bodice and patted it appreciatively. “I couldn’t help myself. As soon as I saw them laid out, I had to make a new blouse.”

“Prototypes are supposed to be a rough outline, not perfect products. If your mother were working a shift today, she might snatch it right off of you.” Tracing your fingers over the delicate blossoms and her impeccable handiwork with stitches, her talent never ceased to amaze you. “What am I going to do without your coffee when you leave?”

“You’ll have your boyfriend to keep you company of course,” she retorted, flipping her hair back in an exaggerated manner. “But I won’t be going for a while, so don’t get your—how do you say it again? Panties in a twist?”

“Oh my god, please never say that ever again,” you gawked, trying not to blush out of embarrassment. “Where did you even learn that?”

Shrugging nonchalantly, she raised her cup and took an indulgent sip. You also couldn’t wait any longer and snapped a picture before reluctantly ruining the beautiful artwork. Sighing in relief at the bitter taste that coated your tongue, nothing at that moment felt better than this.

“Anything on la carte / the menu for you today, mademoiselle?” she asked thoughtfully, the nickname that her mother gave on your first visit to the café sticking like tree sap and rosin.

Swirling the already half empty cup, you furrowed your eyebrows. “I might take the metro to the Notre-Dame. Maybe make a wish at Point Zéro and pray for a good workload this month?”

She facepalmed and rolled her eyes at your dull response. “Mon dieu / oh my god, live your life a little. If I had today off, I’d go with you to wish for your boyfriend to come along already.”

The legends of Point Zéro had been spread few and far between standing there with a loved one or paying pilgrimage to the journey in the city, but mostly revolved around the tale that if you stood on the brass plate in front of the cathedral and made a wish, it would come true.

“Come on,” you snorted. “You know I don’t believe in any of that ‘coup de foudre’ stuff.”

The term which literally meant “lightning strike” was an expression often used to describe a fated or unexpected occurrence such as love at first sight. Both of which you didn’t exactly believe in.

“It’s not ‘stuff,’” she mocked your tone. “C’est vrai! / It’s true! You live in the city of love, for goodness sake. Stop killing yourself with your job and enjoy life.”

Swallowing the last of your cold coffee, you propped up your elbow and rested your chin on your hand, studying the small potted plant that was placed on the wood table. “Love is stupid,” you huffed under your breath. “Everyone’s just desperate for a partner who’ll give them everything and not ask for anything in return. What kind of love is that?”

“The stupid kind,” she jeered, flicking your forehead with her index finger to snap you out of your negative thoughts. “There’s someone out there for you. It’s just a matter of having to wait for the right time to roll around.”

After chatting about the upcoming spring fashion walks in New York and getting scolded by her uncle, you agreed to visit her after her shift so you could hang out at your place for the weekend. Bidding Amélie and her family goodbye, you returned to the bustling streets that awaited you.

Despite the sometimes overhyped atmosphere of Paris, it was a sin to deny the fact that the city was a glimmering gem. Aboard the ferry that passed across the River Seine, you were currently en route to the Cathédral Notre-Dame. Resting your elbow on the metal rail, the cool breeze glided across your face, making your sigh in contempt. Weekends were truly the best.

The usually crowded boat was relatively empty today, especially considering it was a weekend. Although there were a few families and tourist groups here and there, the entirety of the boat was overall calm. Drifting off into the vast scenery of antique architecture and busy streets, you noticed that you were just coming up to Pont Alexandre III, a monument bridge that connected the Les Invalides buildings with the Champs-Élysées. Adorned with bronze statues of nymphs and gilded phemes, they stood to represent the arts, agriculture, commerce, and war; the concrete foundation and rich values on which the country was built on. It never failed to make you feel honored to live here.

Pulling your phone out to snap a picture (as per your routine ritual whenever you passed by the bridge), you noticed a white beanie stand out in the photo and in the crowd. Although the weather could be considered chilly enough for extra outerwear, you noticed that out of the people that you had walked past in the last hour or two, this person was the first to don a fuzzy knit cap. Grinning to yourself, you ignored the silly thought as the ferry came to its stop.

The cathedral was busy as always. With the line of entry starting from the inside trailing all the way to the middle of the sidewalk, you were lucky if you could waddle through the crowds. Trying to navigate through the swarm of people, you found yourself a relatively empty spot around the brass plate that officially marked the exact center of the city. Throughout the years, the words and engraved patterns on the plate had worn off, but the central 8-pointed star was still mildly visible.

Standing beside the plate that was centered perfectly with the front of the cathedral, you admired every little detail that your eyes could drink in; the rose windows that were arranged in concentric circles, the stone statues of biblical figures, and the timeless gothic architecture that formed the entirety of the epochal construction.

You didn’t plan on lighting a candle inside today, and the number of people that were pouring outside proved your point. Maybe next week? Staring down at the timeworn brass plate, you shoved your hands inside your pockets and closed your eyes to make a wish.

“Live your life a little. There’s someone out there for you. It’s just a matter of having to wait for the right time to roll around,” Amélie’s words echoed loud and clear in your head.

Huffing out in slight frustration, you pressed your eyes shut and wished for the one thing you had worked so hard for all your life.

I just want to be happy.

Silently praying and repeating the mantra to yourself for a few seconds, you were snapped out of your daze by a kid running headfirst into your thigh and toppling over like a Jenga tower. Gasping in shock, you immediately crouched down to help the little boy up and brush off the dirt from his plaid sweater.

“Désolé! / Sorry!” you cringed, tensing your face into an expression that screamed guilt. “Est-ce que ça va? / Are you okay?”

The seemingly unaffected boy simply nodded, making you find it odd that he wasn’t crying or wailing. Instead, he chortled as if nothing were wrong in the world. “Est-ce que ça va, mademoiselle? / Are you alright, miss?”

Smiling endearingly at his mannerism with a hint of worry knit in your brows, you gently brushed over his wavy tresses and double-checked to make sure he hadn’t scraped anything.

Pressing up onto his tippy toes to raise himself to your height, the boy whispered in your ear. “On ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux. / It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eyes.” Before you got a chance to reply, he skipped off and disappeared into the crowd.

You stood frozen as you tried to think about the words a random child had just re-iterated to you. You had no problem recognizing the quote from your favorite book of all time; Le Petit Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. Trying to think of all the possible reasons why a stranger, let alone a child, would reference that particular quote out of nowhere, you ignored it and settled on the fact that maybe he had been reading too many fantasy books for his own good. Even though the boy had run off somewhere, worry overcame you as you realized you hadn’t even asked him if he was lost.

Squinting your eyes as you scanned the herd of people to see if you could spot him, you were able to make out his tiny plaid sweater amongst the generally darkly clothed adults. He was standing in the entrance line with an older woman you assumed was his mother. The boy turned to the man behind him and tugged on the edge of his beige coat, pointing his finger to somewhere in the crowd. Your eyes began trailing up the tall figure whose back was turned towards you, but you recognized the white beanie from earlier like a red wine stain on linen.

He must have gotten off at the same stop as me.

Unable to see his face from your angle, the man crouched down and ruffled the boy’s hair as a toothy grin appeared on the child’s face. Lightly chuckling to yourself, you quickly snapped a picture, reminding yourself to tell Amélie all about it when you went to visit her later. Checking your watch, the hands read 12:57 and meant that lunch was just around the corner. Glancing at the eroded star once more, you turned to the spot that the boy was standing, only to find that he and his mother were already walking inside, and the man from earlier was now nowhere to be seen.

As with most major city, restaurants in urban districts could be found scattered around every block like street signs. After walking across the Pont Notre-Dame to find the nearest bistro, you stumbled upon a crêperie just short of the Tour Saint-Jacques; another landmark that was the only remaining structure of a 16th-century church that was destroyed during the revolution.

Entering the small and cozy eatery, you were greeted by the friendly hostess behind the bar, currently occupied with wiping down the glasses and silverware. Sitting down by the window booth, she brought you a menu and a glass of water to start. Ordering their special, strawberry creme crêpes with a café au lait, you sat patiently as your stomach began to growl from the long walk. Years in the city and you still hadn’t gotten used to the daily on-foot commute.

Gazing outside the window, you always found yourself magnetized by the most insignificant details about this city. Sometimes, you even found yourself staring at the cracks of old brick walls until a person tapped you on the shoulder asking you if you were alright. If that wasn’t embarrassing enough, you were the type of person who found joy in strolling around flea markets for hours without boredom.

After a few minutes, a plate of freshly flipped crêpes made its way to your table, the thinly sliced strawberries and fluffy whipped cream seeping at the edges practically begging to be devoured. Bordering the edge of drooling, you cut a bite-sized portion but couldn’t bring yourself to eat at a normal pace for the fear that it would all be gone too soon. This might be your new favorite place, which didn’t bode well for your old faithful crêperie two blocks down from your apartment.

Taking time to savor the light and airy texture of the filling, you paced yourself in between bites and sips, reminding yourself to eat as slow as you could to make the experience all the more worthwhile. Once you downed your last mouthful and a final sip of coffee, you handed the waitress the check as she returned to go get your receipt.

Drawn to the light outside the once more, you saw that the sun was still shining bright, remembering that it was still early spring and the sunset didn’t come until around dinnertime. Shifting your gaze to the crowded patio seats, you couldn’t help but draw your attention to a couple sat in a pair beside the rose bushes that lined the seating area.

They appeared to be in their late thirties and were bantering back and forth while eating, letting a few giggles slip here and there. It’s not that dating or commitment scared you, but it was the idea of giving yourself completely into a relationship and not knowing if the other person might leave you at any moment that seemed—vulnerable. You despised nothing more than being blinded by love, and half of the time, the romance that books and movies talked about wasn’t even real love; it was just lust. Libido-driven physical one-sided lust. Still, you couldn’t help the wishful gaze that began to form.

Would you ever find a love that was even half as passionate as what they had?

Receiving the receipt from the waitress, you quickly thanked her and slung your bag over your shoulder as you got ready to leave. However, before you stood up, a familiar figure was sat two booths down from you. The same back-turned position, white beanie, beige coat, and this time, you could make out the edge of an ivory-colored scarf that was wrapped around his neck. Blinking to make sure that your contacts weren’t just drying up, you shrugged it off as the first coincidence of the day.

You paced yourself out the door and convinced yourself that it was just that; a coincidence.

Venturing down to the 1st arrondissement in a spontaneous act of curiosity, you were drawn to the petite floral shop that was a few blocks from the bus stop. Marveling at the newly made arrangements and bundles of in-season vines that lined the floors and shelves, the kind elderly lady of the store instantly sparked a friendly conversation with you about the meanings of different flowers.

As the conversation carried on with her effortless French and you struggling to decipher her quick tempo, you understood the gist of her speech but still blanked on a couple verbs and idioms here and there. Roses were tokens of love and devotion, calla lilies symbolized beauty and purity, and lilacs represented innocence and confidence. Nodding your head to make sure that you didn’t show how clueless you were in between her complicated sentences, she gave you a heartwarming smile before clasping her hands over her mouth with a gasp, scrambling to reach for something under her workspace.

Ducking down her counter and shuffling through floral wires, foam, and a few cardholders, she found a small cylindrical glass vial necklace and handed it to you tenderly. Looking at it up close, you saw that it was a burgundy rosebud encapsulated in a clear resin of some sort.

"Pour votre aimé / For your loved one." Clasping her hands around yours, she gave you a firm look of sincerity, bordering on the verge of urgency

"Non, s'il te plaît, / No, please," you urged, trying to hand it back to her but receiving a pouted lip and a wagging finger in return. Shaking your hands embarrassingly, you denied her conclusion as quickly as the words had left her mouth. “Je n'ai pas d'amant. / I don’t have a lover.”

“Pas encore, mais bientôt, / Not yet, but soon,” she emphasized her words, laughing at your blank and confused face before waving her hands and telling you to get home early.

When you tried to hand her a few euros in exchange, she nearly bit your head off and ushered you to take off and come back again. Sighing in defeat and surrendering to her persistent nature, you thanked her once more before leaving the shop with a jingle of the windchimes sounding behind you.

Pausing to open your clutched hand and inspected the perfectly preserved bud, completely in awe at how intact and still life-like it was. Frowning slightly, you wondered why she had suddenly been struck with the idea of giving a rather pricey looking necklace to a random customer; mind you, you hadn’t paid for it either.

Feeling guilty for not at least buying a small bouquet or desk succulent, you bit your lip and debated whether you had time to go back inside and buy something before the next bus came. Scanning over the buckets that bordered the outside of the shop, you tried to see if there were any small buds you could bundle together yourself or a small cactus you could quickly buy, but it was a fruitless effort, as most of the displays and pre-made potted plants were too large for you to carry home.

Exhaling in slight annoyance you decided that it was better to come back tomorrow and catch the bus, but not before taking a quick snapshot of the colorful row of blooming petals. Examining the picture you had just taken on your phone, your eyes widened at an all too recognizable figure at the edge of the picture. Wearing that same white beanie, ivory scarf, beige coat, black jeans, and with his back still turned to you, the same man from earlier today was currently standing over the array of flowers.

Looking up, he was still facing away from you in a way that you couldn’t make out his appearance, but you could clearly hear the shutter of a camera going off as he gazed at the freshly blossomed roses. Pondering over the possibility that this was just another coincidence, you reminded yourself that you would just come back tomorrow and buy a full-size arrangement instead.

Returning back to the direction of the bus stop, you almost screamed when you read the time. Nearing dinner time, you dashed down the street as if your life depended on it and tried to catch the last bus home.

The good news was that you ran faster than you had in your entire life and could probably skip cardio for the next few months. The bad news was that you missed your bus and were out of breath, freezing, and hungry.

Your watch read 4:40, making you groan as reality struck. Internally facepalming yourself and saying a prayer to your bank account, you swallowed your pride and told yourself that this was a foreboding from the high heavens as motivation to work harder. A white lie never every once in a while never hurt anyone, right?

Stumbling across a somewhat affordable diner combined brasserie, the enticing smell of roast beef and freshly baked dinner rolls wafted you inside. Since it was a peak hour for early diners, you were lucky to find yourself a spot in the back patio seating. Eyeing the rather empty area oddly, it clicked when you pieced together how full the front and indoor seating area was. Following the waiter to your table, you sighed in relief when your legs came in contact with the leather cushions. With tired legs finally being able to leisure and be limp on the ground, your tired out-of-shape muscles bid you a wordless thank you.

Gulping down the jug of water the kind server had brought you, he chuckled before giving you a break to catch your breath, clearly noticing your exhaustion as you struggled to form proper sentences. If your day to day French was awful, imagine what it sounded like when you were fatigued beyond words.

Deciding on a bowl of bœuf bourguignon with pommes frites / beef stew with fried potatoes, the waiter jotted down your order and excused himself. Closing your eyes and trying to control your growing hunger, you almost fainted when you rolled your head back and turned to two seats down to your right.

“Beanie boy?!” you shrieked, widening your eyes and cupping your hand over your mouth when you realized how loud you had just shouted. The same boy from earlier jolted from his seat, dropping his pasta entwined fork and yelping as well. Coughing to clear his throat from his near-choking experience, you couldn’t believe your eyes. How did he get here?

“Pardon?” he choked, grabbing his napkin to wipe his mouth. Noticing his choice of English, you raised your finger shakily and pointed to him as if he were a zombie that had risen from the dead. “You speak English?” you asked with your jaw agape. He simply blinked and nodded.

Right before you could continue, the waiter walked into the seating area and looked at both of you with bulging eyes before hastily setting your food down on your table and scurrying off.

“Have you—do you��have you been following me?” you mumbled. Your mouth was still agape in shock, periodically opening and closing like a fish out of water.

Cocking his head and furrowing his eyebrow softly, his lower lip jutted in a pout and he shook his head. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Jaw dropping entirely, you blinked harshly and checked once more if your contacts were dried out, but gulped anxiously when he was still in front of you. “No. No, I’m not, I just—how?”

“May I sit?” he peeped politely, his extroverted statement contrasting with his outwardly introverted appearance. Nodding unconsciously for the fear that you’d be an awful person if you denied someone eating dinner alone a companion, he got up and shuffled through the chairs and sat down in front of you.

The dim light now illuminated his features, making his face thoroughly visible. Under his knit cap was coarse dark brown hair that framed his round yet angular face. His soft eyebrows drew attention to his brown eyes, while his lips seemed to be formed a perpetual pout.

“I guess this is all just one big coincidence, right?” you forced out an awkward laugh in order to diffuse some of the tension and pry your staring eyes off of him. Maybe it was all in your own head.

Pressing his lips into a thin line, it looked as if he were holding back a laugh. Barely narrowing your eyes to try and analyze his micro expressions, he resumed speaking.

“If you want to call it that,” he chuckled lightly, his voice now emphasized crystal clear. “I’ve had a pretty weird day today.”

Feeling yourself relax at his ability to make casual talk with a stranger like yourself, you felt a grin tug at the edges of your mouth. “I’ll raise you on that bet.”

Eyebrow lifting at your challenge, you raised your eyebrows at him tauntingly, a sudden surge of confidence rushing over you that you had never felt before. He eyed you wearily before raising his fork to his mouth and poking his chin with it, his aim inadvertently ruined by your locked stare. You coughed to hide a snort.

“So what brings you to the 1st arrondissement on this fine Saturday night?” he asked speculatively, deep-set eyes never leaving yours as you replied.

Chewing slowly to think of an answer, you shrugged shyly and gave him your honest answer. “Just another boring Saturday, I guess...” He nodded understandingly, seeming to accept your plain response. “What about you?”

It was his turn to shrug. “I didn’t feel like sitting around in my living room again was the most productive way to spend the weekend, so I thought it’d be a good idea to work on my portfolio.”

Holding your spoon as it came halfway to your mouth, you set it back down and grew interested in his occupation. “Photography major?”

“Photographer, actually,” he smirked playfully, emphasizing the last syllable ever so slightly. “But I’m glad I wasn’t the only one who got mistaken as a student.”

“You thought I was a post-grad?” you scoffed, amazed and flattered that you could still pass off as a woman in her very early twenties.

He grinned widely at your surprise, showing off a gummy smile that made your stomach feel weird. Did they cook the meat all the way through? you thought.

“I guess we have more than one thing in common,” he remarked, winding another mouthful of pasta around his fork neatly before engulfing it like a child.

“You mean ferry rides and flower shops?” you joked.

“Don’t forget cathedrals and cafés,” he reminded, shooting you a cheeky wink.

Shaking your head at his bold nature, the two of you broke into giggles, unable to hold back the recollection of strange concurrences that had occurred in the single day alone. The waiter stopped by the table to refill the water jug, making you both shift in your seats and try to tone your laughter down. Whispering something in the waiter’s ear, he shuffled his hand under the tablecloth, but you assumed your eyes were just deceiving you again.

“So you’re a photographer, are you?”

Quirking the edge of his lip and a brow into a pondering expression, he couldn’t give you a definitive answer. “It depends—am I still a professional if I don’t think my work is particularly that good?”

“Touché,” you hummed. “May I be the judge of that?”

His eyes ducked down timidly, indicating that he was genuinely unconfident in his work. “How about we make a deal of some sort?” he offered.

Jutting your chin down and pressing him to continue, he smiled coyly. “Let me spend the evening with you as reimbursement for dinner, and I’ll show you my portfolio.”

“Is that a euphemism for something I don’t want to know?” your mind urged you to ask apprehensively, noting the kind tone that laced his voice.

“No, I promise,” he raised his hands in defense.

“What do you mean ‘reimbursement for dinner?’” you air-quoted, still not sure of what his intention was.

“Considering I already slipped the waiter my card,” he whipped out a piece of paper from his back pocket. “—and I’ve already signed the receipt, I’d say that this boring Saturday just turned into a spur of the moment hang out between new acquaintances.”

Suppressing a scoff at his daring personality that emitted sheer confidence and shamelessness, you caved in and agreed. This was considered a “blind date,” right?

Continuing our discussion and jumping randomly from topic to topic, the flow of the conversation never stopped, continuing along effortlessly as hours seemed to pass by like seconds. The playful banter was exchanged with teasing comments and jokes, making the rumbling of passing streetcars become drowned out by the combination of your hearty laughter; a sound that you had unintentionally begun to memorize note by note in your mind.

Before you knew it, the sun had already begun to set and was falling fast. A mutual look of understanding crossed your faces when you checked your watch again, the dreaded hands that you had grown to dislike throughout the day clearly reading 8:05.

“I live in the 7th arrondissement. Is it alright I walk you home?” he asked softly, a tone of reluctance lacing his quiet voice.

Blinking your eyes rapidly and coming back to your senses, you nodded, wondering for a split second how he knew which district you lived in, but remembered that he boarded the same ferry as you this morning. Telling yourself that nothing lasted forever and that the night had to come to an end eventually, the two of you rose from your seats and slowly dragged your feet to the exit.

The view from the Pont Alexander III bridge was beautiful during the daytime, but the lampposts that illuminated the pathway at night was an entirely different experience. The ornate and extravagant bridge that you had seen glimmering during the daytime was now toned down, making the statues appear to be asleep.

Considered the golden hour by many, you understood why the lavish name had been given to the spot at this time. The line of the sunset followed the arch of the bridge, skimming it lightly as the sun itself disappeared beneath the skyline. The pastel blue, warm orange, and vibrant red-yellow gradient skies were accentuated by the very golden street lamps, making it the perfect destination to stop by before the end the evening.

“Do I get to see those pictures yet or was this all just a grand scheme to spend the evening with me?” you remarked coyly, biting the inside of your cheek to hold back a grin when you saw a light blush fan across his cheeks. Darting his tongue out to wet his lower lip, he still seemed a bit nervous.

“I promise you that my pictures are worse,” you assured. “You looked pretty professional around the roses though, so I wouldn’t really worry.”

Face surrendering into his grin, he pulled out his camera from his satchel and stood beside you, both of you resting your elbows behind you on the rail of the bridge. Handing him your phone and exchanging it with his camera, you each began scrolling through the gallery pictures. You were absolutely spellbound.

He had managed to capture each setting of the landmarks in Paris perfectly. From the Louvre to the Museé d’Orsay and the Arc de Triomphe all the way up to the view from the top of the Eiffel Tower, his shots were somehow able to encapture the pure essence and splendor of the city.

“These are—” you gaped. “I don’t—”

“They’re pretty mediocre,” he admitted guiltily as his hand began rubbing the back of his neck instinctively.

“No!” you defended. “They’re just—wow. They’re amazing...”

“Thanks,” he blushed at your compliment. “Your pictures are pretty good, too.”

Rolling your eyes at his makeshift compliment, you accepted it nonetheless. “They’re mediocre,” you mimicked.

He ruffled your hair jocularly, taking your mind back to when you saw him at the cathedral. “Did I mention that I make a great model?”

Your head tilted in confusion at his query but your eyes widened when it dawned on you; he had seen the pictures you’d taken of him. Showing you your phone, he began swiping across the screen, exposing the few pictures that you had snapped of him covertly.

“Oh—” you stuttered. “Those were just—I thought it—I thought it would be a funny story to tell my friend. My best friend. She loves movie-plot stuff like this. Coincidental situations, accidental encounters, you know. Stuff like that?”

Hoping he would understand and look past your rambling mess of words, he burst into a fit of laughter as he showed off his gummy smile again; one you had already begun to grow fond of a little too quickly for your liking.

“Keep scrolling,” he giggled, pointing to his camera in your hand. Following his directions, your eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as they caught images of the places you had visited earlier today—with you as the central subject of the pictures.

The first was of the ferry ride; you were holding your chin up from your elbow on the rail and gazing across the river with a serene and tranquil expression. The second was of you standing on point zero; your eyes were shut tight and concentrated firmly on the brass plate, making you remember your wish that you had prayed for. The third was of you at the crêperie; your mind flashed back to the moment when you were staring out the window at the lovely couple. In the captured photo, your wistful gaze conveyed the definition loneliness.

The fourth one at the flower shop was the one that stood out from the rest.

In the other ones, you seemed like you were lost in the haze of your mind and constantly living out of the moment; whether it was thinking about your past or the future, this one was one of pure joy as you were gazing at the beautiful colors and delicate scents of the flora. A repressed grin slipped past your lips, turning into a full-blown expression of awe.

“Do you mind if I take another one?” he asked delicately, rubbing the back of his neck again, a habit you deciphered as one that stemmed from nervousness. Nodding your head as warmth flushed your cheeks, you handed him the camera and panicked, unable to think of a pose.

“Just relax and smile,” he encouraged, giving you a heartfelt grin as he adjusted the lens.

Narrowing your eyes at the ground for a brief second, you retreated to your accustomed position of propping your elbow up and resting your chin on your hand. You looked out across the rippling river and now dark sky as the once bright colors had grown dusky and dim. The shutter clicked once, making you turn to him and click again.

“Aimer, ce n'est pas se regarder l'un l'autre, c'est regarder ensemble dans la même direction. / Love doesn’t consist of gazing at each other, but in looking together in the same direction.” He spoke in a near whisper to himself as he repeated another quote from Saint-Exupéry, making it the second one today.

Taken aback by his words, you struggled to find words yourself. “Did a boy—a little boy tell you that, by any chance?”

He looked up from his camera display and at you with widened eyes. “I told you today was a weird day,” he stared at you in disbelief. Feeling at ease around his amusing reaction, you shook your head and let out a nasal snort, staring thoughtfully at the river.

"I’m guessing you’re an Exupéry fan too?” you added. Fiddling with his hands, he simply nodded, the edges of his lips curling into a carefree grin.

“Le Petit Prince is a classic tragedy,” he sighed. “I cried for days when my mom explained the ending to me.”

Patting his back and comforting his pouty face, you accidentally let out a giggle. “I thought I was the only one.”

Standing beside each other and glancing at the rippling waves below, you found your eyes drift to a couple on the street that bordered the bridge. Oddly enough, they seemed to mirror the pair of you with their similar taste of clothing and friendly bond.

“Do you think the rose was selfish?” you wondered aloud, not expecting a response from him. It had been an odd question that plagued your very existence ever since you had read the book as a child.

“No,” he replied without an ounce of hesitation. “They were so blinded by love, they didn’t understand what it even meant. Would you still call that love?” he pondered, his voice coming out just shy of a whisper.

Your head shifted to him, studying his features as he continued to look across the water. Changing his position to mirror you, his lips relaxed before forming a sympathetic smile.

“Love is easy to find if you look hard enough, especially in a big city like this— but it’s the good kind; the wholehearted, selfless, and genuine devotion that makes everything worthwhile. That’s the one that’s almost impossible to find.”

Feeling his eyes pierce through you, you shyly averted your gaze away and returned to the view of the sky, which was now completely enveloped in darkness as the day was finally at its end.

“That kind of love isn’t something you find; it’s something that comes to you,” he iterated softly, his captivated eyes never leaving you. “But I couldn’t agree more.”

“On ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur, / It is only with the heart that one can see rightly,” you started, curious to see if he were as passionate and borderline obsessed with the children’s fable as you were.

“L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux, / What is essential is invisible to the eyes,” he continued, completing the second half of the quote.

Diverting your attention back to the streets below, you swore you felt your heart hiccup.

Within the few hours that you had spent together, you felt as if you’d known each other all your life. There was some kind of connection, a bond, that neither of you could explain. Whether it was your mutual inarticulate French speaking skills or the fact that you had delved deep into the past circumstances that resulted in moving to Paris, time didn’t seem to exist when he spoke to you. To say that you felt comfortable around him was an understatement; you felt like you were home.

Thankfully, Maison de Raphaël was just around the corner from the bridge. You didn’t notice how much time had passed until you checked the time again; it was already 9:30, meaning Amélie would be off work soon.

“I guess this is my stop,” you exhaled, trying not to show your discomfort from all the walking you had done today. Even though the sky was now a deep navy blue, flecks of light constellations began to peek through the dim clouds.

“Time flew by too quickly,” he noted, his hands instinctively returning to stroke the nape of his neck.

Puffing your cheeks to stifle a cheesy grin, you could only nod curtly in agreement. “Way too quickly.”

A few awkward seconds passed before each of you found the courage to speak.

“I—” he started.

“Do you—” you tried to ask.

Cutting off each other’s words, he gestured kindly for you to start first. “You should get home,” you insisted, feeling the guilt grow inside you the longer you kept him here.

He blinked a couple times, opening then closing his mouth as he tried to form a response.

Why oh why of all the things to say did you have to say that stupid sentence, you groaned silently, mentally scolding yourself for being so brusque.

“Oh—yeah. Of course,” he replied while forcing out a cough. “Thanks for tonight.”

Laughing warmly, he couldn’t help but look at you with that same gummy smile you had already known by heart. “Will I get to see you again?” you asked, worried for a second that you might’ve sounded too hopeful.

He considered the realistic possibilities. “It’s a pretty big neighborhood, but judging from the day we’ve spent and the places we both like to visit, I would say the odds are in our favor.”

Holding his hand out, you shook it tenderly, afraid that if you let go too quickly, the universe would find a way to make sure that you’d never see him again. It’s not like you ever believed in fictional concepts like the power of the universe or romantic deities, but it was better to be safe than sorry. The air around you grew cold with melancholy, the two of you more than clearly able to feel the tension as you were forced to accept the reality of parting ways.

Not even a few seconds after walking in the opposite direction, you turned around and bid him one more but hopefully not last farewell.

“Get home safely!” you shouted through cupped hands. He hadn’t moved far from the previous spot he was standing in. Only when you were at the entrance of the café and saw his still unmoved distant figure did you understand that he waited there to make sure that you arrived at your destination safely. Peering through the glass pane, you saw him give you a final wave before his shadow faded into the night.

“So you just left?!” Amélie’s jaw dropped to the ground. “And you didn’t even get his phone number?”

“Yes!” you groaned, burying your face in your hands and slamming them down onto the counter by the cash register. “Don’t rub it in.” Somehow, you had managed to compress in your entire day’s worth of events into a five-minute rant. Breathless at the end of your makeshift speech and in a fugue state, she brought you a glass of water, still gawking at you as you chugged it in four gulps.

“Punaise... / Damn...” she whispered. “Are you alright?” Sniffling slightly, you didn’t realize that tears had begun to flood your eyes until her hands rubbed your back soothingly.

Why were you crying?

“You two must have really had something special going on,” she sighed, still stroking your shoulders tenderly.

“Don’t start with that fate and destiny crap—” you whined but were cut off by her abrupt hush.

“Do you know how starstruck both of you would have been to not even ask for each other’s names?” she dragged out the last word, craning her neck and raising her eyebrows so high they looked animated.

Tears pricked your eyes again as the lump in your throat returned. You broke into full sobs now. “I didn’t even get his name!” Tangling your hands into your hair, you wondered if all those years studying for school actually grew your practical intelligence or just made you dumber.

“Amélie!” Pierre hollered from the empty kitchen. “Un café au lait!”

“On est fermé! / We’re closed!” she groaned, rubbing her temple as she tried to think of a solution to your predicament.

“Vingt minutes! / Twenty minutes!” he barked back.

“Who in their right mind orders coffee at night...” she grumbled a few profanities. You shot her a quick smile and shooed her off to quickly finish her shift so that the two of you could go back to your place. Sleepovers were more fun as adults, especially when champagne was added to the equation.

With your head buried underneath your scarf and crossed arms, you could barely hear the muffled exclamation of Amélie’s cheer as she greeted the last customer of the night, judging by the tone of her voice to come to the conclusion that they were also a regular.

You didn’t even know his name. You didn’t even get his stupid freaking name and you were beating yourself up over how absurd the entire situation was. It’s not like you really knew each other, right? You were appalled at your own desperation. You couldn’t believe actually crying over some random guy.

It was just a fun day with some random stranger. A random stranger who you just happened to click with. A stranger who you coincidentally ran into multiple times, just as luck would have it. An unknown guy who shared the same interests as you and admired the beauty in little things.

A person who you were wholeheartedly and completely mesmerized by right down to the last bit of fluff that was stuck on his beanie.

“Love at first sight my ass—” your obscenity was interrupted by a forceful cough that belonged to none other than your best friend.

“Last time I checked, you were the ‘innocent’ one of us two?” she hummed, raising her brow in a comical manner. Rolling your eyes and wiping the edges of your eyes, your tears finally started to come to a slow. All that remained was a pink flush on your cheeks and a red nose Rudolph would be jealous of.

Noticing the plate of coffee in her hand, you eyed her skeptically and asked her what she was doing watching you cry like an infant instead of serving the last customer so you could go home to your emergency ice cream stash.

Clicking her tongue mischievously, she set the porcelain cup down in front of you. “Pour vous, / For you,” she bowed dramatically.

“What?” you hiccuped.

“Special occasion?” her lips formed into a quirky grin. Nudging her head to the design she had etched into the cup, it was a new pattern. The base was a classic rosetta, but rather than have the buds of the leaves extend and thin out at the tip, she had drawn a plump heart. It was unusual. Out of all the different designs she had drawn on hundreds of cups, you’d never seen her draw a real heart, counting the number of times she had remarked how “cheesy” and “cliché” it was.

“I didn’t order a—” you stammered.

“I guess we have more than a few things in common...” a soft-spoken voice trailed from behind you.

Feeling your breath hitch in your throat, you felt your entire body tense up in shock, too anxious to turn around. Slowly turning your chair to the source of the voice, you were met with a pair of deep brown eyes and a beaming smile.

“I forgot to ask you if you wanted to get a cup of coffee with me,” he grinned.

In a heartbeat, you found yourself throwing yourself into in his arms as they enveloped you in a tight embrace. Fitting like two pieces of a puzzle, you nestled your head into his chest as he held you close. It was the first heart fluttering hug you’d felt in years.

“I could’ve sworn I recognized the person I bumped into this morning,” he chuckled deeply.

Your eyes widened to the size of flying saucers.

“You didn’t tell me you knew Y/N, Yoongi” Amélie peeped from the counter, ogling the both of you while waggling her eyebrows impishly.

“Y/N,” he repeated slowly, your name rolling off of his tongue like honey.

“Yoongi,” you greeted with a giggle. His name felt like words you had been waiting an eternity to say.

Amélie read your facial expressions, making hers contort into one that resembled Munch’s painting of The Scream. “You have got to be kidding me,” she drawled out with her hand cupped over her mouth.

Yoongi’s hands wrapped around your waist and pressed you closer into him, sighing in content at the feeling of fulfillment that washed over both of you.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N,” he looked down at you, introducing himself formally and taking the opportunity to accentuate your name once more.

“The pleasure is all mine,” you beamed, never feeling more at home than in the arms of Yoongi in this exact present moment.

Maybe this whole coup de foudre thing wasn’t a total fairy tale after all.

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trashartandmovies · 4 years ago

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Berlinale Film Festival 2021, Industry Event, Day 3

I was hoping to start Day Three off with another shot of highly-caffeinated filmmaking, so I honed in on another genre picture in the Berlinale Special section: Soi Cheang’s LIMBO. Like many other movies before it, LIMBO pairs a veteran cop (Gordon Lam, in good form) with an all-star rookie (Mason Lee) and puts them on the hunt of a serial killer. What makes LIMBO stand out from the rest is that it is shot in beautifully oily, textured black and white.

You can see from the one frame above that the movie is putting in some serious effort on the art design. Every time the cops leave the station, chances are they’re headed someplace that will put them knee deep in garbage. And thanks to the photography and attention to detail, you can practically smell the rotting refuse.

Unfortunately, the story doesn’t quite live up to the imagery. The script, written by Au Kin-Yee (whose previous work includes some co-writing credits on a few Johnnie To films), tries to put a socially conscious spin on the serial killer by making the victims marginalized, societal outcasts. But is this anything new? Aren’t the marginalized always the most vulnerable people? Isn’t an immigrant, junkie or prostitute always on a killer’s most wanted list? What makes it even less compelling is that there’s hardly an interesting motive to the madness. Unlike other grimy, big-city serial killer movies that feint toward social relevance (SEVEN), there’s no clever mastermind behind the killings. In fact, there’s any number of other cases that could have brought a pair of cops into these squalid environments and face-to-face with the city’s forgotten people. And maybe the plight of these people wouldn’t have felt so shoehorned into the story.

More interesting is the movie’s recurring theme of lost limbs. Yes, the title “Limbo” is a bit of wordplay, as many people in the movie are losing one appendage or another — sometimes by accident, sometimes through the use of a rusty, blunt tool. It’s a nice gory little motif that the movie makes hay out of, but again, it doesn’t go anywhere. As it turns out, this amputation fetish is the only interesting character detail that the movie bothers to give the killer. Otherwise, all we have is a standard, anonymous, non-speaking brute out of an 80s slasher movie. Perhaps most frustrating of all is that the film makes a step toward giving the killer a bit of sympathy early on, only to follow it up with some unnecessarily degrading action that stomps out that angle completely. What’s more interesting: watching police chasing after a faceless, voiceless, unsympathetic killer, or watching police being outwitted by a smart murderer who’s revealed to have some sort of messed up moral compass in place?

I wouldn’t go so far as to say LIMBO is a bad movie, just a frustrating one. There are some good intentions in here, and the movie looks fantastic, but if they’d put a bit more effort into creating a killer worthy of all the fuss, we’d be looking at a great addition to the genre. Oh, and the extremely hackneyed ending, which tries to pass itself off as tragic, doesn’t win it any points, either.

The second film of the day brings us back to the Competition section, and it was an extremely pleasant surprise. In fact, it was one of the best surprises of this year’s Berlinale (so far). With his second feature-length film, WHAT DO WE SEE WHEN WE LOOK AT THE SKY?, Georgian writer/director/editor Alexandre Koberidze establishes himself as an auteur with a strong and poetic vision for cinema.

Early on, I couldn’t help but flash on AMÉLIE. The two films have a few things in common: a narrator who gives the proceedings a fairy tale aspect, inanimate objects imbued with special powers, a will-they/won’t-they love story that starts on a chance encounter, a story that is as much focused on a neighborhood community as it is the two central characters… and yet WHAT DO WE SEE is a much different film. For starters, it’s far less manic. This is a very leisurely-paced film. One that lingers on people in cafés and sidewalk kiosks. One that likes to make digressions, like getting into the heads of some local dogs as they make plans on where to meet up during the football match. It also goes to some more supernatural places that other “whimsical” movies only hint at.

Some people will surely find the pace, the two-and-a-half hour running time, and the many diversions to be a problem. But I loved every minute of it. Both the pace and the running time achieve a certain purpose in immersing you in the local rhythms of Kutaisi, Georgia. At one point, we’re treated to an extended slo-mo sequence of kids playing football set to an anthemic pop song. It’s perhaps the most magical moment of the festival (so far).

There are many smaller moments like this throughout the film. They don’t move any plot along, necessarily, but each one feels like an important part of this universe we’re exploring — and that’s more to the point of the film. Alexandre Koberidze achieves something that few movies are capable of, which is making you see the world around you in a different way. More than telling a romantic story about two strangers, this is a film that makes the everyday feel magical, without any special effects or flashy camerawork. With patience, and a masterful yet deceptively simple use of sound and imagery, it turns the commonplace into profound delight. In this way, it’s shares a certain sensibility with Day One’s INTRODUCTION.

I’m not an expert on Hungarian cinema, but it’s safe to say that it can sometimes be described as unrelenting in its bleakness. Certainly, Day Two’s NATURAL LIGHT fits this description, as does FOREST - I SEE YOU EVERYWHERE. In some cases (again, see NATURAL LIGHT, or the films of Bela Tarr), this bleakness can be well-balanced by the poetics of imagery and pacing. In other cases, like this film, the darkness can simply wear you down.

A sequel of sorts to his 2003 film FOREST, this is a collection of short stories dealing with death and despair in Budapest. It’s well-acted and shot in an interesting way. The camera is always on the move, eager to cut to a close-up of someone’s hand, a gesture, a nuance. But it’s all very intense and agitated. There’s very little in the imagery and pacing to balance out the never ending bleakness, and it left me exhausted (and not in a good way).

What bothered me most about the movie, is that I kept wondering why the film didn’t take advantage of its short story structure. Why is each story hitting the same note? Why isn’t it using this opportunity to explore its themes with different tones — to build and release tension — to change things up even just a little bit? (Tomorrow, we’ll get into this again when WHEEL OF FORTUNE AND FANTASY does exactly this with its short story structure.)

Actress Lilla Kizlinger won the Silver Bear for Best Supporting Actress, and it’s a deserved win. In the first story of the film, she gives what is essentially a harrowingly personal PowerPoint presentation to her father. It leads to an icy argument and a central point to the film: that life has a way of handing you situations where there are no easy answers or good outcomes, just different ways of coping. Without doubt, it’s a strong opening, but I can’t say the film builds or improves upon it during the 100 minutes that follow.

Day Three was put to rest with one of the strongest films in the Competition section, PETITE MAMAN, Céline Sciamma’s follow-up to PORTRAIT OF A LADY ON FIRE. Like MEMORY BOX, this is another film about a mother and her daughter, and the unusual manner in which they come closer together. Only this time, instead of a teenager looking at her mom’s old journals and photographs, we have an eight-year-old daughter getting a chance to talk and play with her mom when she was her age. That premise may sound touching and appealing, but the film is even more thoughtful and impactful than you’d expect.

PETITE MAMAN is also like SOCIAL HYGIENE in that it stems from an idea that emerged before lockdown, but is perfectly suited to the restrictions of a pandemic. It takes place in a remote location, there are approximately five actors in the film, two of them are children and the others mostly appear in scenes opposite those kids. But it hasn’t been limited by the restrictions. Sciamma has lovingly handcrafted the movie’s surroundings — the countryside cottages, a woodland hut, the scenery and costumes used when kids put on a show — and every detail feels perfectly right.

I won’t spoil much more about the movie. There is a time travel element to it, but it’s mostly a movie about a child coping with the loss of a family member, and getting a chance to visit the past, spend some more time with the loved one, as well as with her mom, who’s grown a bit elusive in the present day. In doing so, the child gets a better understanding of life and death, how and why people change over time, and the importance of the memories we carry with us. All this, despite being a movie that you could (and maybe should) watch with your own kids at some point. It is perhaps one of the most sophisticated family movies ever made.

None of this would work without Joséphine Sanz, who plays the time traveling kid Nelly, and Gabrielle Sanz who plays her mom as a child. This duo of sister actors are fascinating in their scenes together. They not only seem to have a genuine understanding of the meaning of the work their doing, they’re utterly believable in everything they do, which includes acting out improvised scenes from made-up detective stories. You could look at these play-acting scenes as just two kids having fun, but there are multiple layers going on there as these are the moments when Nelly is really getting closer to understanding who her mom is as an individual. It’s really some beautiful stuff. I wouldn’t be surprised if this becomes a classic family movie that future generations will grow up with and return to time and again. It’s a movie that has some things to teach us.

Ok for now. Tomorrow: a tragedy in Iran, a trifecta in Japan, and a psychedelic trip through Hawaii.

#Berlinale 2021

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kabra-malvada · 2 years ago

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Okay, okay, I KNOW IT'S A WEIRD QUESTION BUT I HAVE JUST SEEN SAMS. Just imagine that in winter a half naked man comes to ask for a coffee while dancing, what would your boys do? Or in the case, what would Y/N do? (I would laugh at the whole situation before calling the police)

Well...

Sun: Would definetly call the police, not before locking himself (and anyone else present) in the store.

Moon: Eould first throw a towel or something to cover him up, ask him to leave and if that don't work. Either throw a punch ooor call the police, depends on his mood.

Y/N: Punch first ask later. They will not hesitate or take any risks. They've lived in the streets long enough to recognize troublesome ppl.

#what's sams? haven't heard of it #ask kabra #sthu kabra #coffee shop au #rusty star café au

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sinningsquire · 8 years ago

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Cut Your Losses

A modern-au Kylux fic, written for @twistedsardonic

(Chapter 1 - 1996 words)

Ben stares at the flight tickets. Boarding pass, seat 14F. Ten hours flight eastwards, into the future. God, Leia is serious.

“Mom, you can’t be serious.”

“I am. I take your wellbeing very seriously, Ben. And it wouldn’t have come to this if you would, too.”

She hands him a suitcase. Ben almost expects, in his surprise-stunned, this-isn’t-happening haze, that it would be already packed for him. A half-hysterical giggle escapa him when he finds it still empty.

“You’ve picked up three fights in the last two weeks, Ben. I am tired of parents threatening to sue me. If you want to come back to that school in September, we’ve got to work on this.”

“But - you can’t just send me away for the whole summer! I got friends here!”

“These ‘friends’ are the ones who get you in trouble, and make sure you’re standing front and centre when it goes down!”

Leia takes him by the shoulders. She hasn’t been able to stare him down for the past three years now, remaining small and getting seemingly smaller with every inch and every trouble Ben grew into. But God, her eyes didn’t lose any of their strength even from this angle.

Ben doesn’t know what to say. It stings with shame but he knows she was right. One of the reasons he is so quick to throw punches is that he isn’t good with words, and couldn’t lie if he tried. His ‘friends’ are assholes. But it is either them or…. no one.

“I can’t just drop my training, Mom. Couch Snoke wants me–”

“That psycho,” Leia snarls through gritted teeth, “only wants to exploit you. You’re his best boxer now, when you listen to him telling you to rely more on rage than technique and discipline, but how long can you keep it up before you burn out? He’ll toss you away when you’re no longer useful to him. You could be so much more, Ben. I agreed to let you do boxing when I thought it would help with your anger management issues but Snoke only makes it worse.”

“Please, Mom. Don’t take this away from me.” Ben wishes he could punch something now. Snoke - yeah, maybe he is a bit creepy but he also is the only one who keeps telling Ben he can when everyone else seems to say he shouldn’t.

“I’m not. It’s only for the holidays. It’s up to what you want, and what you want to do with your life, but I want you to make the decision after the holidays. That’s all I’m asking for. Take a little time away from all the things that keep making you angry. If you still think Snoke hung the stars when you come back–” she draws a long breath, “–then I’ll step back. Promise. But now I want you to get some perspective.”

“By sending me away?” Ben hates how small it sounds. For fuck’s sake, he’s almost nineteen.

“Oh, Ben.” She huggs him tight, ignoring the roll of his eyes. Thankfully not commenting on the way he returns the embrace, clinging to her like a child. “You won’t be alone. I spoke to the school counsellor. She suggested you should spend some time somewhere quiet, preferably with animals.”

“Mom, I’m not going to therapy to pet dogs and cats all day–”

“I know darling. That’s why I’m sending you to Luke.”

“Oh God.” Ben groans. He hasn’t seen his hippie Uncle in ten years, Leia maybe in five. “Old bat’s grown tired of his hermit cave in Greece? So now he’s running an animal shelter in what, Transylvania?”

“He’s having a go at organic farming somewhere in Czech Republic, actually,” Leia says primly. Ben suspects she disapproves a little of her brother’s bohemian ways, too.

“Somewhere,” Ben parrots after her. “So you don’t even know the name of the middle of nowhere place you’re sending your only child to. Splendid, Mom.”

“Hush,” Leia pats his cheek. “I’m sure it will be a lovely place.”

The ‘lovely place’ is a decrepit mouldy farmhouse surrounded by seemingly endless muddy fields, with nothing but earth closet and no cell phone signal. The farm’s only connection to civilization is a unkept bumpy road and a bus connection, operated twice a day by a loud, dilapidated, overheated trashcan driven by a smelly, grumpy driver. Not to mention that said civilization is a sleepy hollow of a town where nobody speaks English and everything is hopelessly closed on Sunday. Including the only café with a free wi-fi.

Ben is hunched over his phone under a convenient balcony, trying to shield the screen from the obnoxious drizzle that’s been dampening his clothes and his mood alike since– well, forever. He shivers. It’s July but this country seems to have no concept of summer. It’s been raining, pouring, or at least drizzling every day since Ben came here and it doesn’t look like stopping anytime soon.

The sharp trill of a bell behind him startles him so much that he almost drops his phone into a puddle. His phone - the only thing keeping him same in this organic farming hell. He growls and turns, about to tell whoever startled him where exactly they can stick their stupid bell - not that he hopes anyone would actually understand him - when his eyes catch on a flash of ginger, the colour as bright and shocking as sunshine in this dreary weather - and the indignant reproach dies on his lips.

A young man with gorgeous fiery hair and icy glare is standing in the half-opened glass door, an expression of angry disapproval written all over his freckled face. He’s saying something, it sounds like a rude question from the lilt at the end of it. For all Ben knows of Czech, he could be saying anything. Ben tried - contrary to what he sometimes lets people think, he can be smart when he wants to - but there’s probably a special circle of hell set aside for this language. To be fair, this man could be wishing him a nice day. Ben’s experience with locals has taught him that they tend to look as if someone got their knickers into a twist every morning without actually being cross with anyone.

The man keeps talking and Ben suddenly notices he’s been blocking the door to a shop. His gaze flicks up to read a sign: Kadeřnictví Kroutilová. There are big glossy photos of artfully arranged hairstyles in the shop window. A hairdresser’s saloon, then.

The air coming through the crack in the door is warm, smelling of shampoo and cologne. Ben hasn’t seen a boy his age - well, one that wouldn’t be doggedly driving a tractor on weekdays and mindlessly driving around a badly tuned car on weekends - in so long and he has nothing better to do. He smiles.

“Could I get a haircut?”

The hairdresser shuts up and frowns. Oh, right. No luck with English here. Ben shrugs and points at his hair, fingers snipping in an imitation of scissors. It’s been getting a little into his eyes lately, anyway. Even when he won’t be able to chat, he can still get an eyeful of good looking guy.

The hairdresser replies with something that sounds a little more polite and steps aside, holding the door open.

It’s a little saloon - two revolving chairs, two sets of tools, and one old woman dozing off on a flower-patterned sofa in the corner, with dye applied to her thinning hair. Ben folds himself into the narrow chair by the washing stand and tries not to be too obvious in staring at the nice ass that presents itself when the redhead bends to sweep away the hair clippings left by previous customer.

He thinks he catches a smirk when the boy straightens - and wouldn’t that be finally something worth his time in this awful place - but then every last hope of a change of luck is squashed when the boy lifts an elegant, finely-boned hand and plucks a piece of straw from behind Ben’s ear.

Ben feels his face burn in anger at the unfairness of it all. It doesn’t matter that he comes from a city with more people than live in this whole goddamn country. Here, in front of this gorgeous, sharp, clean-shaven man, Ben is the country bumpkin, with straw sticking out of his hair from when he was helping Luke muck out the stables this morning. Hell, he probably still reeks of manure.

He looks away, eyes sweeping over the yellowed photos decorating the walls, hairstyles that were last in style in the eighties, and heaves a long-suffering sigh. One of the perks of being an American in a Czech country town is that he can let his thoughts run loud and freely whenever he likes.

“I suppose you wouldn’t know how but if you could make me look something other than your great grandfather, that would be nice,” he huffs. As predicted, the hairdresser shows no sign of offence. He simply adjusts the water temperature and begins to massage Ben’s scalp with his fingertips, and… well, it feels fucking amazing.

Ben is a bit sorry for his pettiness. The boy is probably doing his best, stuck in a town where every man wears the same haircut their father wore. Not much chance to practice the hipster lumberjack sweep around here.

Hair dripping, smelling nice and hopefully free of any straw, Ben relocates into the revolving chair. The mirror in front of him is a bit rusty around the edges and when Ben ducks his chin a little, he can see the reflection of the other mirror on the opposite wall. The hairdresser is quite tall, so tall that he has to lean forward a little every now and then to clip the hair around Ben’s ears and hairline, and his ass in the mirror is a masterpiece.

The quiet snip snip snip and the light touches, tilting his head here and there, lull Ben almost into a trance. He snaps into focus only when the cloth around his neck is pulled off, and for the first time since he sat down, he takes a look at his own reflection.

He looks… good, actually. More than. He never thought his locks could look this good parted on the side, with the layered haircut letting them fall over his forehead in a lazy, self-confident wave. Behind him, the hairdresser, sporting an intense look of concentration, is running his fingers tacky with some waxy product through the locks, making sure they stay the way the should. Ben is impressed.

“Um...thanks, I think,” he scratches his neck, itchy with the fine bits of hair that always get under the collar no matter how many towels he’s wearing around his neck. The boy gives him a quick smile. He looks very pleased with himself. Well, Ben thinks, he should be.

The hairdresser rings him up using a honest-to-God calculator and Ben leaves, lighter of a considerable sum of money and feeling better than he had in… forever, truly.

Which lasts exactly until the next morning when he climbs down the stairs to get breakfast and Luke greets him with raised eyebrows:

“Did you try cutting your own hair using a bowl?”

Still bleary eyed and only half-awake, Ben snatches the first mirror he can find and freezes.

The parting on the side is gone, his hair having reverted to its natural down-the-middle parting it’s grown into for the past nineteen years. With no product to keep the hair falling forward, it’s taken to fall backwards and around, as his locks usually do….

...and it looks like a bowl cut.

The fucking hairdresser gave him a fucking bowl cut.

For a moment, Ben wants to think that the boy simply made a mistake. Small town, not much practice… Then he recalls the small, self-satisfied smile on those full, pink lips.

That asshole knew precisely what he was doing.

To Be Continued

Link to AO3

#kylux #benarmie #star wars fanfiction #humour #meet-cute #or more like a little shit Ben meets a pretty asshole Hux

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