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writ-by-britt · 11 months ago

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Old Wounds: Part 1

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AO3

Summary: Gwyneth was Velaris University's star swimmer. . . emphasis on was. After a nasty rotator cuff injury, she's been ordered to take the rest of the season off and attend weekly physical therapy sessions, which is less than ideal considering her whole college education is funded by an athletic scholarship. It isn't all bad though. She has PT at the same time as a very intimidatingly attractive soccer player, and much to Gwyn's surprise, they've got quite a bit in common. But between work, school, her physical therapy, and continuing to support the swim team, Gwyn has no time to be crushing on anyone. Not to mention said hot soccer player is part of a rival friend group and he doesn't seem remotely interested in Gwyn at all. What's a girl to do.

~*~

Thanks so much for being here! This is my first ever fic for ACOTAR and I'm super excited to be participating in fandom for once. A bit of set-up with this first chapter but this might end up being a bit of a slow burn.

Future updates are currently scheduled for Tuesdays at 12:00pm CST here and on AO3.

I hope you enjoy!

"Take your mark."

Gwyneth Berdara exhaled the breath in her lungs. Her body bent over the podium, her feet tensed, ready to propel her forward.

Bzzzzt!

She inhaled as she pushed off.

Gwyn barely felt the water as it enveloped her, her form knifing through. She broke the surface, taking a deep but quick breath before submerging her head once again. It was only a few seconds before she saw the approaching wall. She tucked her chin towards her chest, her feet sailing over head before coming into contact with the concrete wall of the pool.

And then she was flying again.

At least that's what it felt like when Gwyn swam; like she was soaring, completely unencumbered by gravity as she flew through the water; like she was weightless.

But, Gwyn was competing right now, and as much as she loved taking her time and gliding through the water, she also loved winning. Her head broke the surface again, her arms reaching forward to pull her towards victory. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted splashing to her left, the swimmer from Adriata University must be only milliseconds behind her.

Gwyn tucked again, turning in the water, and pushed as hard as she could to propel herself for another lap, her arms and legs beginning to burn with the effort. It was a good burn, the kind of burn that told Gwyn she was pushing her body to its very limits, reaching beyond what she should be capable of, pushing herself towards a win.

"Come on Gwynnie, try to catch me," whispered a familiar voice in her head, and so Gwyn pushed on and pushed harder.

There were two laps left and she could feel her body begging her to stop, to rest, but she plowed through every mental block, focused only on how she could eek every last bit of speed and strength out of her muscles.

Then the pain hit.

It was a sudden and shooting pain that went screaming through her left shoulder as she tried to bring it over her head. Her arm hit the water with a dull thud, as though it had been sapped of all its strength.

The swimmer from Adriata in the lane next to her moved ahead, so Gwyn pushed on. She threw as much power as she could muster into every single stroke of her right arm and tried to get her left arm to cooperate as much as possible, but every little movement sent a new wave of pain coursing through her shoulder.

With each passing moment, she felt the other swimmers pass her as her momentum slowed to a crawl. Finally, what felt like a lifetime later, her right hand touched the concrete of the pool wall and the race was over.

Gwyn didn't even want to turn and look at the scoreboard or acknowledge the comically large number that no doubt followed her name. Her arm was hot and aching but the agony was being overtaken by an anger that was slowly consuming her. She wanted to scream and cry. She wanted to hit something; the water perhaps or one of the swimmers in the adjacent lanes.

Instead, she swallowed hard, bit back the emotions threatening to boil over, and turned to face the results. Just as she suspected, the scoreboard indicated a horrifically large number in bright red letters next to her name. It wasn't quite as bad as she thought, even with her injured arm she somehow managed fifth place, not podium-worthy but at least she wasn't dead last. The swimmer from Adriata had overtaken her and gotten first. In the name of good sportsmanship, Gwyn turned to the swimmer now beaming with pride. She swam up to their lane dividers and shook hands. She did the same with the swimmer to her right who had taken second.

She heard hurried footsteps approaching the edge of the pool and looked up to see the concerned faces of Velaris Valkyries Swim Team captain and co-captain; Nesta Archeron and Emerie Windhaven.

Nesta crouched down and asked quietly, "Is it your rotator cuff?"

"I think so."

Nesta extended an arm. "Let's get you out of there."

Gwyn took Nesta's arm with her good one, letting the left one dangle uselessly at her side. She planted her feet on the edge of the pool to gain some leverage and used Nesta to haul herself out of the water.

Once on solid ground Emerie threw a towel around her shoulders and gave her back a reassuring rub. "Come on, medics are waiting for you."

Nesta joined Emerie in ushering Gwyn away from the poolside, and she was glad for the excuse to leave. The thought of standing there and listening to the other swimmers receive their medals made her stomach churn.

~*~

Gwyn's check-in with the medic at the meet did not go as she had hoped, but the way her shoulder screamed at her every time she moved hadn't given her much to hope for in the first place. Nonetheless, the look on the medic's face as she examined Gwyn's shoulder and the recommendation that she see their University's sports medicine doctor as soon as possible hit her in the stomach like a ton of bricks.

Worries began to float around her like a tempest, a barrage of "what ifs."

She stayed quiet through the rest of the swim meet and for the entirety of the drive back to Velaris's campus. Nesta and Emerie didn't leave her side if they could help it, and while she didn't feel like talking, she appreciated their presence.

Once back on campus the three of them trekked across the dark and quiet quad to Gwyn and Emerie's dorm room. Upon entering the dorm Gwyn fell face-first into the futon she and Emerie had shoved under Gwyn's lofted bed.

Gwyn felt the futon shift as someone sat next to her, their gentle hands moving her feet aside. "Oh Gwynnie," Emerie sighed.

Across the room, Nesta turned on the lights. "Alright, I'm ordering pizza," she declared. "Gwyn, what kind do you want?"

With Gwyn's face buried in the pillows, her reply came out muffled. "I'm not hungry."

"You are too."

Still face down, Gwyn shook her head.

"Gwyneth Berdara, I've seen you devour whole pizzas after meets."

Gwyn turned on her side to face Nesta. "I don't feel like eating anything right now."

"Your stomach may not want to eat, but trust me, your soul does. And nothing heals a soul wound like pizza. You want veggie?"

Gwyn sighed, then admitted her defeat, "Yeah."

"Veggie it is. Em, meat lovers?"

"Gods, yes please. I'm starving. Don't worry Gwynnie if you can't eat your pizza, I will."

Gwyn cracked a small smile. If she couldn't swim, at least she had her friends.

When Nesta had finished placing their order, she walked over to the couch and crouched in front of Gwyn, bringing them eye level with each other.

"How you holding up Berdara? How does your shoulder feel?"

"My shoulder's fine." That wasn't entirely true, her shoulder hurt like a motherfucker, although it wasn't quite as bad as when she was trying to swim with it.

"Mhm. And what about you, how do you feel?"

Gwyn really couldn't answer that. She felt a lot of things; frustrated, angry, disappointed, sad, guilty. She couldn't get herself to verbalize any of the emotions swirling around in her brain or the millions of questions that had followed her home, so she just gave Nesta a half-shrug with her good shoulder.

"Do you wanna skip class tomorrow? We can play hooky, have a late breakfast. I'll walk you to your doctor's appointment."

"I can't, I have Professor Merrill's class tomorrow, she'll kill me if I skip." Honestly, Gwyn could use the distraction. Professor Merrill's classes were always tedious and having a class that required her full, undivided attention meant that Gwyn had at least two hours where she didn't have to think about what the campus doctor was going to say about her shoulder. She felt her whole college career hanging in the balance. She was both dreading that appointment and insanely anxious for its arrival.

"What about after the appointment?"

"I've got a shift at The Pegasus that afternoon."

"We'll come keep you company," Emerie chimed in.

"You can tell us all about what the Doctor said and we can come up with a game plan."

Gwyn smiled at that. Nesta was Captain of the Valkyries for a reason. She could always be counted on to come up with a plan, a battle strategy. Even when Gwyn felt like she was floundering, she could always rely on Nesta to figure something out.

Emerie pulled up one of their favorite rom coms and Nesta jogged down to the dorm lobby to retrieve their food. After a bit of coaxing from the others, Gwyn took a large bite of the extra cheesy veggie pizza warming her lap. She wasn't sure that Nesta was right about the pizza healing her soul, but she realized just how hungry she was when hot, delicious cheese hit her tongue. She spent the rest of the movie devouring her slices and bantering with Emerie and Nesta. Usually, they'd spend the evening after a competition doing all the shit-talking they were too professional to do during the meet, but tonight Emerie and Nesta steered the conversation around the movie playing in front of them. Gwyn was happy to play along and forget the whole day for a bit, forget that her whole world was hanging in the balance, hinging on the well-being of her damn left shoulder. But when Nesta left for her own room, and she and Emerie crawled into their beds, the thoughts began to swarm her again. Gwyn lay on her back, staring at the little glow-in-the-dark stars she and Emerie had stuck all over their ceiling. Tracing the shapes and lines of the constellations they'd so carefully arranged wasn't enough of a distraction from the symphony of worry threatening to drown every other thought out as the "what ifs," flooded back in.

"What if my shoulder doesn't heal in time for next season?"

"What if I can't continue to compete?"

"What if I lose my athletic scholarship?'

"What if Nesta, Emerie, and I stop hanging out because I'm not on the team?"

"What if my shoulder never recovers?"

"What if. . ."

"What if. . . "

"What if I never swim again?"

That last thought broke through the symphony, like the loud tolling of a death knell. A knot of fear tightened in her stomach, hard as stone.

A memory floated through the anxiety and breaking through the surface was a six-year-old Gwyn and her twin sister, Catrin. They were fraternal, not identical, and most people could never tell they were twins anyway, especially not when they appeared so different. Catrin was all stoic seriousness, her short-cropped brown hair did nothing to hide the sharp angles of her face or the near-constant frown she wore. Gwyn on the other hand was all laughter and giggles, her wild coppery hair hung long, often trailing behind her like a banner as she ran wild. Most people assumed Catrin was older the way she took care of them. Technically, they weren't wrong. Catrin had preceded Gwyn's birth by mere minutes. And the way Catrin mothered them when their own mother was too absent or inattentive to do it herself, she could see why people thought that.

This particular memory found Gwyn bolting out of the house the second their mother had opened the back door. It wasn't the first time they had been allowed to swim in the river behind their house, but it was the earliest memory Gwyn had of it.

"Gwyn, wait!" Catrin called after her.

Gwyn's laughter peeled through the air as she tore through the grass in the backyard. She barely slowed down as the river bank approached and when she entered the water her feet made loud plunking noises that echoed off the trees surrounding her. Catrin appeared a few moments later, stepping carefully through a break in the foliage.

"You're going to twist an ankle," Catrin commented.

"Just come in already!" Gwyn shouted back.

Catrin grinned, any trace of seriousness gone from her face, which often happened when it was just the two of them. Her smile widened as she waded into the river to join her sister.

The rest of that day had been filled with races up and down the river and pretending to be mermaids with magic powers. Gwyn always made herself a siren. She would sun herself on a large boulder that broke the river's surface and sing all of her favorite songs. In her fantasies she was powerful enough to lure twin princes to her and her sister's domain, they would be handsome and rich and immediately fall in love with the girls. Then, their princes would take them back to their kingdom, make them princesses, and Gwyn would never have to see the house that was hidden just beyond the tree line again.

That's how most of their days were spent, especially during the hot, humid summers when there was little else to do. While Gwyn was an excellent swimmer, some might say the best on the Valkyries, Catrin had always been just a little bit stronger, braver, always a little bit faster. It never bothered Gwyn though, it felt right. She followed Catrin doing laps in the river just as she had followed her out of the womb. Gwyn would have followed her sister anywhere, but in high school, Catrin had left, and Gwyn couldn't follow. Swimming was one of the few things that made Gwyn feel truly connected to her sister anymore. When Gwyn swam, she felt her sister's spirit beside her, soaring through the water, always just out of Gwyn's reach. She suspected that was the reason she was the fastest swimmer on The Valkyries, she was still trying to catch Catrin. Maybe if she swam fast enough, caught up to her, Catrin would stay this time. If Gwyn couldn't swim anymore she worried she'd lose that connection to her sister. Five years after Catrin's death and there were already bits and pieces she was starting to forget; her sister's distinct smell and the reassuring feeling of Catrin's hand in hers. If she couldn't do the one thing that kept her sister's memory alive, Gwyn worried she'd begin to lose more; the sound of Catrin's laugh or the shape of her face. She worried that even her memories of Catrin would begin to fade. Gwyn didn't want to stop swimming, and she didn't want to forget her twin.

Fears, worries, and more memories continued to plague Gwyn through the night, robbing her of sleep. Eventually, in the early hours of the morning, exhaustion dragged her under into blissful, dreamless unconsciousness.

~*~

Gwyn hated the way the stupid, thin paper felt scratchy against her bare legs. Every shift of her body against the examining table made an irritating crinkling noise, but even such a grating sound wasn't enough for her to stop the nervous bounce of her foot. She'd spent the last half an hour letting the head of sports medicine poke and prod at her aching shoulder and hoping she wasn't going to up-chuck the minimal breakfast she'd been able to choke down before class.

She'd managed to stave off most of the "what-ifs" this morning mainly thanks to Professor Merrill who was extremely unhappy with the research assignments everyone had turned in last week. Most of their class time was spent on a lecture entailing the proper procedures for MLA formatting and citations. She later learned from her classmates that the inciting incident for this lecture was one student who had accidentally listed an author with a last name starting with "Ap" after an author whose last name started with "At."

As refreshing a break as Professor Merrill's anger was, the gut-turning anxiety that kept her up all last night returned full force as soon as she stepped out of the classroom.

"Alright Gwyneth, I have good news and I have bad news." The doctor was furiously typing something into the computer in front of him as he spoke, his back to Gwyn. She wanted him to turn around, so she could try and read her fate on his face.

Instead, she settled for a rather shaky reply, "O-okay."

He turned around with a small smile on his face, clearly trying to ease the tension. "Let's start with the bad news. I can't let you compete for the rest of the season." Gwyn felt her heart drop into her stomach. "The good news," he continued, "Is that the tear is fairly small, and with enough rest, ice, and a diligent physical therapy regimen, you should be clear to return to competition next season." Gwyn felt her whole body relax, if she hadn't been sitting already, she was pretty sure that her legs would have given out from under her. She would swim again. She would compete again. Her life as she knew it wasn't over. The situation wasn't ideal, (ideally, Gwyn wouldn't have fucked up her shoulder in the first place) but compared to the doom and gloom scenarios her brain had been running through the past few days, this prognosis was manageable.

The appointment ended with the doctor running through a list of things Gwyn couldn't do so she didn't injure her shoulder further, a few things she should do to help with the healing, and a prescription for meds to help keep swelling and pain down. Finally, there was the business card for the school's physical therapist and the caveat that she should contact them and make an appointment as soon as possible.

When Gwyn walked out of the appointment, she by no means felt light or happy, but her brain felt quiet. And that was more than enough for her.

~*~

Right after her appointment, Gwyn had a shift at The Pegasus, the University's combo cafe and bookstore. Gwyn worked the bookstore part of the cafe, which usually meant hanging out behind the counter and waiting for students to decide to buy one of the overpriced textbooks that filled the majority of the shelves.

Today was slow. Slower than slow. Every student that walked through the doors beelined for the cafe and promptly left once they got their order. Normally, Gwyn loved it when the store was slow. She would browse the book selections, trying to find something she hadn't read yet, or she'd use the computer behind the counter to work on homework, usually for Professor Merrill's class. Today, all Gwyn could think about was getting to work on healing her shoulder. That wasn't something she could actively do until her first physical therapy appointment tomorrow, which she'd set up the second she left the doctor's office.

She instead passed the time reading and re-reading the shoulder care instructions the doctor had given her. When Nesta and Emerie walked in twenty minutes later she had the instructions committed to memory.

"So, what's the news?" Nesta asked, leaning forward on the counter.

"I'm out for the rest of the season, but with rest and PT I should be back next year."

"That's not so bad," Emerie chimed in.

"No, definitely not as bad as it could have been. I am bummed I won't be able to finish the season though."

"You're still gonna come to all the competitions, right?"

"You think Coach'll let me?"

"Of course she will! And if she doesn't, well we are her Captain and Co-Captain, I'm sure we could wear her down."

"Thanks guys."

Emerie slipped around the corner and pulled Gwyn into a side hug. "Of course Gwynnie, it's not the team without you."

"Okay, now that we know Gwyn's career isn't dead in the water. No pun intended." Nesta began. "I was thinking that we need a little girls' time this weekend, and I mean a full-on weekend. Dinner, dancing, drinks."

"Here, here!" Emerie agreed.

"I don't know," Gwyn pondered. "I'm starting physical therapy tomorrow and I just. . . I don't know if I'll be in the mood."

"Fair enough, but we have spent the past four weekends in track pants, swim caps, and bathing suits. I think, at the very least, we owe it to ourselves to get pampered and get at least one drink. If we aren't feeling it, we can leave after that."

Gwyn chewed her lip, pondering the proposition. Going out was already a bit of a chore for Gwyn who was a self-styled homebody. With all the stress of the last twenty-four hours, she couldn't imagine mustering the energy for a night out anytime soon.

"I think it'll be a lot of fun and I think we could use it, you especially," said Emerie.

It was only Monday. It was entirely feasible that she'd have more energy by Friday. How could she say no when her friends were looking at her so expectantly? And Nesta was right. They had all been working so hard the past month. Gwyn's injury shouldn't keep her friends from enjoying a weekend of freedom, so she caved. "Okay, but just one drink."

"Yes!" Emerie fist-punched the air.

At that moment the chime on the bookshop door chimed and all three Valkyries looked up to see who was walking in.

Nesta groaned.

Striding through the doors of The Pegasus like they owned the place was The Bat Pack, a group of primarily soccer players from the University of Illyria at Velaris. Their team captain, Rhysand, was the one currently leading their little group through the door. Rhys's prowess on the soccer field and unquestionable good looks made him a semi-celebrity around campus. Girls had been throwing themselves at him since his freshman year and up until very recently he had graciously accepted their offers. The reason he had abandoned his playboy ways was currently hanging on his arm and giggling. Her name was Feyre Archeron and she was Nesta's little sister.

Gwyn knew that it bothered Nesta that her sister was dating Rhys. For what reason, Gwyn wasn't sure. There was kind of an age gap with Rhys being a Junior and Feyre being a Freshman, but Gwyn didn't think Nesta's displeasure stemmed from any sort of sisterly protectiveness. Their relationship wasn't very. . . affectionate. Watching Nesta and Feyre interact was like watching two coworkers attempt polite small talk at the water cooler. Their middle sister, Elain, was often the buffer between them. Elain, however, was studying abroad in Montesere this year leaving the other two Archerons, and all of their friends, to deal with the awkwardness themselves. Gwyn speculated that the animosity may have stemmed from some type of sisterly jealousy, but she couldn't be sure, and she definitely wasn't qualified to psychoanalyze Nesta, or any of the Archerons for that matter. They were their own special breed of traumatized.

The rest of The Bat Pack weren't much better. Mor was Rhysand's cousin and probably one of the most stunning women Gwyn had ever seen. Tall and leggy with golden blonde hair, she strutted around campus with the same sort of easy arrogance that Rhys had; as though the world belonged to them and them alone. Their attitude must have run in the family. Mor didn't appear to be with them at the moment and neither was her best friend, Amren, an intimidating linguistics major with an indifferent glare that could give Professor Merrill's stern looks a run for their money.

The other two men that made up Rhys's little group, both soccer players, were currently flanking him and Feyre. The largest and most obvious was the team's co-captain, Cassian. Tall and muscular, he cut an imposing figure against the small door frame of the bookstore. On the soccer field, he could be downright terrifying, but right now with a wide smile plastered across his face and a booming laugh emitting from his chest, he seemed as scary as a puppy. Gwyn was pretty sure his presence annoyed Nesta even more than Rhys or Feyre. Cassian was flirty and he particularly loved flirting with Nesta. She wouldn't tolerate any of it which only seemed to egg Cassian on more. Gwyn and Emerie had a pool going on when the two of them were going to hook up. Emerie's money was on the end of this semester. Gwyn thought Nesta's stubbornness would hold out until at least the end of their Senior year.

The final member of their little posse was easy to miss if you weren't paying attention. Azriel was much quieter than the rest of the group and he didn't seem to possess the same arrogance or boisterous nature as his compatriots. Sometimes, Gwyn would catch him looking detached from it all, as though he were just observing his friends. Gwyn herself had observed him on a number of occasions. Freshman year they'd had an English class together. He was usually quiet but when he had something to say it was always thoughtful and intelligent. Gwyn had always admired that about him. Her nervous freshman self always seemed to stutter and stumble her way through her answers, no matter how confident in them she was. A few times she wondered if the stuttering was sometimes caused by Azriel. He was just as handsome as the others—warm hazel eyes, dark hair, and a brooding presence that Gwyn found magnetic. Of course, any attraction to him fizzled out the second she remembered who his friends were.

It wasn't that The Valkyries hated The Bat Pack by any means, it was just that they always seemed to be wherever The Valkyries were. Their volume was never respectable and interrupted whatever The Valkyries were trying to concentrate on, and Feyre and Rhys' presence always soured Nesta's mood. Really, they were just a nuisance.

Today, The Bat Pack's laughter came to a crashing halt when they realized they were being glared at by the three Valkyries.

Feyre was the first to break the uncomfortable silence. She smiled cordially and then acknowledged her sister. "Nesta."

Nesta didn't return the smile. "Feyre."

"We're just going to be over here." Feyre gestured towards a small grouping of sofas and cushy armchairs tucked between a few bookshelves.

"Okay."

The Bat Pack began moving towards the seats, a small laugh broke out from one of the group, Gwyn was pretty sure it was Cassian. Nesta rolled her eyes and the Valkyries went back to their conversation.

"So, as we were saying," Emerie started. "Drinks at Rita's on Friday after classes?"

"Why Rita's?" Nesta practically whined the question. "That's where they hang out." She jerked her head sharply at the group whose volume had returned to its usual annoying level.

"Exactly. They infringe on our sanctum all the time, we should return the favor."

"Oh, that's petty. I like that." Nesta purred.

"I thought you might." Emerie grinned. "Gwynnie? Thoughts?"

Gwyn pondered for a moment before she broke out in a smile. "I'm always down to be petty."

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #azriel

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selfundiagnosed · 9 months ago

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Does Your Gender Identity Status Inherently Put You At An Advantage At In Competing In Gendered Sports?

sorry let me rephrase fhat

Does Having Hypermobile Ehlers Danlos Syndrome Put You At An Advantage in Competitive Gymnastics & Swimming?

If You Have Hypermobile Ehlers Danlos Syndrome the obvious knee jerk no-brain answer is NO!!! like FUCKKNG NO!!!! but i got my Hypermobile EDS from my mom. My mom’s sport of choice as a child until she was a teenager was swimming. And very quickly began competing at state and then country levels. She was like best freestyle in butterfly in the nation at one point in her adolescence for her age range. But how long was it exactly until the chronic pain from hyperextending to get the best stroke set in? The answer is next day shipping. Her body let her know exactly what the consequences of her biological advantage was. She felt like the consequences outweighed the pros of swimming and never swam again after high school.

I did gymnastics at the same gym Shawn Johnson was trained in. I did it because i was a monkey at home and jumping and climbing and doing gymnastics on the stairs. So I do it for like a year before the chronic pain, lethargy, and general malaise set in. & then from hyperextending i sprained my wrist. I was 7. I begged my mom to let me drop out and my coaches begged her not to because of my “biological advantage.” I excelled at a rate that was much faster than my peers. I was able to push my body beyond normal flexibility to achieve that kind of top-of-the-class ability. But i didnt even want that. I just wanted to play around and do the fun jumps off trampolines. I sprained my wrist falling on it while it hyperextended backwards. I felt like the cons out weighed the pros of continuing gymnastics.

So Let Me Ask Again: Should We Ban Athletes Based On Their Biological Sex? It Puts Them At A Biological Advantage. Its A Lucid Epidemic & Its Kicking Hard Working Normal Athletes Out Of The Top Ranks.

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mightyflamethrower · 10 months ago

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youtube

Cepeda made headlines again in December when he swam in the Trojan Cup swimming competition in Barrie, Ontario. This time the outrage was far louder and caught the attention of the Toronto Sun.

“Girls from age eight to 16 in a Swimming Canada-sanctioned swim meet in Barrie last week not only found themselves in the same pool as a transgender female swimmer but in the same changeroom, too,” the paper reported on Dec. 7th.

“Parents confirmed that the person in question changed in and out of a swimsuit in the women’s locker room at the East Bayfield Community Centre during the Dec. 1 Trojan Cup,” the reporting continued.

That “person” was none other than Cepeda.

“The girls were terrified,” one parent recalled.

“It’s all so confusing for the kids,” another parent added. “No one is comfortable. Everybody is accepting of all people but them swimming against our kids and being in the locker room with them is not appropriate.”

“We have no idea why it is allowed,” a third parent said. “We know it’s not fair to the girls who are training at their sport and some of whom are hoping for scholarships.”

Yet according to the Toronto Sun, Cepeda has been competing against girls since 2019. And when confronted by the Sun, the provincial governing body for competitive swimming in Ontario defended his participation.

“In partnership with Swimming Canada, Swim Ontario has a robust system of policies, procedures and rules that support our member clubs in providing a competitive experience that is safe, welcoming and inclusive for all participants,” Swim Ontario said.

The group added that they “investigated a concern related to an adult competing against swimmers aged 12-14 during a recent competition hosted by the Richmond Hill Aquatic Club (RHAC)” but concluded “RHAC acted appropriately” in allowing Cepeda to compete.

The group further said “Swimming Canada and Swim Ontario believe swimming is for everyone [and that] people of all shapes, sizes, genders, beliefs and backgrounds should have the opportunity to swim to the best of their ability.”

The only expectation is “that our registrants treat each other with respect and dignity, and keep our sport environment free from harassment and abuse [and] this would include not targeting members of our community based on assumptions about their identity.”

But it gets worse. When the local police were called to the scene by someone from Rebel News, even they bent their knee to the “woke” LGBT mob.

“Barrie Police received a call on Friday, December 1, 2023, at 6:06 pm for a report of an unwanted person at 80 Livingstone St. E.,” the police said in a statement to the Toronto Sun. “Police were later advised that the matter had resolved itself and we did not attend.”

According to a report in the Brampton Guardian, it appears Cepeda has been a pest since at least 2014, the year he “was spotted using the woman’s changeroom at the Caledon Centre for Recreation and Wellness (CCRW)” in Bolton Ontario.

“Another patron using the changeroom wrote a letter to The Caledon Enterprise, and Caledon town council, asking if a transgendered person was using the locker room. According to Cindy Hockham, she was in a state of undress when Wiseheart walked by,” the Brampton Guardian reported at the time.

“But women are at their most vulnerable when they are undressed and to just have a man walk in when I’m undressed is very upsetting,” Hockman reportedly said.

Critics on the social media platform X all agree that what Cepeda is doing is wrong and that he should be jailed, period.

#Youtube

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wizardofarles · 1 year ago

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Lord, You Keep Me Crawling

Chapter Three: It All Goes Back and Back

“I’m scared, Mom,” he whispered, curling himself tight against her side.

The machine next to his mother’s bed beeped to announce her heartbeats. A lump burned at the back of his throat that could not be blamed on the chemical sting in the air.

“I know, baby,” she soothed as she pulled him closer. She was fever-warm. “Laurie, sweetie, you’re going to be okay. Do you remember what I told you about guardian angels?”

Laurent blinked, and the world came back to him slowly, like a polaroid photograph taking its time to develop. The first thing he saw was a burning sea of gray.

“Oh, thank God.”

“Laurent?”

A shadow slipped through from beyond the gray. The feathered outline of dark wings, stark and lonely against the vast sheet of clouds.

“What if I don’t have a guardian angel?”

Another shape swam into Laurent’s awareness. A head; a pink ear, a flash of rainbow-refracted light winking off a diamond, long blonde curls glowing where they caught the light. Mom? Laurent tried to say, and was immediately grateful that he hadn’t found his voice. The woman looking down over him was far too young to be her, and her mouth turned down at one corner in an expression he had never seen his mother wear.

A name floated into his head. Jokaste. More faces drifted into his field of view—Damianos, Kastor, their parents, and Uncle completing the odd ensemble—looming over him like vultures peering down at a corpse. He blinked again, half expecting the faces to disappear, but they remained, wearing varying degrees of worry like masks. Damianos’s worry manifested in wide-eyed alarm, while Kastor looked like he was holding back vomit as sweat beaded on his brow. Kastor… Everything came back to him in pieces; the airport, the bathroom, Aimeric’s house, Auguste. Where was Auguste?

That was when he noticed he was sitting on the floor of the airport, and noticing, the noise of the place hit him like a tsunami. Shoes hurried past in every direction, trailed by the rumbling wheels of luggage. The faces in the crowd spared him no more than brief glances before they decided nothing interesting was happening here and moved on.

“Why am I on the floor? Where’s—” Laurent’s back was pressed against something warm and soft. Someone, he realized with a start, and turned frantically.

“Easy,” Auguste’s voice was gentle, “it’s me. I’ve got you.” Relief and exhaustion competed for dominance in Laurent’s bones, and he allowed himself briefly to slump back against his brother—but only briefly, for the weight of everyone’s eyes on him pressed the tension back into his every muscle. He should not have lost control like that. They would think him weak, pathetic; an easy target.

He wobbled to his feet, helped by Auguste’s hands on his arms, stabilizing him. “Slowly, Laurie,” Auguste murmured. “You fainted.”

In one final indulgence to his weakness, Laurent allowed his brother to guide him over to a chair in front of the windows. He had regained enough composure to not wince when he sat down, though he wanted to. All his hurts, old and new, were coming back to him in waves, and by God, he was exhausted. It was the kind of exhaustion that he could only recall feeling a handful of times in his life; that bone-deep ache like lead in his limbs, like an unraveling of his brain.

Theomedes’s voice took a moment to register in Laurent’s mind. “In light of this new information,” he was saying, “perhaps we should call off dinner. We can get together some other time, at some other venue.”

“Yes, that’s probably for the best,” Uncle said with a sigh. “It was a gracious offer. I’m very disappointed to have to turn you down.”

“Oh, don’t be,” Hypermenestra assured him, mistaking his words for an apology, “there’s nothing to be done for it. We’ll work something else out.”

She was missing the mark. Uncle had said he was disappointed, not sorry. Laurent recognized that for what it was; a message directed specifically at him. With a sinking gut, he plastered on a smile. “Please, don’t change the plan on my account,” he said, unwavering as all eyes turned back to him. “It’s not a problem for me.”

Uncle smiled at him, and for a moment it felt like the clouds had parted. A glance out the window told him they had not.

Auguste was the first to find his voice. “Laurent…” he trailed off, shaking his head.

“Are you sure, honey?” Hypermenestra’s voice held such compassion that Laurent nearly cried.

“I’m sure,” he insisted brightly. “I think it might be nice to see that old house again.”

“I think so too,” Uncle said, but everyone else seemed hesitant to agree.

Jokaste—who had not spoken since Kastor’s return from the bathroom, but had observed everything with an intensity in her eyes that gave Laurent the disconcerting impression she was recording everything in her memory like some sort of cyborg—finally spoke up. “Well, I think I speak for all of us when I say, we look forward to sharing a table with you on Sunday.”

Like a dam was broken, Mr. and Mrs. DiAkielos rushed to assert their agreement. Hypermenestra inquired as to dietary restrictions, to which Auguste replied, “I’m allergic to shellfish, and Laurent doesn’t eat meat.”

“That’s not right,” Theomedes protested, frowning, “a man needs meat in his diet.”

“Theo,” Hypermenestra warned.

“Don’t you want to grow big and strong like my sons?” he asked Laurent, clapping Damianos heavily on the shoulder. “They didn’t get that way by eating leaves and seeds.”

“Dad, he doesn’t want a lecture,” Damianos said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Look how small he is. It’s not healthy for a growing boy.”

“He’s just a late bloomer,” Auguste said, giving Laurent’s shoulder a protective squeeze.

Uncle made mention of bringing the wine, diverting Theomedes’s attention. “No, no, no,” he barked, “I won’t allow it. You’re our guests. We will provide.”

“You must allow me to bring something,” Uncle insisted, the picture of charm.

“Bring us gossip,” said Jokaste. Her grin was sharp, a flash of teeth. “I want to know what kind of city it is I’ve moved to. Bring us the secrets of Arles.”

They were interrupted by Juerre’s return. Laurent would have been embarrassed to admit that he had not noticed Juerre’s absence until that moment when he came rushing back, with a paramedic in tow. She knelt in front of Laurent and opened her bag.

“Oh,” Laurent said as he realized the paramedic was there for him, “no, I don’t need anything.”

“I’m told you fainted. How are you feeling now?” she asked him.

“Fine.”

The first thing the paramedic pulled from her bag was a juice box. She pierced the straw through the hole and held it out to him expectantly. Laurent eyed the little rectangular carton, suddenly feeling small. “No, thank you,” he said. “Really, I’m fine.”

“You need the electrolytes.” She smiled apologetically and waved it toward him again in a motion that reminded him of a mother swooping a spoonful of food toward a fussy baby. A fire bloomed to life in his cheeks, and he heroically resisted the urge to kick her. He glanced at the faces hovering around him, all their waiting eyes trained on him. Except for Uncle, who was looking down at his phone in his hand.

The paramedic was still smiling, waiting for a response. He crossed his legs and leveled her with his most chilling glare. “I said I don’t want it,” he challenged. “Are you going to force me?”

“Laurent,” Auguste hissed. He sounded embarrassed. Good, Laurent thought, at least now I’m not the only one. The paramedic, seemingly at a loss, glanced over her shoulder at Auguste, whom she had apparently decided was in charge. Close, Laurent imagined saying to her, but no cigar.

There was no apology or embarrassment in Uncle’s voice, only impatience. “Don’t be ridiculous, Laurent. Stop acting like a child and drink the juice.” He never even looked up from his phone.

Laurent stared at his uncle and worked his jaw, trying to puzzle out a victory for himself. Seeing none, he snatched the juice box from the paramedic and sipped, eyes on the floor. The orange flavor was sweet and just a little bit tart. It was actually quite refreshing. It was with great effort that he did not pout.

As he sipped, the paramedic began pulling other instruments from her bag. He graciously suffered her poking and prodding, deciding it was not worth the battle to resist, though her touch made his skin crawl. She shone a light into his eyes, took his temperature, checked his blood pressure.

“Temp looks good,” she declared. “Blood pressure is a little low, but that’s to be expected after fainting.”

“I’m fine, really,” Laurent insisted, directing it at Auguste. “I just forgot to eat breakfast. And I didn’t sleep well. But I feel fine.”

“Well, you should definitely eat something,” the paramedic said, “but I don’t see any other cause to worry here.” Auguste was not appeased. The furrow in his brow deepened, and he had a distant look in his eyes.

“Oh, wait, I think I have—” Jokaste mumbled as she rummaged through her carry on. “Yes, here it is.” Triumphantly, she pulled something rectangular and crinkly out of her bag and handed it to Laurent. It was one of those dry, sugarless protein bars. He thanked her and took a small bite to be polite. It was like swallowing cardboard.

Auguste spoke to the paramedic, “You’re sure there’s nothing wrong? I mean, shouldn’t you draw his blood and run some tests?”

“That’s not typically something we do in a situation like this, no.”

Auguste chewed his thumbnail. “Maybe we should take him to the hospital. Juerre, could you warm up the car?”

Juerre glanced at Uncle, who shook his head. Juerre stayed rooted where he was.

“Juerre?” Auguste seemed lost.

“Auguste, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Uncle coaxed, but Auguste didn’t seem to hear him.

An edge of wild urgency leapt into his voice, “We need to at least do a blood test—and a brain scan just to be sure, an MRI will show if—”

“I’m not Mom!” Laurent snapped. Auguste flinched as though he’d been struck. A range of emotions passed over his face. First there was shock, then rage, then grief, and finally he landed on shame. Laurent felt a stab of guilt and softened his voice, “I’m not sick, okay? I don’t need a blood test or a brain scan. I just want to go home. I’m tired, Auguste.”

For a moment, Auguste only stared at him, muscles in his face twitching slightly as he tried to settle on an emotion. The DiAkieloses all seemed to be holding their collective breath. Laurent was struck with the sudden fear that his brother would cry. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Auguste cry; he had not even seen him cry over their parents.

But Laurent’s fear was unfounded. Auguste pulled his features into order. “Yeah, okay,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry, Laurent. I’m tired too. Let’s go home.”

Their departure and car ride home were a haze that ran together. It began to rain again in earnest, drumming steadily on the roof of the car. Laurent found it harder and harder to keep his eyelids open. When they got home, even though it was still early in the afternoon, he climbed straight into bed and closed his eyes.

Auguste sat down heavily on the edge of his bed. For a long while, he said nothing, letting the sound of rainfall fill the room as Laurent drifted toward sleep. When he was somewhere between his dark bedroom and a sunlit dream, he heard his brother sigh. “You know,” his voice was nearly lost in a rumbling of thunder above, “we never really talked about Aimeric.” Laurent pretended he had not heard, and let sleep carry him toward the sun.

A white rabbit hopped between his feet and out into a green garden. It paused, turning around to twitch its nose at him, almost as if it were beckoning him. Laurent stepped hesitantly onto the grass. The sun hammered down on his shoulders, the light nauseatingly bright in his eyes. He knew this garden. He did not want to be here. The rabbit seemed to sense this and hopped farther in, disappearing behind a bend in the path, leaving Laurent no choice but to follow. Rows of yellow and orange daylilies bowed in the breeze as he passed them.

When he caught sight of the rabbit again, a flash of white against the green, the creature bolted. Laurent sprinted after it, his feet tearing over grass, slapping against the stone patio, and finally stomping up the short stair to the back deck. The sliding glass doors stood open like an offer of embrace. Laurent could see nothing but shadow beyond the threshold; no light passed through the doorway. The rabbit slipped through and vanished into the darkness inside the house.

Laurent did not remember following, but suddenly he was standing inside the mouth of the shadow. It was cold as the dead of winter inside the house. He shivered. After a few moments, his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he could see through it well enough to make out his surroundings.

It was not Aimeric’s house, as he had thought it would be. It was his own house that he stood in, cold and afraid, and suddenly alone. The rabbit was nowhere to be seen. Laurent tried to call out, to ask if anyone was home, but his voice was dead in his throat.

Something shattered loudly upstairs, nearly causing Laurent to jump out of his skin. It sounded like it came from his bedroom. He raced up the stairs, taking two at a time, and burst through his bedroom door. A small ball of white fur was curled up on his pillow atop his bed. He stepped forward lightly on the balls of his feet, creeping toward the bed.

A sharp pain shot through his foot, and he yelped. Looking down, Laurent saw that his whole floor was covered in jagged shards of glass, fanning out in a great arc, with his bed at the center. The shards beneath his bare feet turned red with his blood.

He tried to pick a safe path toward his bed, hopping around to avoid the biggest clusters of glass, like he was playing the world’s most fucked-up game of hopscotch. But it was useless. Wherever he stepped, there were pieces of glass that he hadn’t seen before, lying in wait to cut his skin. He hardly felt the pain anymore, his fear was so strong it left no room for anything else. He just had to get to the bed; he just had to get to the white rabbit, still sleeping peacefully on his pillow. He took a big hop, but he misjudged the distance and landed badly. His foot slipped on a pile of slick glass pieces, and he went sprawling onto his knees and forearms, the glass cutting a thousand fresh slices into his skin that burned like fire. Weeping, he began to crawl. He was almost there. He reached for the corner of his bedspread with a red hand.

Laurent woke with a gasp. The dream was already fading by the time he opened his eyes, but the fear held onto him with sharp talons. He spent a good few minutes lying in bed just catching his breath.

Something soft brushed his chin. The white fur of his stuffed rabbit. Laurent thought it odd that he was hugging her. He used to fall asleep hugging that rabbit every night, but he hadn’t in years. Auguste must have tucked him in with her before he left the room.

Laurent nuzzled his face into the soft fur of the toy. Chicken, he’d called her, when he was two years old and certain in his total knowledge of the universe. When he was a bit older, he’d tried to rename her, but Auguste had refused to call her anything else—claiming the name was already perfect—so she was doomed to be Chicken the rabbit forever.

He rolled over and looked at his clock. 7:27. He might not have missed dinner yet. His stomach grumbled at the thought of food, so he threw aside the covers and hopped out of bed. He was still wearing Auguste’s hoodie and the jeans he’d had on at the airport. After a moment’s indecision, he changed out of the jeans in favor of sweatpants. He kept the hoodie on.

The clatter and aromas of Radel’s cooking drifted up from the kitchen when Laurent opened his door. He followed the sound of low conversation to the living room where Auguste and Uncle lounged on perpendicular couches, talking over glasses of wine. Uncle was facing the doorway, but didn’t seem to see Laurent standing there. His attention was wholly on Auguste.

“…glad to see he’s looking well. I worry about him.”

Auguste’s voice seemed both at once to haunt the space and to breathe new life into the house that Laurent hadn’t even noticed was dead until it wasn’t anymore. Time folded in on itself until the past and present were one dense pressure on Laurent’s chest.

“No,” Auguste gasped, scandalized by something Uncle had said too softly for Laurent’s ears to catch, “To school? Where did he even get it? Please tell me you took a picture.” The back of his head bobbed a little as he spoke, his golden hair haloed in the warm lamplight.

“Unfortunately, I didn’t,” Uncle chuckled. “Oh, but it was a sight. I think he was hoping it would give him an edge, but…” he trailed off, then leaned in toward Auguste, close as a lover, and whispered something Laurent couldn’t hear. Auguste erupted in laughter, the rich ripples of his voice surging through the house like a wave. A dull ache throbbed in Laurent’s temples. He consciously unclenched his jaw before stepping into the room.

Uncle saw Laurent first. “Speak of the devil,” he said with a wink.

“Oh, good, you’re up,” Auguste said, turning around. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“I was just about to wake you for dinner. Radel’s making your favorite.” Auguste grinned and wiggled his eyebrows.

Laurent had smelled the savory potatoes, garlic, and gruyere on his way down the stairs. “Gratin dauphinois hasn’t been my favorite for years,” he snapped, and watched his brother’s face fall. Why did I say that? He kicked himself in his mind. That’s not even true.

“Oh,” Auguste said, “I’m sorry. I thought—”

“No, I mean…I still like it,” Laurent said.

“I can tell Radel to make something else.”

“No, don’t. It was a good idea. Thank you.” He mimed a smile. A pressure was welling behind his eyes, but he held onto the smile like if he kept it on his face long enough, he might eventually start to feel like it belonged there.

“I guess we have a lot of catching up to do,” Auguste said. His smile was a mirror of Laurent’s own—not quite false, but reaching for the emotion it was meant to display rather than being built upon it. A hollowness, like hunger, striving to be filled.

“So,” Auguste said. He was looking at Laurent expectantly. “Tell me everything.”

“About?”

“You. Your life. Everything you’ve been up to that you haven’t mentioned on the phone. Spare me no detail.” He leaned forward on his elbows.

“What were you laughing about, before?” Laurent asked. “When I came in.”

Auguste’s expression shuttered, and he shifted in his seat. “Oh. I… You know, I don’t really remember.” He took a long drink from his wine glass.

Laurent held his voice carefully neutral. “It wasn’t about me?”

“About you?” The words appeared to catch in Auguste’s throat, and Laurent watched him force them out like a cough, “No, of course not.” It was gratifying, at least, to know that Auguste was still a terrible liar.

“Because when I walked in here—Uncle, you remember—you said, ‘speak of the devil’.”

Auguste drained his glass.

Uncle’s empty smile could have meant anything or nothing. “Why don’t you sit, Laurent? Join us for a drink.”

Auguste chuckled awkwardly, mistaking Uncle’s offer for a joke. His laughter died when Laurent pinched another glass from the hutch and started filling it with wine.

“Wait—Laurent,” he protested. “What are you doing?” Laurent kept silent, letting the glugs of the wine rushing out of the bottle answer for him. Receiving no explanation from him, Auguste turned to Uncle. “What is he doing?”

“I believe he is pouring himself a glass of wine,” Uncle said.

Laurent finished pouring and walked to the window. Outside, the rain clouds had receded, and the curtain of night was slowly closing on the last blue hour of sunlight. His reflection stared back at him through the glass, cut in deep shades of blue. He turned away and lowered himself into an armchair, putting the window at his back.

“He’s fourteen.” Auguste said, aghast.

“I’m basically fifteen.” Laurent wasn’t sure why that comment made Uncle’s lips purse like his wine had gone sour. Did I speak out of turn? He folded his legs up beneath him on the chair and stared down into his own glass. As he swirled it, the orange lamplight glinted on the surface like a firefly caught in the wine, drowning.

“I don’t think Mom and Dad would approve.”

“I have taken my own approach to Laurent’s upbringing, as is my prerogative as his primary caregiver,” Uncle said. “Better for him to drink responsibly at home and build up a tolerance under my supervision than to drink recklessly with his friends at underage parties.” He held the stem of his wineglass delicately between two fingers as he sipped.

Auguste let out a breath that was not quite a laugh. “Touché, Uncle. I suppose I have no moral ground to stand on here.” With a chastised set to his jaw, he reached for the decanter and refilled his glass, then topped off their uncle’s with the last drops. Uncle thanked him and swirled his glass, commenting on the subtle notes of pomegranate and oak.

Laurent swirled his wine and sniffed too, pretending that he could detect the aromas that Uncle had pointed out. He liked the way the wineglass felt in his hand; the lightness of it, how smooth it was, how delicate. Holding it made him feel grown up; sophisticated and mature. When he sipped, he caught Auguste’s eye. The muscles in his jaw visibly clenched, and Laurent knew his brother was grinding his teeth. It was a stress habit that used to drive their mother up the wall. She would give him gum to chew or candy to suck on when he was upset, but for all her trying she could never get him to stop grinding his teeth.

Auguste got up and stood in front of the window, looking out at the rising moon. He threw his head back and drained his glass again in one long gulp. Laurent held his breath and gripped his own glass tighter. Something was brewing behind his brother’s eyes. Laurent could feel it gathering in on itself; a change in the air. It was like watching the birth of a storm. A low, mirthless chuckle escaped him, and he shook his head. It almost looked like he was having a silent conversation with the moon.

Suddenly, Auguste stomped over to the wine fridge and pulled out another bottle, seemingly at random. He wrenched the cork out with the opener and poured a generous amount of wine straight into his glass, not even giving it time to breathe before it hit the back of his throat. Uncle and Laurent shared a glance as Auguste refilled his glass yet again.

“I saw that,” Auguste’s voice was rough. “No, Laurent, don’t give me the big innocent eyes, I saw.” Laurent felt the words like a slap to the face. Auguste had never used such a sharp tone with him before.

“Saw what, nephew?” Uncle spread his palms out before him. His ruby ring winked as it arced through the light.

“That fucking look you two just—” he cut himself off, gesturing between Laurent and Uncle with his free hand. His wine sloshed at the violence of the motion, threatening to spill over the rim of the glass. For a petrifying moment, Laurent thought it was all over; that Auguste had seen right through him to his core where he guarded his secrets, reading them as easily as Uncle read from the Bible. He knows …

When Auguste spoke again, the relief Laurent felt was dizzying. “I can’t have a glass of wine in my own home?” Auguste was close to shouting now. A pink flush crept up his neck to his cheeks. But Laurent hardly noticed; he still felt as though he had dodged the rapture.

“You’ve had considerably more than a glass already,” Uncle said. His calm voice sounded like a whisper compared to Auguste’s rising tone. “That”—he pointed to Auguste’s glass with his chin— “is your fifth.”

Auguste’s laughter was grotesque. “Oh, you’re keeping track now?”

Laurent was struck by how much Auguste looked like their father in that moment. Not in his physical traits—in that both he and Laurent bore more resemblance to their mother, Hennike. It was something in the way a vein bulged at the side of his neck. Something in the ruddy stain on his cheeks, and his sporadic movements like he was holding himself on the edge of violence. It was there in the stink of alcohol hanging around him like a cartoon storm cloud over his head. It was like watching his brother slip on his father’s ghost like an old sweater; and it fit like it was tailor-made for him. A cold finger of dread trailed down Laurent’s spine.

“I’m twenty-seven years old! Laurent is fourteen! How about you keep track of that?”

“Lower your voice,” Uncle commanded.

“How about you keep track of whose name is on the deed to this goddamn house? Or who inherited the wine cellar that—”

“Auguste!” Laurent cut off his tirade with a shout like shattering glass. Auguste stared at him, stunned. Even Uncle seemed surprised, watching him to see what he would do next. Laurent was not sure himself. He had no plan; he had just wanted Auguste to stop.

Coming to a decision, Laurent walked through the adjoining dining room and into the kitchen, past Radel who was tossing the salad, and to the sink. He poured his wine down the drain without a word. Turning, he held his empty glass up to the air. Auguste and Uncle stared in from the living room where he’d left them, the dining room standing empty between them and him.

Then he set the wineglass down on the counter and pulled a regular glass out of the cabinet. He filled it with water from the fridge and walked it over to the dining room table, where he set it down and took his place unceremoniously. Uncle joined him at the table, and after a minute’s hesitation, so did Auguste, red-faced and abashed. Laurent noted with triumph that Auguste had left his wine in the living room.

Radel brought out the meal, Uncle led them in saying Grace, and then, much to Laurent’s surprise, Auguste apologized. After that, they ate in silence. When Radel began to clear their plates away, Uncle steepled his fingers. “Now, Laurent,” he said, all business, “let’s talk about your birthday party.”

Kneeling at the edge of his bed two hours later with his hands clasped in prayer, Laurent closed his eyes and chanted, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. May angels watch me through the night, and wake me with the morning light. Amen.”

He padded over to the light switch by the door and flicked it off, letting night flood into his room. A stillness fell over the air. With his hand still lingering over the switch, he hesitated.

He thought of Auguste, snoring on the couch in the living room downstairs, where he would likely remain all night. Like their father, Auguste slept like a rock, especially after drinking. He thought of the gleam in Uncle’s eye when he’d told him to go get ready for bed; the way his gaze had lingered.

Laurent locked his door. He scrambled blindly across his floor—some small piece of his mind remembering shards of glass—and into bed. He pulled the covers up to his eyes, and he waited.

There was no knock. He never knocked. There was only a mechanical click as the lock inside the door handle refused to move. Laurent lay very still, not even daring to breathe. If he really wanted to get in, of course, he could. Uncle had a key to every room in the house. Laurent laid like a corpse under his comforter for a long time, waiting to hear the key scrape into the lock.

At some point, he must have fallen asleep, because he woke to the soft kiss of dawn and a dove’s peaceful song outside his window. His alarm wouldn’t go off for another forty-five minutes, but he rolled out of bed anyway, deciding to take advantage of an early start to the day. He dressed and tiptoed down the stairs.

Laurent’s feet took him to the coffee machine, and he automatically went through the motions of starting a pot. He stood by the machine, drumming his fingers absently on the granite countertop and scrolling through the day’s news headlines while he waited for the coffee to brew.

The machine beeped, and Uncle was still not downstairs. Laurent poured coffee into his uncle’s favorite mug and set it at his preferred seat at the kitchen table. As a centerpiece, stood a glass vase full of cut tulips. The petals were just beginning to wither. Laurent expected the flowers would be discarded and replaced with fresher ones by tomorrow. A neat stack of invitation cards waited beside the vase. Laurent looked at the one on top.

My Dear Sister Margaret,

I would like to start by expressing how invaluable your work at our school and in our community has been over the decades. You bring light to all the souls you touch. As a way to thank you, I would like to personally invite you to attend the celebration of my nephew’s fifteenth birthday on Saturday, September 30th. Brunch will be served at 10:00 a.m. We would be most honored by your attendance.

Uncle’s RSVP information was written underneath the message. Flipping through the stack, he saw that each message was slightly different; each one personalized, and each inked in Uncle’s elegant, looping script. Laurent sighed and scooped the cards into his backpack.

He sat down and waited some more, wondering if he should attempt to make something for his uncle’s breakfast to surprise him. At some point, the coffee had stopped steaming. Laurent had still heard no sound to indicate that his uncle was getting ready, or even awake.

On a hunch, Laurent checked the dish by the door to the garage. Uncle’s keys were gone. He must have gone out for his coffee. Laurent bit the inside of his cheek. That meant that he would be walking to school today. He still had plenty of time, but Uncle usually didn’t leave without telling him.

Ruminating on that, Laurent grabbed two apples from the fridge and rinsed them in the sink. Auguste was still passed out on the couch when he walked past the living room, one arm dangling over the edge and snoring like a buzz saw. Laurent’s first instinct was to grab a pillow and smack his brother in the face with it as hard as he could, but he thought better of it. The memory of Auguste’s anger still haunted this room, like the ghost of hands around his neck, and Laurent had no wish to revive it.

Instead, he tiptoed to the coffee table and set one of the apples down there. It looked rather pitiful all alone, so he went back to the kitchen and grabbed Uncle’s mug. He dumped the cold coffee and refilled it with more steaming fresh from the pot, then brought that in and placed it gently on the table beside the apple. Satisfied, he crept out into the foyer and pulled on his shoes—dress shoes, for once, instead of his boots—and slipped out the door.

“Oh, how splendid,” Sister Margaret’s face wrinkled in delight as she peered at the invitation through reading lenses so thick they’d stop a bullet. “You know, not many people take the time to hand-write invitations anymore, but your uncle is a rare breed. What a lovely, lovely man.” She fixed Laurent with her rheumy gaze. “There is much you could learn from him in the ways of courtesy, young man.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Sister,” Laurent allowed, wearing his best smile. “We hope to see you there.” He made his exit before she could say another word.

Ancel, a scholarship kid in Laurent’s year with flaming red hair—and one of the few out gay kids at the school—was leaning against the doorframe when Laurent walked out of Sister Margaret’s classroom, as though he’d been waiting for him.

“Hey, Laurent,” he drawled, “any chance that hot friend of your parents’ will be at your party? What’s his name?”

“Give it up, Ancel,” Laurent said without stopping, forcing Ancel to trot along beside him to keep up the conversation. “Berenger is never going to look at you that way. You’d have better luck seducing a tree.”

“Just get me in the room with him, Lolo. I’ll take it from there.”

Laurent recoiled from the nickname. “Call me that again, and I’ll have you strangled in your sleep,” he said flatly. “Besides, I doubt he’ll even be there. He doesn’t come around much anymore.”

There was no reason for him to; Laurent’s parents were dead. If a part of him had once believed that Berenger was a friend to him too, that part of him had not long outlived his parents. He remembered the last time he’d seen him; the night before his father’s funeral. Berenger had knocked on the door unannounced, and Uncle hadn’t let him in. He remembered hearing raised voices on the front porch, then the roar of Berenger’s car as he drove away. Uncle had called Berenger a “vulture” and would say nothing more about it. He’d had that steel in his voice when he’d said it, so Laurent had never brought it up again.

They rounded a corner, and there was Damianos, leaning up against the lockers just like the day Laurent had first seen him. The goon from the fight was there laughing beside him; the boy who had pushed Laurent to the floor.

Laurent stopped, considering. He could walk away and pretend he had not seen him. He could tell Uncle that the DiAkieloses were busy on his birthday and couldn’t make it. But there was that dinner coming up on Sunday, and someone might mention it. With a curse aimed at the heavens, Laurent started forward again. Ancel followed at his heels like a curious housecat.

Damianos looked up as they approached, his eyes finding Laurent’s across the hall. He jabbed his friend with his elbow. “Make way for the prince of Vere,” he said, loud enough to carry.

“Does he mean you?” Ancel asked. Laurent did not deign to respond. He lifted his chin and walked all the more determinedly toward Damianos.

“Your Highness,” Damianos said with a dramatic sweeping bow, and backed away from the lockers. His goon snorted ungracefully, following.

Laurent smiled sweetly at Damianos’s retreating form, still bent in a bow, and flipped him off. Damianos and his friend started off down the hall, and it was with magnificent effort that Laurent called out, “Akielos, wait.”

Damianos and his goon stopped, exchanged a glance, then turned back in silent agreement. Damianos smiled at Ancel. “Who’s your friend?” he asked Laurent.

“I’m—”

“His name is Ancel,” Laurent said, pulling the card from his backpack. “He’s not my friend. Pay no attention to him.”

“Okay, wow,” Damianos breathed out a mirthless laugh. “Usually it goes something like this: Damianos, this is Ancel. Ancel, meet Damianos.” Damianos made a show of extending his hand, which Ancel shook cordially.

“You get used to him,” Ancel said with a shrug.

“This is my best friend, Nikandros. His father works for mine, and his family moved here with ours. Nik, Laurent and Ancel,” Damianos continued, gesturing at each of them in turn.

Nikandros opened his mouth.

“No, don’t talk,” Laurent cut him off. Damianos and Nikandros exchanged a weighted glance. Laurent ignored it, turning back to Damianos, “I just came to give you this.” He held out the invitation. Damianos eyed it warily, and was careful not to let their fingers brush when he took it.

Nikandros glared at Laurent with open distaste before peering over Damianos’s shoulder to read the card with him. As Damianos’s eyes flitted over the calligraphy, he lifted his brows. “A royal summons?”

“Stop that,” Laurent snapped.

Damianos feigned innocence, “Stop what, Your Highness?” He blinked his giant puppy eyes. Laurent clenched his jaw.

“You sound ridiculous,” he scolded. “Like a child.” Ancel was staring at Laurent with a strange little smirk on his face. Laurent continued to ignore him.

“This is addressed to my whole family,” Damianos said slowly, looking over the invitation again.

“You’ve picked up basic reading skills,” Laurent replied. “I see that a Veretian education has already done you some good.”

To his credit, Damianos took the insult in stride and let it slide right off. Nikandros did not take it so well. “What the fuck is your problem?” he nearly shouted.

Laurent smoothed his face into a mask of cold disapproval that he had studied on Uncle’s face over the years. “I told you not to speak.”

Rage flared in Nikandros’s dark eyes, and he started forward. Damianos stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “He’s baiting you, Nik,” he shook his head, “it’s not worth it.” Just like that, Nikandros backed down.

Laurent was honestly a bit disappointed. “The master commands, and the dog obeys,” he goaded.

“And you—” Damianos pointed a thick brown finger in his face. “Don’t speak to my friend that way.”

Laurent laughed. “What are you going to do? Run crying to my uncle?”

Damianos’s smile was sardonic. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Laurent’s mind stuttered. He knows. That was impossible. He knows what you are, his mind insisted, and his heart flipped in answer. He held his face carefully blank. “What do you mean by that?”

“Please, I know your type. You enjoy conflict. You throw yourself into it on purpose,” Damianos said, then his face fell and turned ashen. “Not—I didn’t mean the thing with…on Sunday. I meant last week, here at school.”

Laurent said nothing. He was busy wrangling his heart back down to a normal pace while maintaining an outward air of boredom.

“What happened on Sunday?” Ancel asked. No one answered.

Damianos’s eyes fell back down to the card in his hand. His eyes tracked over the words again slowly, as if searching for a trap. “Do you even want us there?”

“My uncle wants you there.”

“It’s not your uncle’s party.”

“Isn’t it?”

Damianos was silent for a moment, ostensibly thinking, though Laurent still wasn’t convinced that the Akielon giant was capable of intelligent thought. “Obviously, I’ll tell Kastor not to come,” he said at last. Nikandros shot him a look that was half questioning, half alarmed.

Laurent felt himself bristle. “Do what you want. I don’t care. I was just supposed to give that to you.”

Damianos grimaced in a telling display of discomfort. “Listen, about next Sunday,” he began, his gaze flickering to Ancel before he continued. “With the…situation with the house and what happened at the airport, it doesn’t seem like a good—”

“What happened at the airport?” Ancel pried, “I heard you fainted. Was that the Sunday thing you were talking about?” Without a word, Laurent grabbed Ancel’s wrist and tugged him away from the Akielons, marching him off down the hall.

“Laurent!” Damianos called after him.

“I’ll see you on Sunday, sweetheart,” Laurent tossed back over his shoulder. Nikandros muttered something in Akielon just loud enough for Laurent to catch it. He wasn’t certain, but he thought it was, asshole.

When they’d rounded the corner, Laurent released Ancel’s wrist, but despite his new freedom, he continued trotting along beside him. Laurent could feel him practically buzzing with curiosity.

His own mind was a frenzied cacophony of he knows, he knows, they all know—how could they know? How could they not? The rot is in my blood, and the hounds can smell it. No—we’ve done nothing wrong. No act done in the service of God is a sin, his uncle had said that. And what was love if not the purest expression of God’s will? We’ve done nothing wrong. But they knew. Laurent could feel it in his nauseated bones, in his shuddering heart. He must have slipped up, given away the game. He could feel the world spinning on its axis, picking up speed.

He burst through a door and emerged into a shaded courtyard that was alive with greenery. The stone path took him to the bench he was looking for, underneath the ancient oak tree. Laurent sat down heavily and gripped the edge of the seat in his hands. It was polished granite, cool in the shade. He relished the solid feeling of it in his palms and let it ground him. He was only distantly aware of Ancel plopping down beside him on the bench.

Laurent looked up. The leaves that shaded him were lit up with sunlight from above, so that they almost appeared to glow from within. A rise in the breeze stirred his hair and sent a whisper through the leaves.

“Everyone has a guardian angel,” his mother said, smiling.

“So,” Ancel said, stretching out the word playfully, “Damianos. You’re seeing him on Sunday? He’s hot.”

Laurent closed his eyes and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Ancel,” he bit out through clenched teeth.

“Yeah?”

“Fuck off.”

Ancel harumphed, “Fuck you,” but he did as he was told and left Laurent finally, blessedly alone.

Laurent spent his lunch period sitting by himself on the bench. Instead of eating, he listened to music; Dvořák’s serenade for strings. He and Aimeric had spent countless hours practicing it together on their violins under this very tree. They had never quite gotten it perfect—Aimeric would fumble somewhere in the second movement, and Laurent struggled to find the right intonation—but both as stubborn as oxen, they had practiced until their fingers bled.

Laurent brushed the fingertips of his left hand with his thumb. They were soft now; the calluses faded from years of neglect. He squeezes his hand into a fist. A small brown bird perched on a branch nearby and chirped at Laurent inquisitively.

“What about Aimeric?” Laurent asked aloud. “If he had a guardian angel, why didn’t he save him?” The bird tilted its head, staring at Laurent through blank black eyes. With a flutter of its wings, it soared up out of the tree and into the sky, vanishing over the walls of the courtyard. Laurent sighed. On the back of the bench was a bronze plaque. He traced the engraved lettering with his finger.

“Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things” (Philippians 4:8).

In loving memory of Aimeric Fortaine

2009-2020

#captive prince #laurent of vere #my writing #damen of akielos #lykmc #lamen #auguste of vere #capri fanfic #captive prince fanfic

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grandhotelabyss · 1 year ago

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What novels/writers have made you laugh the most? I agree that Ulysses can be very funny. My personal list is a rather eclectic one: Sam Lipsyte, Joseph Heller, Thomas Bernhard, Amis père et fils and Evelyn Waugh. And there's an absurdist humor in Kafka's The Trial and The Castle that sometimes makes me chuckle.

I like arch dialogue, verbal wit, more than slapstick hijinks. Austen and Wilde among the classics, along with Joyce. I agree with you about Kafka's humor, too, in which strangeness, pathos, and hilarity are somehow all present, even sometimes in the very situations (e.g., the ape addressing the academy).

I maintain that White Noise is the funniest novel I've ever read, in a way only half captured by the movie. Some samples. First, a bit of classic DeLillo non-dialogic dialogue:

"What do you know about Dylar?"

"Is that the black girl who's staying with the Stovers?"

"That's Dakar," Steffie said.

"Dakar isn't her name, it's where she's from," Denise said. "It's a country on the ivory coast of Africa."

"The capital is Lagos," Babette said. "I know that because of a surfer movie I saw once where they travel all over the world."

"The Perfect Wave" Heinrich said. "I saw it on TV."

"But what's the girl's name?" Steffie said.

"I don't know," Babette said, "but the movie wasn't called The Perfect Wave. The perfect wave is what they were looking for."

"They go to Hawaii," Denise told Steffie, "and wait for these tidal waves to come from Japan. They're called origamis."

"And the movie was called The Long Hot Summer," her mother said.

"The Long Hot Summer," Heinrich said, "happens to be a play by Tennessee Ernie Williams."

"It doesn't matter," Babette said, "because you can't copyright titles anyway."

"If she's an African," Steffie said, "I wonder if she ever rode a camel."

"Try an Audi Turbo."

"Try a Toyota Supra."

"What is it camels store in their humps?" Babette said. "Food or water? I could never get that straight."

"There are one-hump camels and two-hump camels," Heinrich told her. "So it depends which kind you're talking about."

"Are you telling me a two-hump camel stores food in one hump and water in the other?"

"The important thing about camels," he said, "is that camel meat is considered a delicacy."

"I thought that was alligator meat," Denise said.

"Who introduced the camel to America?" Babette said. "They had them out west for a while to carry supplies to coolies who were building the great railroads that met at Ogden, Utah. I remember my history exams."

"Are you sure you're not talking about llamas?" Heinrich said.

"The llama stayed in Peru," Denise said. "Peru has the llama, the vicuña and one other animal. Bolivia has tin. Chile has copper and iron."

"I'll give anyone in this car five dollars," Heinrich said, "if they can name the population of Bolivia."

"Bolivians," my daughter said.

The family is the cradle of the world's misinformation.

Next, Jack hears of a near air disaster involving his oldest daughter:

The plane had lost power in all three engines, dropped from thirty-four thousand feet to twelve thousand feet. Something like four miles. When the steep glide began, people rose, fell, collided, swam in their seats. Then the serious screaming and moaning began. Almost immediately a voice from the flight deck was heard on the intercom: "We're falling out of the sky! We're going down! We're a silver gleaming death machine!" This outburst struck the passengers as an all but total breakdown of authority, competence and command presence and it brought on a round of fresh and desperate wailing.

Finally, Jack's cowboyish father-in-law makes a speech about his failing health and insalubrious lifestyle:

"Don't worry about me," he said. "The little limp means nothing. People my age limp. A limp is a natural thing at a certain age. Forget the cough. It's healthy to cough. You move the stuff around. The stuff can't harm you as long as it doesn't settle in one spot and stay there for years. So the cough's all right. So is the insomnia. The insomnia's all right. What do I gain by sleeping? You reach an age when every minute of sleep is one less minute to do useful things. To cough or limp. Never mind the women. The women are all right. We rent a cassette and have some sex. It pumps blood to the heart. Forget the cigarettes. I like to tell myself I'm getting away with something. Let the Mormons quit smoking. They'll die of something just as bad. The money's no problem. I'm all set incomewise. Zero pensions, zero savings, zero stocks and bonds. So you don't have to worry about that. That's all taken care of. Never mind the teeth. The teeth are all right. The looser they are, the more you can wobble them with your tongue. It gives the tongue something to do. Don't worry about the shakes. Everybody gets the shakes now and then. It's only the left hand anyway. The way to enjoy the shakes is pretend it's somebody else's hand. Never mind the sudden and unexplained weight loss. There's no point eating what you can't see. Don't worry about the eyes. The eyes can't get any worse than they are now. Forget the mind completely. The mind goes before the body. That's the way it's supposed to be. So don't worry about the mind. The mind is all right. Worry about the car. The steering's all awry. The brakes were recalled three times. The hood shoots up on pothole terrain."

#don delillo

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kenobster · 1 year ago

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6 and 13 for the unhinged star wars meme pls

Your Pal’s Star Wars Ask Game

Thank you for the ask friend!!!

6. What is your favorite Star Wars meme?

Lmao, I spent an unhealthy amount of time scrolling google images the other night to refresh my memory on the memes available. ‘Twas worth it because I remembered my absolute two favorites!!!

The I Could Fix Him meme applied to Anakin. Apparently I never reblogged this, but it’s been the subject of many of my conversations lmao.

Anything involving the Tragedy of Darth Plagueis the wise. Pretty much any of them slay me dead, but here’s some notable examples:

The one about "Kids These Days"

The one where Anakin flunked a Jedi course

The one about proper theater performance etiquette

And then of course the totally off-topic ones, like the heirloom seeds one

Honorable shoutouts go to any meme about Obi-Wan being a slut (example); this specific “unwell about this man” variant; ILU vs IDLSICARAIAIGE; the Jedi Council Chamber Master Tantrum memes (first example, second example); and the classic Anakin & Padme Four-Panel.

13. What is your earliest Star Wars memory?

Star Wars was pretty much my first hyperfixation (not sure which came first, that or LOTR). I had a very active imagination as a kid. So I was reading the Jedi Apprentice series by Jude Watson, and I, like any kid, played pretend that the Force was real. I got super into Jedi philosophy. In fact, I prided myself on being able to not cry out whenever I stubbed my toe or some such because I would acknowledge the pain and “let it wash over me” like in those books. My pain tolerance skyrocketed and lasts even to this day, haha.

Sound kinda weird but generally like the typical fun kid stuff, right? Well, funny you should say that (at least, funny to me XD). Because believing in the Force (you know, the way kids do) meant that I also believed it was possible to sense when things go wrong. Which, when combined with my active imagination, meant that if kid!me got, say, a Bad Feeling, then kid!me would believe that something bad was actually happening (or that something bad was about to happen). And I’m pretty sure some of y’all are already whipping out your DSM-V copies and crossing off the criteria for Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD). And you would be absolutely correct.

One particular afternoon, while at swimming lessons, I (an 8-10 year old) got the Worst Bad Feeling Ever (which I now understand was a panic attack but really had no idea that's what it was and didn't know to tell anyone). Something felt seriously wrong to me. I actually had to stop swimming that day because I was terrified I was going to drown—which was freakishly unusual for me. Like, I can’t even begin to explain how much I do not have a fear of water. I not only love to swim... I was actually an incredibly good swimmer. At that point, my next step would have been to start competing! But that afternoon, I was terrified like I'd never been.

Coincidentally, it turns out that my grandmother (who had been planning to surprise us by showing up at our swimming lessons that day) had gotten in a really bad car accident and needed to be taken to the ER by ambulance. She ended up fine, but… suffice to say, this experience did not help to slow down my growing belief in Force powers… nor my rapidly developing GAD. :’)

I actually quit swimming not long after this experience, partly because I continued to have what kid!me didn’t know were breathing-related panic attacks while I swam. After a few weeks, the panic attacks stopped (for twenty years anyway), but by then, I had become interested in other things. Plus, I was going through a depressive episode at the time (again, kid!me was completely unaware of this and did not know to explain to anyone what was going on). Funnily enough, this depressive episode was also jumpstarted by a Jude Watson book. I literally remember sitting alone under a tree on the playground, crying to myself, and wondering what "the point of life" was... as an 8-10 year old. All because I’d just finished reading the book where Siri Tachi dies. Can’t make this shit up, hahaha.

Anyway, so those are my first memories of Star Wars. XD And I guess you can feel bad for me if u want, but personally I find it hilarious lol. In some way or another, I’ve always been fucked up about these men.

#i was a huge obiwan x siri shipper #and i continue to be unable to read certain kinds of major character death without triggering a depressive episode to this day #anyway my panic attacks have been cured by lexapro im fine and in good mental health so dw #kb post #reply #seascribbling #meme #text #game #SW book #jude watson #jedi apprentice #anakin #siri #obitachi

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softquietsteadylove · 2 years ago

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Hey how about Thenamesh AU with Thena being a lifeguard and saving Gil’s life because he is almost drowning because a group of 3 men who wants to measure their strength against him (cause it’s Gil and his nice muscles xD) and thinking it’s funny to surprise him from behind and push and hold him under water for fun not really caring how he struggles against them and almost passes out?

Some angst, hurt, comfort and fluff!

Thena glanced at him over the rim of her sunglasses before turning her attention back to the rest of the beach.

She hadn't told anyone they were together yet, and neither had Gilgamesh, as far as he'd told her. She wanted more time to be private about it and he was fine with that, because that was Gil's way. He was sweet and funny and charming--everything her exes weren't.

"Checkin' out body-ody-ody over there?"

Thena huffed, glaring at Kingo leaning against the base of the lifeguard tower. "I'm doing my job--you should try it some time."

"Hey, I'm on break," Kingo shrugged, grinning up at her and holding his hand over his eyes and his own sunglasses. "I just figured you'd wanna know that those surfers are challenging Gil to some muscle head competition again."

"And that concerns me?" Thena murmured, still playing dumb to the implications he was making.

Kingo knew better than to make blind swings with his fellow lifeguard, though. He twirled his whistle around his finger. "Well, unless you agree to apply sunscreen to any dude's back who asks-"

She blushed; she had only done that...a few times. And Gil really did have a hard time getting the very centre of his back. It was all those muscles of his...

Kingo climbed up beside her on the bolted structure, raising the binoculars in the side pouch. "They're lining up to race."

Thena rolled her eyes at it. It was pretty common for other men at the beach to feel threatened by Gilgamesh's mere presence. But they couldn't compete with him. Not only in terms of personal appeal, but literally--every time someone challenged Gil to a friendly competition he won. He certainly didn't want to compete in them, but he still managed to win all of them.

"Idiots," Kingo snorted as he lowered the binoculars and saw the distant specs dive into the water and start swimming. He was no slouch either, as both a lifeguard and a dude who liked being cut. But Gil was obviously stronger than any competitor to challenge him yet.

"I don't see why they bother," Thena sighed, watching - or trying not to - as they swam further and further out. She leaned her chin into her palm, "what is it that makes them keep asking him?"

"Hm," Kingo mused, as if observing a flock or birds or a couple of squirrels in a tree. "Male pride is a funny thing--drives them to do crazy things."

Thena nodded faintly. It didn't help explain why he accepted their challenges either.

Kingo picked up on her confusion easily enough. He chuckled, "and when they're trying to impress someone - say, a girl they like - then they might be more stupid than normal."

She didn't seem to get what he was saying, but he raised the binoculars again.

Thena watched Kingo frown and then looked up and out to the water again. "Where's Gil?"

"I don't see him," Kingo answered, searching around with them. He could see the others, all swimming and laughing between themselves. "Is he underwater?"

Thena snatched the binoculars out of Kingo's hands, ignoring his complaints. She felt her throat tighten, "where is he?"

Kingo looked at his more and more panicked friend, "I'm sure he's fine."

Thena sat forward in the tower seat, watching as the group started frowning at each other, looking down at the water. "Something's wrong."

"Thena, take it easy," Kingo tried to soothe as she scrambled down from the seat and started down the beach. He ran beside her, also prepared to take action.

The group with Gil swam back towards the shore, hauling him behind them. "We didn't-"

"Shut up!" Thena barked at them, grabbing Gil for herself and pulling him atop her board to help him float. She pulled him to shore, her legs straining against the water as she kicked up a storm in her rush. "All of you, get away from him!"

"We're sorry! We didn't-"

Kingo blew his whistle at them, shooing them away from Thena as she got Gil onto land again. "You heard her guys, back the hell up."

"Gil?" she called to him, although it came out as more of a whimper as she patted his cheek. His face was scrunched up, but at least he was conscious. "Gil, can you breathe?"

He just groaned in response. Thena turned him over, letting him drape himself over her knee in hopes of getting the water up and out of him. He coughed and sputtered a few times, but he was breathing.

"That's it," Thena sniffed, rubbing his shoulder - between patting his back - as he coughed. "Let it out."

"What the hell happened out there?!" Kingo turned to the other three.

They flinched, "look, it was a friendly competition, okay? We didn't-"

"Didn't what?!" Thena snapped at them as she held Gil's head in her lap. "Didn't mean to hold him under the water until he couldn't breathe!?"

"Thena," Gil uttered weakly, his eyes cracking open just barely.

"Sh, it's okay," she whispered to him, pressing a hand to his chest to feel his heart rate. His breathing was still shallow, but it was reassuring nonetheless. "Do you know where you are?"

Gil blinked up at the open sky behind Thena's head. He looked at her as he managed a smile, "heaven, judging by how you're holding me."

"Oh my god," Kingo rolled his eyes at the couple. He blew his whistle again, waving his arms to disperse the crowd that had gathered around them. "Okay, nothin' to see here, people. Go back to your beaching!"

"Gil, you scared me," Thena sighed, running her fingers through his wet hair as she held him.

"Just let me lie here for another hour and I'll be fine."

#Thenamesh AU #Gil going to the beach everyday #because of this gorgeous lifeguard #prepared to crush on her from afar #only to get the shock of his life when she approaches him #because she's noticed him too of course #it would be pretty hard not to notice Gil after all #she thinks she's been subtle about it #but Kingo has had to watch her check Gil out from afar for a month already #poor guy #Thenamesh Lifeguard AU

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infinitelycomplexpuzzles · 2 years ago

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About Dionysus

Imagine the ancient Greek version of Flo Rida or Pitbull. That’s basically Dionysus.

He is the god of wine, of sex, of madness, of pleasure. But he is also the god of healing, of theatre, of philosophy, of metamorphosis, and of revelation. Through him, things are destroyed, but you are healed through that destruction. Through him, you are brought to ruin, but you find the truth. It is why Plato’s symposium invoked his name while trying to learn, and why the oracle at Delpi is for both Apollo and Dionysus.

But let’s take a step back from all this. Dionysus is the son of Zeus and a mortal, Semele. However, he’s not a demigod, but a full god. Why? Because Hera tricked Semele into demanding that Zeus reveal his true form to her, and she was instantly incinerated. At which point, Zeus sewed Dionysus into his ballsack, and nine months later out popped Dionysus.

There are also stories that he was then torn apart by titans at Hera’s bequest, and also cursed with madness by her and thrown down to earth to hopefully die. Hera really didn’t like him much.

Dionysus however, turns out to be a very powerful and resilient god. Rather than succumb to madness as Hercules did, he became madness, and thus became stronger. He invented wine, turning madness itself into liquid form. Remember, that wine back then was not watered down, and much stronger. The wine that Dionysus created, ambrosia, was literally able to get gods drunk.

At this point, the stories of his get increasingly wild. He conquered India on a chariot pulled by giant cats. He decided to take his favorite playwrights out of the underworld and make them compete with each other to see which was the best. He casually turned his dead mother into a goddess.

There’s a lot of ‘can he do that’ in his stories. The truth is, he can basically do whatever he wants, if he believes he can. It seems that, because he’s a god of madness, and a son of Zeus, he is only limited by what he believes he can do. The rules of the other gods do not seem to apply to him.

Also, apparently he had a fling with Nyx, titan of the night, which is a bit like seducing the void itself. Nyx, who even Zeus feared, basically caused Dionysus to take a drink and go ‘yeah I can tap that.�� And then did so. They also have a kid, who is the god of spite and jealousy. So good?

Anyway! Dionysus is also the god with perhaps the only healthy relationship on Olympus. His wife is Ariadne, who was the brother of the minotaur that Theseus slew. It was she who gave him the thread that allowed him to solve the minotaur’s maze. In return, he agreed to marry her. Until he decided he didn’t want to anymore.

At which point, he threw her overboard, because he’s a dick and a moron. She swam to an island, which turned out to be the island that Dionysus was born on! Dionysus saw her, and immediately fell in love with her. They became infatuated, and he turned her into a goddess. Because he can do that. She’s now the goddess of puzzles and labyrinths and it’s said that she’s the only one who can truly navigate Dionysus’ mind of madness.

Furthermore, Dionysus has the Maenads, or women who left and are saved from abusive and neglectful husbands by Dionysus. They spend their time celebrating and loving each other together with him. Some of them are Dionysus’ lovers, but it’s by no means a requirement. And furthermore, many are lovers of Ariadne too. It’s a very healthy relationship.

And woe to any who would harm them. Lycurgus, a king, was driven mad and torn apart by his subjects for imprisoning the maenads.

Dionysus also has plenty of male consorts. In fact, he made the first dildo, because when his male lover died and made it impossible for Dionysus to fulfill his promise of making love to him, he turned his body into a wooden dildo and pleasured himself with it to fulfill the promise. Greek mythology is weird.

All in all, Dionysus is a god who can become anything, who refuses to accept any kind of rules or structures he disagrees with, and who is fiercely protective of those he cares about.

#dionysus headcanon tag #ooc

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whumpiary · 2 years ago

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What were Christopher’s hobbies as a child?

Thank you for such a fun question!

He was in choir at church for a number of years, until he convinced his mother it was getting in the way of his studies and she let him drop out. He also learned the piano as a child but took up the guitar in highschool and has a preference for it to this day. He was probably also in school band.

He learned to ride horses very young and participated in dressage and jumping competitions. He was good enough to earn a few ribbons, but not good enough to seriously consider pursuing it. As he got older he started to show a particular knack for breaking horses in, and ended up spending more time at the stables than he did in competition. His first real fling was with a boy who worked at the stables.

He was also very athletic. He didn’t really do team sports but he swam and ran competitively and he competed in triathlons.

#answered #about mine

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sseanettles · 2 months ago

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nothing grows in corpses (in the earth of me)

dream x hob gadling | mature | Finally cross-posting my take on the fandom classic of the show progresses as the comics do, even to The Wake. Until Death resurrects Morpheus and forces the choice of "redemption" upon him instead of suicide. It goes...horribly. No good. Very bad. Instead of learning the lesson, Morpheus (in his infinite wisdom) opts instead for a highly effective existence strike until one day Hob Gadling stumbles upon his ghastly handiwork and immediately decides that this just won't do. Man Who Refuses To Die vs. Man Who Refuses To Live: fight.

Dead Dove, Do Not Eat for the following: graphic depictions of starvation, illness, suicidal ideation, self-harm, blood and gore, loss of autonomy, etc. etc. This is some classic old world whump, folks! But I promise it's also supremely healing in the end.

CH. 14: are you really okay? | 3.7 k | AO3 link | prev part | next part

(or: the one where Morpheus pushes his luck too far and reaches the end of the line.)

Now that he was eating, albeit hating himself for every blackmailed swallow and choking back bile after every meal, Morpheus’ healing progressed by leaps and bounds like traitorous clockwork. Sandy’s visits grew less and less frequent until they weren’t needed at all, which left them here at tonight’s dinner celebrating one week without supply runs of any kind from anyone. It was a relaxed thing of Indian takeout on fancy dishes and glasses that were kept heavily filled with wine while Constantine and Gadling competed amid the table’s lively talk and laughter to see who could down the most the fastest.

Morpheus sat largely in silence, allowing the stories the others shared to wash over him like a balm for his aching existence and answering questions when he was asked, and he picked at his food and drink as far as his shrunken gut allowed. But his addled mind was decidedly elsewhere, wandering about the room. And as Hob took another draught of his wine, he noted the bruised shadows beneath Morpheus’ eyes, the way his gaze unfocused and drifted about the room like a ship in a storm. Something had caught his Stranger’s mind beyond that numbness that still dulled his senses, and he had a sneaking suspicion from the way the man's eyes tracked empty air that it wasn’t something the rest of them could perceive.

“Friend,” he called, and Morpheus blinked at the sudden address, looking blearily toward him. “You alright?”

The fact that he seemed to actually ponder the question and did so for some time did not help Hob’s anxiety at all.

“Well enough,” he eventually answered and forced himself to resume eating with painstaking slowness.

The conversation which had died down to slightly strained quiet at Hob’s interruption picked up once more, and as Morpheus faded back into the periphery, he glanced out the corner of his eye to the bookcase.

Delirium climbed up the shelves with the sleeves of her oversized cardigan bunched up past her elbows and her bare feet stretched to tiptoes, and she peered at the holiday cards propped against the spines, mumbling the names aloud to herself in a sing-song voice that changed genre and volume depending on which name she read. Her fish swam about her head while the frogs leapt across the floor, and she looked back at him with mismatched eyes.

“Why don’t you have a card up here—ohhhh!” Her attention switched to the altar, and she leapt from the shelves to the floor with such enthusiasm that there should have been an almighty bang as she landed. Instead, she bounced as if off a balloon, and spun to a stop with her hands braced on the edges of the almost-ofrenda. She pointed to the sketch of him beside the memento chest and beamed. “There’s your card—”

Morpheus’ attention snapped back to the table, and he continued to eat at that measured, automated pace. Gadling’s eyes lingered on him still, and Morpheus lowered his hand to run his fingers along the gnarled scar Despair had dealt him. The feel of the broad strip of mangled skin, the ache that persisted deep inside him at the pressure, grounded him back in reality just in time to catch the tail end of Constantine’s question.

“—could always use the help. Once you’re less…fucked up, ‘course.” She gestured to him with a samosa and swallowed her mouthful of curry. “You interested?”

Morpheus’ mind raced, struggling through its fog to extrapolate what the rest of her offer had been.

“The danger I could attract to your work might outweigh the benefit,” he ultimately said and released a subtle breath of relief as it seemed he had guessed correctly.

“Fair enough. There’s probably loads of things out there that want to sink their teeth in you now that you’re back.”

“What?” Gwen asked, and Hob loudly cleared his throat, reaching for the closest bottle.

“More wine, anyone? Even if it is some value brand shit.”

“Fuck you,” Constantine snorted and held out her glass for a top-off with a tipsy grin.

Morpheus’ head spun with a sudden wave of vertigo, and he dug his hand once more into his scar as he continued to drift and daze.

He was…exhausted was not an adequate word. He had not slept in a week, a fact that he kept as hidden as he could from the people at this table, and he ground his teeth as Delirium’s incessant chatter filtered back into his world, filling his ears. The spin worsened; his vision seemed to pulse and then double, and Hob was on his feet in an instant as he nearly tipped off his chair and caught himself on the table in a dinnerware-rattling bang.

“Shit, is he drunk?” Constantine giggled, and Morpheus braced a hand to his throbbing forehead as Hob’s hands appeared at his elbows, his hips, helping him to his feet.

“Come on, mate. Let’s get you to the sofa, come on.”

Gadling’s balance was as steady as a tightrope walker, a testament to a long life of heavy revelry, and Morpheus leaned into him until he could reach for the couch and lower himself down. Gadling’s hand settled on his shoulder like an anchor as he sagged into his seat, both of them knowing full well that he was not going to be moving again for some time.

“You okay?”

Morpheus nodded, and he felt the world’s spin worsen at the move even beyond his tightly shut eyes. He grimaced and went as still as possible. “Only…dizzy.”

“Alright. Just rest. Let us know if you need anything.” Morpheus hummed his understanding but did not move save to press his hand a bit harder to his scar. Gadling noticed, and he was moving before he’d even finished talking, pressing his hand atop his and feeling for blood through the black of his shirt. “Shit, is it your—”

Morpheus caught his hand and opened his eyes on a slow exhale as the world spun at a slightly slower speed.

Delirium hopped from couch to coffee table to chair, playing the floor is lava with herself as she filled the hardwood with fish and bubbles.

“I am well, Gadling,” he promised and looked back to the table where the women waited. “Enjoy your time.”

Thankfully, the man did not press, and Morpheus watched him rejoin the others at the table before closing his eyes and letting his head tip back against the couch, willing every muscle in his body to relax.

And so he found himself in the same position nearly two hours later, with Gadling and Constantine on the sidewalk out front talking shop and sharing a smoke while Gwen fixed their drunken piling of dishes in the wash so that the door would actually shut. Morpheus watched her work, counting the utensils as she adjusted them, the plates, bowls, glasses. Anything to keep his mind functioning and his body running on less than fumes.

“I like her,” Delirium announced in his ear, sprawled like a cat along the top of the sofa with her arms and legs hanging all gangly down the sides. “She’s all kinds of people inside.” She let out a long, melodramatically pouting sigh and sat up. “I have to go now. I promised Barnabas I’d take him to get pretzels and watch the ice turn into fire, but you should talk to her and tell me what all the ones inside her have to say after, okay?” She landed a big kiss on the top of his head before he could process what she was doing, and she smiled bashfully as he looked up at her in confusion. She booped his nose with a single rainbow-nailed finger and kicked her feet with a giggle. “Be good! That’s what Barnabas always says to me, be good. I think I’m supposed to say that to him,” she added in a wry, put-upon kind of voice and hopped to the floor behind him. “But he says he’s already a good dog, so he doesn’t need the reminder—”

Her voice faded as she dropped through the floor into Mrs. Williams’ flat, and so the visit ended. Alone within his own mind once more, Morpheus resumed his vigil of Gwen in the kitchen, watching as she tidied her way back to sober and kept her back steadfastly to her room.

She’s all kinds of people inside.

Something gnawed at his insides as he watched her move, oozed along his gut and up his ribs like a mold. It left him feeling ill at ease within his own skin and made his bones itch. It left him wanting to run, confront, and hide all at once, and his tongue began to burn with the need to purge whatever this was.

He watched Gwen work and began to put names to emotion.

Be good.

He rose like an old man from the couch and limped on silent, swaying feet for the kitchen. She gave no sign that she noticed his approach or his arrival, just kept loading the machine, and he closed the last of the space between them as she picked up the final dish.

“Guinevere.”

The plate shattered across the floor as Gwen jumped a good several inches into the air.

“Jesus!” she yelped and pressed a hand to her chest as Morpheus took an awkward step back.

“I am sorry.”

“No, it’s…it’s fine.” She knelt and gathered the fragments with careful fingers, shooting him an uncertain glance as she did. “And it’s just Gwen,” she said. “Stop it with that Guinevere shit. The way you say it, I sound like I should be from Camelot.” She dumped the shards into the rubbish bin and shut the dishwasher in a bang, pressing a hand to her forehead as her heart continued to race. “What is it, Morpheus?”

Be good.

“I would like to apologize for my behavior these last two months,” he began, pacing his words so he could speak in a steady flow instead of the choppy cadence that had become his new normal. Gwen froze like a deer in headlights. “I have relied upon you especially in far too intimate a manner for two strangers. I have imposed on you and Gadling, and…” Even now, that kiss in the night burned his temple down to bone. “And I have pulled his attentions from you.”

Gwen’s stare had darkened from startled to carefully impassive. It made Morpheus’ skin crawl to face, and he shifted his weight in a sudden flash of uncertainty before forging on.

“You are a credit to your kind,” he said softly and subtly braced himself on the back of the stool nearest him as the pause in his exertion allowed his dizziness to once more mount. “And if more of humanity held your patience, your grace…your…compassion…” His knuckles paled; he was about to fall over. He needed to finish this. “The world would be better for it.”

“I, um. Th-thank you, Morpheus?” Gwen stammered after a time, flustered, and placed the island between them as she played at rearranging the items in the refrigerator door. “That’s…um...kind of you to say.”

“You are welcome,” he returned and made his careful, oblivious way back to the couch where he promptly resumed his battle against sleep.

Gwen watched him go and then rested her head against the refrigerator door with a vehemently silent what the fuck?

And when Robbie returned inside after another thirty minutes, she wasted no time in flagging his attention with a swatting towel. He caught the fringed edge and was about to ask what was wrong when she cut her hand across her throat and pointed to the bedroom door with a hissing whisper.

“Now.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked as she herded him into their room, shut the door behind them, and rounded on him with her hands on her hips. “Gwen—”

“Did you say anything to him about us having problems?”

“What?”

“I don’t want him knowing our business, Robbie!” she snapped, and Hob’s confusion only mounted by the syllable. “He’s already here twenty-four-seven—”

“Wh-no,” he protested and shook his head, moving to meet her across the room. He rubbed her arms as she crossed them over her chest. “No, Gwen, I’ve not told him anything. Did he say something to you?”

“Nothing bad, he just…” She shook her head, trying to wave off his concern and not quite managing it. “No, he didn’t say anything.” She regarded Hob carefully, studying every little twitch and shadow as she allowed him to take her hands and tug her arms free of each other. “You swear you didn’t talk to him about us?”

“Yes, I swear. That’s ours to know and handle,” he promised. He brushed his thumbs across her knuckles and squeezed in gentle comfort. “Look, Morpheus can be…perceptive. It’s unnerving if you don’t know to expect it,” he admitted. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” She rolled her shoulders and slipped her hands once more from her partner’s. “ ‘M gonna go for a walk.”

Morpheus looked up from the sofa he had only just finished wrangling out to its expanded form as Gwen brushed from their bedroom. She avoided him entirely and pulled on her rain boots without a word before fetching her coat from the rack as she disappeared down the stairs for the front door. Hob followed her out almost a minute later, massaging his forehead and looking like he was finally beginning to feel his hangover.

“Is she alright?” Morpheus asked, looking between him and the door with a stab of guilt, but Hob only waved for him to relax.

“Yeah. Yeah, mate. Rest. Everything’s fine.” From the window, he watched as Constantine got back out of the cab she’d just hailed and met Gwen on the sidewalk. She appeared to ask her a few questions before linking their arms together and leading her down the street, side by side. “Jo’s got her.”

He glanced back to Morpheus just in time to see the man’s shirt ride up as he bent over to adjust the cushions and throw blankets. His sweatpants hung a bit loose around his hips that were still far too skeletal for Hob’s comfort, and the exposure meant he caught a plain view of the shiny scar and still-healing skin that stretched taut across his tailbone.

Morpheus froze as Gadling’s hand settled low on his stooped back.

“Can I check?” His fingers brushed a bit lower in question, touching skin, and Morpheus nodded his wordless assent as he straightened a bit and put some of his weight onto the back of the couch to relieve the strain on his ankles and knees.

Gadling’s hands were gentle along his back, adjusting his clothes until the worst of the wound bed was revealed. It was closing, but still there, a swath of him scooped away where the tissue had died, rotted, and regrown. It was nowhere near as deep or as vile as it had been. The bone was buried once more beneath healing flesh, and all that was left was pink skin and thin, fragile scabbing. His hip was even further along, and Hob smiled softly to himself at the sight.

He fixed Morpheus’ shirt and touched his back to let him know he was done.

“It’s looking really good, mate.”

“It feels improved,” his Stranger agreed as he turned and lowered himself into his makeshift bed. Hob for his turn leaned back, reclining on the arm of the chair.

“How about the rest of you?”

Morpheus gave him a look. “I believe you just said I was looking really good.”

“Oh no, I said it was looking really good,” he teased, but the brief spate of humor dimmed as Hob leaned forward and tapped his friend’s knee. “In all seriousness my friend, you seem…” He opted for diplomacy. “Very tired. Are you sleeping?”

His Stranger avoided his eyes.

“Some,” he said eventually.

“Every night?” he pushed. Morpheus’ silence was damning, and Hob sighed. He leaned back a little further against the chair. “Still having the nightmares, then?”

His Stranger picked at the simple bronze ring on his finger, a scavenged gift from Matthew on his most recent visit, and turned the metal round and round upon his thumb. “Not as frequently,” he murmured and could not meet Gadling’s eye.

“That’s good.” A lie from them both, it was, then. “You should still try to rest tonight.”

“Yes,” Morpheus agreed after a pause that was just a little too long. The ring continued to spin. “Goodnight, Gadling.”

Hob nodded—to himself, to his Stranger, to the universe at large—and headed for his room. “Goodnight, my friend.”

Hob went to bed, and he slept the sleep of the dead.

Gwen did not return until late, Constantine’s counsel heavy in her mind, and as she crossed the living room in silence for her bed, she spied a mass of black feathers fluffed up within the curl of Morpheus’ pale, boney arms. Matthew was tucked against his face, warmed by his sleeping breaths, and he still had a few locks of his master’s hair gripped in his beak and talons where he had fallen asleep mid-preen. It would have been endearing if the sight of them both did not fill Gwen with disquieted frustration.

She slipped into their room where Hob already slumbered, hugging his pillow close as he drifted in dreams both heady and dark. And after preparing for sleep, after cleaning her face and massaging her lotions and oils into her skin and wrapping her hair within the safe confines of her silks, she climbed into bed beside him and knocked out into some of the heaviest sleep she had had in a long time.

She dreamed of the garden and the lovely house in North Carolina filled with laughter and love and light.

Morpheus opened his eyes as the bedroom remained silent for some time, and he stared out the window, sleepless now for eight days, until the sun rose once more.

And the routine began anew.

o\\__oOoOoOo__//o

Morpheus continued to eat and, as such, continued to heal. And two months into this ghastly endeavor, his hair had grown back. His nails had stopped splitting. His scars were all faded, most had disappeared, and he now only looked a little too thin rather than fatally anorexic. But the circles beneath his eyes continued to darken, and his balance continued to sway as his attention span frayed like old thread as, still, he refused to sleep.

Being awake felt…better now. Awake, he was among something instead of nothing. Awake, he had Gadling and Guinevere to keep him company, had Matthew and Constantine when they were available. Friends were not something he’d had before—at least, not like this. They gave him a sense of movement, of personal evolution…and they helped him ignore the fact that despite all his supposed development at the hands of this newfound community, when he did sleep, the same nightmares awaited him. They helped him deny the truth he pretended not to see in the dim bathroom mirror in the early hours of the morning: that when he did sleep, he looked more ragged when he woke than when he’d gone to bed. He could listen to their lively conversation in silence and bask in the emotion of it like a lizard in the sun while pointedly avoiding the fact that more and more often he could not track their words for more than a couple sentences before it all turned to noise. He heard footsteps in the flat when he knew he was alone. Doors slammed but did not move on their hinges. He carried conversations with Gadling and Matthew, only to look to where they had been and find that, in truth, he had been alone for some time.

His youngest sister had not visited him in a while, and he was beginning to suspect it was because she’d begun to attend to him in function alone.

On his twenty-first day of sleeplessness, his longest stretch yet and nearly twice the human limit, he finally had to concede defeat. His delirium had gone so deep that he no longer saw his sister, no longer felt her influence or toying ministrations in hallucinations. He was only present, and frightfully so—stuck in an in-between of dissociated and hyperaware, one misstep from fainting on his feet at all times. He felt mad and utterly sane all at once. His hands shook so hard it was difficult to hold to anything smaller than a pillow.

It was time.

While Gwen and Gadling enjoyed a rare evening out at the theater, Morpheus stumbled to bed early, opening the sofa and setting up his proverbial nest at a glacial pace that still left him winded by the end. The fire burned low, filling the room with a gentle, cozy sort of heat that held against the biting chill of one last cold snap before winter thawed to spring. This…this would be the night he caved to sleep, he knew: the night that the Dreaming sank its teeth into him and dragged him into its waiting depths. It was for the best that he slumbered early and weathered as many of the terrors as he could before his hosts returned. While Gadling responded to his cries and shouts with the grim patience of one who knew what he suffered, Morpheus knew it turned his stomach to witness it all the same. And Guinevere…he always knew when he had cried out in the night, because in the morning, she could never quite look him in the eye. Not that she could look him in the eye very often at all lately.

Even still, Morpheus tried his best to stay afloat once he had laid himself to rest. The room’s shadows lengthened as the embers darkened and cooled, and the warmth of the blankets drew him ever deeper. His eyelids drooped and snapped open and drooped again, sinking lower and opening less on each pass until, at last, he knew it had come: the final drift.

As his eyes slipped shut for the last time, his body already lost to sleep as his mind shuttered close behind, he saw Despair standing at the foot of his bed. He could not move. He could not speak. She just stood there, watching him with such sad eyes as the hearth finally died. And as his sight went black on her despondent face, she slowly, slowly shook her head.

o\\__oOoOoOo__//o

In the morning, Morpheus did not wake at all.

#*giggles kicks feet etc etc etc* oh shit's about to hit the fan #nothing grows in corpses #dreamling #dreamling fic #dreamling fanfic #the sandman netflix

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