#should have almost the entire rest of the zine done by the end of the day... theoretically

[andmakeithome]

I gotta keep reminding myself: the sooner I get the zine done the sooner I can let myself write again 👀

[cosmicangst]

bugs in amber

prompt/summary: He had built an algorithm out of his rage. Rage could execute his body with purpose and focus his vision on one solid vector of machine logic. 

But it was these moments he made monuments of, encompassing and embracing around his calcified grief. They could stiffen his knees into worship, nail his feet to the bedrock of the earth with warmth and affection and love and render it impossible for him to move ever again.

Ko is determined to make good on his revenge. That doesn’t mean they’ll make it easy.

(A non-linear character study in fragments heavily inspired by Slaughterhouse-Five and written for the @pp10thtribute zine.)

note: Also please check out this fantastic paired piece by @lucidink!

+

“To live past the end of your myth is a perilous thing.”

Anne Carson, Red Doc>

“Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time.”

Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five

*

The thing is: he doubts Sasayama had much time to consider his life flashing before his eyes when he was dismembered.

It must have hurt beyond hell, he thinks. Sasayama’s brain must have receded into the baser impulses of stopping the pain and insisting upon the next breath.

So his mourners, alive and decidedly not dying in the immediate next moment, consider his life for him with the humanity and time he wasn’t afforded.

They don’t hold formal ceremonies for dead Enforcers. Kunizuka hosts a drinking session in her room with others who had known the man well. He can practically hear her subdued yet insulting toast about the bastard followed by raucous laughter from the others.

In his room, Kogami labors. 

The truth is: Ko can no longer remember what Sasayama looks like based on memory alone. He only appears intact in photographs. He keeps one of the man—grinning, alive, and joyous. The others are very much not.

Sasayama’s plasticized statue secretes patterns, motivations, and agendas in the twists of its limbs and the macabre hollows of its eyes. Kogami observes even as he relives.

He doesn’t recall exactly what happened that night. But ironically, he swears his own life had flashed before him. 

Not his memories, but, rather, what would come after. Almost like steps, instructions of where he would go, what he would do after this. His entire life laid out in a linear strip, cutting off just after the part where he would enact justice for the way they made Sasayama resort to the indignities of a dying animal. 

Like his future had arrived into the present and that it had come—it will only ever come—to this.

*

And so it does.

A part of Ko had always acted as an audience to his actions. Or worse, Enobarbus himself caught between narrator and character on the eve of his death, simultaneously living and telling a story that was already set in the past at the same time it was happening.

The second he pulls the trigger, audience and narrator intertwine knee-deep in déjà vu. Like he had already done this before, over and over, and would continue to do so the day after. 

In some ways, the profundity of something like fate arriving at his heels is so overwhelming that he wants to dry heave. Finally, he thinks, but after—

The blood coagulates, the wind whistles, leaving silence long after the echoes of the shot have gone and his ears have stopped ringing. 

So in other ways, it feels like any other Thursday. 

It is so mundane and banal it feels a little anticlimactic. The world should have stopped here, he thinks like a confused, petulant child.

He’d read enough tragedies to expect the catharsis. The moment of resolution in laying down the weight of his labor, making good on his vow as his final offering to lay Sasayama’s wandering spirit to rest.

But it is a Thursday, he has just killed Makishima, and somehow, he is still in this body with its old aches, his stomach hollow from a missed lunch, his head throbbing with an incoming migraine. 

Somehow, he’s still him. 

A long embattled victor in front of his fated adversary’s loss, and all he can think of is Masaoka, similarly leaking his life onto the floor. He looks beyond where Gino had clutched his dead father and wonders if the foregone rules of the narrative had warranted a loss for a win. All he can think is that he is here instead of there and the utter ambivalence of it—the fact that there is more to continue and to lose—is more staggering than what he has just done. 

This is what dislodges his feet.

Life moves on.

So it goes.

*

And so it does.

He is running now, losing count of the seconds.

But he has a plan even if it had been made with some irony that surely he wouldn’t reach this point to worry about the logistics. Surely, he wouldn’t have made it this far. He’d arranged his supposed escape and felt it ridiculous and utterly serious.

Because absurdly he wants it. He wants it so bad his teeth ache. He wants to see what he can improvise, what could come after even if he can’t imagine it. 

Akane probably could. Maybe even with her disillusion, she would still understand and imagine a better continuation for him.

The thought keeps his legs steady. His lungs ache but it barely warrants acknowledgment as his calves burn and keep him onward and on, feet pounding onto the dirt and through the grass—

“Got you, you little freak.”

That he hadn’t registered the approaching footsteps from behind douses him with a sickly feeling before it’s replaced by a force more resounding in its sudden appearance than any actual impact.

Oh, he spoke too soon, didn’t he—

The side of his left cheek burns when the force throws a punch and starts pummeling the soft, fleshy parts of his face. But even his harder edges—parts like his forehead, his cheekbone—feel susceptible to the molding hands of his opponent’s artistry. He lifts his stick-thin arms feebly in defense and the base level of his brain triggers his tear ducts. He hasn’t cried in two decades. And the humiliation, the fear, the pain, the weariness, the utter failure—

Oh, fuck you, he is so tired of being on the floor. 

And it is a bit like slipping into the roles of audience and narrator, his own individual god, witnessing his body retaliating. His opponent is stronger but the rage of futility hasn’t stopped those stick arms from reaching and arching knuckles into claws. 

Children rarely have compunctions for boundaries they’ve yet to be taught. But he thinks even if he wasn’t a child that nothing could have stopped him from doing this.

He plunges his fingers into his bully’s eyes and the boy screams like panicked quarry. The only reason why he stops from progressing further is from the saving grace of their teacher who has arrived just in time.

“Kogami Shinya!”

An even larger body pulls him away, caging squirming limbs in its arms. And he thrashes because that’s what he does when he’s six and in the throes of an anger fugue.

He doesn’t think he even recognizes where he is until Mama arrives. They keep him out of the office as they talk, which is stupid because what information would they need to shield him from when he was literally there doing the thing they’re talking about in the first place.

Grown-ups are so stupid. 

“Shinya, let’s go home.”

Mama’s carefully held body is standing by the doorway. Her face is a pacific mask. 

Well, shit.

Shinya clings even as he squirms to escape. Anger and adrenaline seep out until he is dead on his feet. He’s still young enough to indulge Mama carrying him to their car without shame. But he glares at his classmates clamoring to rubberneck the scrap that had toppled the Goliath of their year. And the defeated himself encircled by his entourage, face adorned with bandages—but his eyes, unblinking and set on him.

He’s not blind, Ko thinks with disappointment. But in the other’s gaze was something better: a tightening in recognition of a better predator. And injured but victorious cub in his mother’s arms rumbles with satisfaction as she tucks him behind a seatbelt and drives away.

The week after his suspension, there are no more looks. Quite the opposite, it seems as if everyone is doing everything but look.

His spine stiffens as he walks to class, aware that there is a berth of at least five feet between him and another person. No one stares but he can feel how carefully they don’t do it.

Later at lunch, he confronts his lone friend, another loser just as scrawny as he is.

“Why are you avoiding me?” he demands.

The boy looks frightened before defensiveness compels him to raise his head. “Everyone saw what you did, Shinya.”

“So? Wasn’t that the point? Wasn‘t that what we wanted?”

“I didn’t ask you to do any of that.”

His stomach clenches. And here at such a young age, he starts seeing the line between himself and others. The way they separate from him and alienate without having to say more.

Someone had to do it. What choice did he have after weeks of torment? After watching them push the weak ones onto the dirt? Did they expect him to lie down and take it?

“Can you please just leave me alone?” 

Ko watches in silence as the other boy uncouples from his gravity and joins the rest of the flock.

*

Mama never ends up lecturing him about it. Instead, she starts taking him to judo lessons. On weekends, she teaches him kendo.

The only thing she will say about it is an adage: “Never start a fight that you cannot finish.”

Ko is initially offended. Did Mama think he was so incapable and weak?

It is only as he grows that he realizes that it was never about starting. She had been worried that he would never finish, never stop once he started.

When he saves another boy, in another time and another place, he begins to think her worries are founded. Unlike the first time, Gino does not take advantage of Ko’s honed skills and protectiveness as Ko tackles the other boy’s bully onto the floor. 

They become friends. He can’t regret it since Gino looks at him like he’s not a live wire. 

Like he’s a person. Like he’s good.

So when Gino declares his intentions to follow in his old man’s footsteps, Ko follows, too.

“Are you certain?”

His voice is wry. “I’m hurt. You don’t think I’d be good at police work?”

“On the contrary,” Gino bristles, perpetually prickly when teased. “You’re good at a lot of things. You could be anything you want. I don’t see why you have to take such a hard route.”

Gino sounds so sure that Ko is a little embarrassed. He’ll never admit but a romantic 17-year-old version of him obsessed with Beat authors does entertain notions of being a novelist.

But contrary to Gino’s perceptions of his talent, he’s never had the kind of head for creation. Nor the hands. They’d only ever been good to crush, break, and deconstruct. 

He feels like a walking, talking cliché.

Perhaps if he analyzed further, he’d indulge the possibility of his interest in literature as compensation for a perceived lack. Even then, what would he do with the realization? Best to leave originality with those who have more poetry in their souls, like Tsubasa or Kunizuka.

This is why it is all the more baffling when Akane remarks upon seeing his physical book collection, “You have so many. Have you ever considered writing one?”

He’s flabbergasted but doesn’t show it. “Don’t have the spirit for that kind of work.”

“Are you serious? I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as willful as you.”

“Is that another word for stubborn?”

She laughs. “I feel like the whole world could bend and you’d be the only one still standing straight. What does an artist require more than conviction in their individuality?”

Imagination, he wants to say but he keeps silent. The indulgent part of him wants to laugh as well but not for the same reasons.

The less generous part is tempted to disappoint her on purpose, redirect her admiration to someone else. Not necessarily because he’s particularly self-hating but because he knows the truth of what he deserves.

Sometimes, Akane could very well be a mirror image of his younger self in all her earnestness, naïveté, and drive. But even at this age, she is more than he could ever strive to be. Akane can see possibilities in anything and anyone. She can will alternative realities into existence, her imagination surpassing beyond his own.

He doesn’t know how to tell her or Gino that he’s never known how to diverge and make his own path. He’s looked ahead enough to know that there has only ever been one possibility for him. His own will no longer has anything to do with it.

Once he starts, he cannot stop. Once he begins, he will never finish.

*

Sometimes his anger forgets.

Any extreme emotion is hard to sustain at its peak constantly. It comes in waves, and what remains when it recedes far enough is the periphery of everything else happening.

Kagari invites him to eat something other than the pre-made lifeless offerings in the cafeteria.

In a rare moment of stillness, he silently watches the old man paint an entire landscape.

Kunizuka asks a question about office gossip he’d referenced offhandedly in the paddy wagon on the way back to headquarters.

Aoyanagi and Karanomori squabble with him about the stupidity of a newly released sitcom during a lunch break.

Sometimes after a particularly hard day, he’ll catch Gino’s eye long enough to see something there that isn’t just careful detachment or barely concealed resentment. Like they forget they aren’t supposed to recognize each other, both too mutually exhausted from the same bullshit of everyday inanities to keep the pretense of Inspector Ginoza and Enforcer Kogami.

And just as quickly as it appears, it is all swallowed up when the wave returns.

*

“Has your memory always been fractured since the incident?”

Ko’s gaze is steady. “I’ve never been good at remembering anyway.”

The doctor smiles benignly as if gleaning some hidden truth from the off-handed way Ko has adopted to speak to officials and people with any kind of authority.

“You know, it’s nothing to be ashamed of if you encounter some blank spots or confusion. PTSD is a very complex diagnosis, and recovery for Inspectors who’ve managed to turn their hue around has been an equally complex journey.”

“I can imagine.”

Another smile. Ko tags it as genuine. He’d feel bad for the guy if he didn’t hate the entire farce of this in the first place. His title as an Inspector is a sham of a formality at this point. It’s only a matter of time before he slips and careens forward.

“Anything you want to share with me before we start?”

“Nothing in particular.”

He takes a beat as if to give Ko all the opportunity to change his mind. “All right. How’ve you been sleeping the past week?”

“Well enough.”

“What about your dreams?”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t what?”

“I don’t dream.”

*

“That’s bullshit, dude.”

“What’s bullshit?”

“Ko says he doesn’t dream.”

“Well, maybe he doesn’t.”

“I don’t.”

“Everyone dreams,” Kagari insists, voice garbled with chewed popcorn.

“How do you know?” Kunizuka says from her perch on Kagari’s beanbag, strumming absently in tune with the movie score. Ko distantly watches the action on the screen. They’ve screened this film for the fourth time that month at Kagari’s insistence.

He knows the mindless explosions and cheesy dialogue by heart. So does Kagari but he reacts like this is the first time he’s watched this movie. 

“Holy shit! Did you see that!” He stuffs another fist of popcorn into his mouth. “Anyway, everyone dreams. If you think you don’t, you probably just don’t remember it when you wake up.”

He and Kunizuka continue to bicker good-naturedly. Ko does not have the heart to tell them about his night terrors. The way he wakes with his heart in his throat, ready to crawl and leap out of his chest. 

He can never recall visuals clearly but the sensations, the visceral physical reaction of his body in the middle of a mental break imprint the cartography of his skin and veins like muscle memory.

His recollection is shot, but he carries souvenirs anyway. Perhaps he does not even have to say anything. Kagari and Kunizuka must have souvenirs of their own. 

Onscreen, the supporting man explodes in a fiery inferno after pushing the main hero’s love interest out of the way.

“Why are we watching this again,” Kunizuka grimaces. But it’s rhetorical; they don’t talk about the Division 3 Enforcer who’d hit the ground spine first from up the roof during a scuffle earlier that week. Ko does not bring up the subsequent way in which Kagari has been acting recklessly, almost with relish at his mortality in the following days. They don’t hold formal ceremonies for dead Enforcers so this was the next best thing for someone Kagari considered a friend.

“That’s the goal, isn’t it?” Kagari pipes up. He takes a swig of beer.

“To get caught in a gas explosion?” Kunizuka plays along dryly.

“To die in a way more meaningful than how you lived.”

“I think I’ll stick with dying of old age, thanks,” she says after a brief, painful pause.

“What about you, Ko? How’d you like to leave?”

He doesn’t even take a beat. “In my bed. With a really good book.”

Kagari’s half-shitfaced expression breaks into joyous laughter. “Yeah. Leave the heroics to the rest of us.”

Ko does not say that heroics don’t exist here. That if they do, it won’t take long before you’re punished for it. No good deeds and all.

They all have ways to cope by joking and pretending that things exist.

Later that night, after the alcohol has addled their minds into oblivion, Ko will push Kagari to sleep somewhere other than the floor, Kunizuka already adrift on the couch. Kagari leans heavily on the other man as they stumble forward.

“I lied. Don’t really give a shit how it happens…” he slurs.

“What?” Ko grunts as he pushes him to lie on the bed. Kagari flops on his belly like a starfish, his voice muffled. 

“I don’t care how I die. But…” he pauses, adding, “Just bury me with friends, and I’ll rest easy.”

The moment is so genuine that it’s almost uncomfortable. But Ko feels like he owes it to him to allow space for it. He softens his voice, almost unused to the way words form in the shape of his mouth.

“Don’t know if you’d like being stuck with the rest of us for all time. We’d all get sick of each other eventually.”

The younger man snorts. “I’ve been by myself my whole life. Pretty tired of it. I figure I’d deal, even if it meant having to put up with your bitch ass ghost for the rest of eternity.”

He punctuates the moment with a laugh, drunk on humor. It is neither sarcastic nor irreverent. He sounds impossibly young like the child he never got to be.

Ko can’t help a chuckle at that, even if he also can’t help his envy.

“All right, sure. If it comes to that, I promise I’ll haunt you the second I die.” 

What a thing that must be: to be defined by what you love at the end of it all.

*

The thing is: Kagari is right. Ko does dream. They’re not all bad. He just doesn’t remember, too busy having a panic attack just as he wakes to recall minute details.

When he sleeps, he conjures Sasayama exactly as he thinks he saw him last. They are in the living room of his quarters, some Enforcers congregating in celebration of someone’s birthday—he doesn’t remember. In the kitchen, he can hear the commotion of cooking. He even thinks he can hear Amari laugh, Akane responding in kind.

A memory? No. A dream for sure, rationale tells him. On his lap is the gun he will kill Makishima with. Has killed. Yet to be killed.

He doesn’t know where in time he’s situated but the anxiety is constant whenever he is.

“What if it’s all bullshit,” Ko asks, as Sasayama blows smoke into the air. He’s mid-story, Ko remembers. The man had regaled them for half an hour with an anecdote that ultimately went nowhere and received the jeering with glee.

Ko interrupts the script, the memory, the dream, whatever. 

“What if I can’t do it?”

Or worse: what if I can, and nothing changes?

Sasayama stubs his cigarette on the ashtray. “Then you don’t. So what?”

“All of those years hunting. It can’t have been for nothing. I can’t have you killed like an animal for nothing.”

“Ah, well. We all die like animals in the end, don’t we.”

“You don’t understand. All I’ve done—none of it will have mattered if I can’t do this.”

Sasayama laughs but it does not sound like him at all. He thinks he hears Pop’s gravelly voice for a moment in his place. Or is that his mother’s low timbre? 

“If none of it matters,” the voice continues, gentle and lethal, “then why am I still here anyway? Why are you still trying to keep me here, Ko?”

*

This is new, Ko thinks, shaking breath visible in the morning, as lingering sleep clears from his eyes to fix onto the intruder sitting at the foot of his cot. Underneath him, the metal floor of the ship he’s escaped to creaks.

The other man looks preserved and clean like he’s never had his brain matter spattered on the back of his head by Ko’s hand. His pristine hair glows white in the dark of the cabin.

“New? And here I thought you were clever,” he drawls, amber frozen with contempt and amusement. “Don’t you remember, Kogami? I’ve been here before.”

I’ll be here again is not said but the promise is heard all the same.

Underneath them both, the ocean rolls and moves even as it stays in one place.

*

The anger, the grief, the terror, the trauma are as constant as time.

(But he hears a warm laugh somewhere, somewhen. A man claps a friendly hand on his shoulder. He smells his mother’s curry. Next to him, Pops watches the sunrise from the rooftops, his face serene with eternal forgiveness.

Ko summons them all and keeps them here.)

Because for better or worse, so are they.

And so it goes.

[superhero--imagines]

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A/N: Gender neutral reader with Best friend!Sakusa

Sakusa taps his foot once, then twice. His fingers reach to pinch the bridge of his nose, lifting the black mask covering his face slightly.

“Why are we here, again?” He leans back, his feet stretching until they rest an inch from yours. A thick eyebrow rising until it disappears behind his trademark curls.

You smile while sipping your milkshake, covering your mouth with your hand while you swallow.

“Because I’m hungry obviously”

‘I can see that’ he wants to say, but bites back the remark. Instead his eyes roam over the tray full of food; two burgers, three large french fries, two apple pies, and a milkshake. His gaze flicks from the buffet of food, silently comparing it single cup of black coffee he has in front of him.

“Again, why are we here?” He repeats, and when you ignore his question, instead focusing your entire attention on the burger in your hand, he adds:

“I thought you already ate dinner with your date” Sakusa doesn’t miss the way you flinch at the word ‘date’, the way your mouth pulls into a fine line and you set the burger aside. He feels a smirk twitch onto his lip.

“That bad, huh?”

He almost feels bad when he sees you sigh, your fingers pinch the bridge of your nose and your eyes close shut.

‘It must have been terrible’ he thinks, and feels a twinge of guilt at the relief that he feels.

“It wasn’t so bad at first,” you mumble behind your hand, elbow resting on the table as you look outside the window, flickering lights reflected in your eyes.

‘So dramatic’ Sakusa thinks while rolling his eyes. But he can feel the grin curling onto his face at your usual antics.

“It was going pretty well until-“ your words abruptly end, gulping hard and averting your eyes once more. Sakusa scoffs.

“Oh come on. It can’t have been that bad” Really, how much worse can it have been than the others? Sakusa’s been here since the beginning, before getting on professional al volleyball teams or sophisticated office jobs, before college scouts and scholarships, before awkward haircuts and unrequited love.

‘Well, technically not the last one’

The point is, he’s seen it all. Heard the tawdry details about every rotten date you’ve had, every degenerate lover, every fruitless love.

So he’s not sure why you’re gaping and stuttering as you try to explain what happened.

“H-he, look, I-“ Your mouth snaps shut, and he watches with both eyebrows raised. You meet his gaze head on, your eyes boring into his. It seems to calm you, the heat from your face receding. You take a deep breath and lean back, your sneakers brushing lightly against his.

Sakusa doesn’t pull away.

“So, we were going to get takeout and have a picnic at the park” your arms fold over your chest, mouth pursed so tight he can’t see your lips.

That checks out, you love picnics. He should know, the two of you have one every other week.

“I’m driving, and so I give him the food - I thought he would put it in the backseat or something yknow? But he-“ you purse your lips again, averting your gaze. “He put it between his legs”

Sakusa feels his eyebrow quirk, is that all? You’re getting awfully picky these days.

You huff when he doesn’t seem bothered by this, his fingers tucking his mask down.

“You know, between his legs,” he takes a sip of his coffee, he’s still not seeing what the big deal is-

“Against his crotch”

It take Sakusa three long second to convince himself to swallow the coffee, and another three to allow himself to cough. When he looks back at you you widen your eyes and avert your gaze, as if to say:

‘See, I told you it was bad’

It was pretty bad, especially if it was a paper bag. Sakusa grimaces at the thought of a grease stained paper bag, all those germs, the way they might travel through the fiber. He shivers.

“That’s not even the worst part,” you confide, and Sakusa sets his coffee away so he doesn’t almost choke again. “I thought, I don’t know maybe he didn’t realize, so I took the bag and put it in the backseat, and then he put it back there and said-“ you pause, hiding your face behind your hands, looking as if you’re thoroughly mortified.

“He said he was keeping it warm”

Sakusa can’t help himself, he bursts out laughing. His hand fluttering over his mouth as trembles.

“He was using crotch warmth to keep it warm” he gasps in between chuckles, he’s laughing so hard he’s practically wheezing. You can feel the heat rush to your face once again, feeling the pinpoint stares of the few employees and patrons at the diner you’re at. You’re used to it by now, even with a mask on, you know Sakusa attracts attention wherever he goes. That’s especially true when he shows someone his genuine smile.

“I take it you didn’t eat anything tonight” his lips curl into the faintest smile, parting as he takes another sip of coffee.

You shake your head.

“Just thinking about it makes me sick” You mumble, taking another sip of your milkshake. He considers telling you that all that junk food isn’t going to make you feel any better, but decides against it. You’ve been through enough tonight.

He watches you carefully. He watches the disgusted grimace on your face fade, and a hesitant hand reach out towards a few fries. He watches the flicker of expression, the painful pinch of your eyes closing shut as you recall the moment again between bites of food.

He finds his lips twitching into a smile. It’s never boring with you around is it? Even just watching your changing expressions like this is endlessly entertaining.

“You know, you’d never have to go through something like that if you dated me” The words flow like silk past his lips, without a second thought.

He’s not sure why he said it. He’s waited all these years, certainly a few more couldn’t hurt. He’s fine with just being your best friend. As long as he can be around you he’s happy.

What Sakusa does know, as he watches you set your food done, mouth slightly parted in surprise, is that he doesn’t regret it.

He takes a sip from his coffee, savoring the bitter taste, smiling when he hears you say:

“Okay, let’s date then”

[kumeko]

A/N: For the @bat-famzine Bats and Birds zine! I wanted to write my fav trio, Stephanie, Tim, and Cassandra.

…

…

…

…

“Yep. Doing it here was the right choice,” Stephanie Brown confirmed, crossing her arms and nodding her head slowly as she surveyed the living room. A wide, expansive area, it was as big as the first floor of her house. Hell, the TV mounted on the wall was bigger than all the screens in her house combined. “No, it was the onlychoice.”

“Over-dramatic much?” Tim rolled his eyes, but the smile on his face said otherwise. Sitting in front of the TV in a mess of wires, he started connecting several game consoles to the TV. “Your house would have been fine.”

“It would have been only fine. Wayne Manor? Now that’s great.” With a snort, she gingerly picked up a free HDMI cord. “And you have what, five different consoles for us to play? In one night? And I’m the over dramatic one?”

“We could switch games part way,” Tim argued, untangling a controller. His tongue was stuck to the side, his brow furrowed as he concentrated on unravelling the messy pile in front of him. “I knew I shouldn’t have let Jason use these.”

“Is it possible to use…” Perched awkwardly on one of Bruce’s leather couches, Cassandra paused as she struggled to find the right word. Correcting herself, she continued, “to playa game in a night?”

“Depends on the game!” Delighted by the question, Tim immediately looked over his shoulder. “With the party type games—”

“Less talking, more doing!” Stephanie interrupted, before a huge spiel about time could occur. At the rate he talked, it’d be morning before they could play and Gotham probably couldn’t survive them taking two nights in a row off.

“Yes, yes,” Tim grumbled, puffing his cheeks as he hurried with set up.

Stephanie chuckled. Honestly, he was so ridiculous sometimes. Turning back to Cassandra, she winced. Cassandra didn’t look like she knew how to sit on a comfy couch, let alone relax, and maybe they should have done this earlier. She couldn’t even remember the last time Cassandra took time off. At the rate she was going, she’d turn into a mini-Batman. And they already had enough of that with Damian running around.

“What are you doing?”

Speak of the devil. Forcing a smile on her face, Stephanie turned around. “Heya, Damian.”

Damian gave her a pointed stare and she tried not to shiver. Sure, he was only ten, but in demon years, he’d be like sixty. Or was that dog years? At least there wasn’t bloodlust in his eyes. Or a weapon in his hands. “Don’t you have work to do?”

“Not tonight.” Stephanie grinned, hand on her hip. “We’re having a sleepover.”

Damian crossed his arms, raising an unimpressed brow. “So you’re slacking off.”

Part of her wondered if Bruce was rubbing off on him or vice versa. Her smile strained as she tried not to frown. “No, we’re taking a well-deserved break.”

“He doesn’t understand what that is,” Tim snipped, setting down the Switch. Finished untangling, he turned on the system and flipped on the T.V. When the screen stayed black, he frowned and fiddled with the controller. “Talk to him like you’d talk to a five-year-old.”

“I suppose she would have a lot of experience, dealing with you.” Damian casually strolled over to Tim.

Tim opened his mouth to argue, but there really was no going around that burn. It was almost impossible to get the last word with Damian; she would know. No, there was only one way this could end. Tim’s hand was already curled around a controller, his weapon of choice, and while Damian looked unarmed, she wouldn’t be surprised if he had at least ten knives hidden in his dress pants. Eyes darting from one boy to the other, Stephanie wasn’t sure if she should separate them before they stained the carpet with blood or run to the kitchen to get popcorn.

Damian pressed a button on the side of the screen and it flickered on. Lips curling into a smirk, he sneered, “Can’t even manage this much, Drake?” And just as suddenly as he had entered the room, he left.

“I hate that kid,” Tim muttered grumpily.

Stephanie patted his back consolingly. “I know. I know.”

-x-

“Jump!” Stephanie yelled, pressed up against Cassandra’s left side. When her friend gave her an owlish blink, she shouted, “X. HIT X.”

“Right.” Cassandra quickly pressed the right button, bouncing on her seat slightly. On the screen, Mario jumped to safety as a black bullet smashed into the wall beneath him. A narrow escape. Too narrow.

“Safe,” Stephanie sighed, slumping over and resting her head on Cassandra’s shoulder. Man, it was more stressful than she’d expected, watching Cassandra play. For someone who picked up every way to kill a man just by watching it once, she was an unexpectedly slow study on video game controls.

On Cassandra’s other side, Tim gave her a curious look. “Are there too many buttons to remember?”

“No, not that…” Cassandra stared at the little controller in her hands, her fingers lightly brushing over the various buttons. The tracking pad. Mario shuffled in spot, waiting to move. “I just want to do it myself.”

Stephanie looked up, eyebrow raised. “You mean, run through the forest fighting off bullets and bombs and weird turtle guys?”

“Yes.” Cassandra paused, then shook her head. “No. I want to…I want to jump. To run. To do that action. When you say ‘dodge’, I want to dodge.”

“Oh!” Tim hit his fist on his open palm, realization dawning on his face. “Is that why you keep bouncing in your seat?”

“Yes.” Cassandra nodded. “I tried to…keep it still.”

“Doing a terrible job of it.” Sitting up, Stephanie stroked her chin. “Oh, is it like when I play foosball and just want to tear out the sticks and force the guys to hit the ball?”

“Kinda.” Tim shot her a deadpan stare. “But that’s mainly because you’re bad at it.”

“…them’s fighting words.” Plucking the controller out of Cassandra’s hands, she brought up the home menu. Opening Smash, she turned to Tim with a challenging smirk. “Ready for a beat down?”

“Don’t go home crying,” Tim retorted, picking up the second controller. He pushed his hair back, out of his eyes, turning on his serious mode. “What was our score? 40 to 17?”

Gritting her teeth, she swiped a finger across her neck, execution-style.

-x-

“I’m sorry.” Cassandra wrung her hands apologetically, her cheeks red with embarrassment. She hung her head shamefully, her back hunched as they headed toward the kitchen.

“It’s fine!” Tim reassured quickly, patting her back awkwardly. “We can always get new controllers.”

Arms crossed behind her head, Stephanie looked over her shoulder at the pair. “I didn’t think you could break them like that.”

“It could happen to anyone.” Tim shot her a shut-up glare.

Stephanie had never taken a hint before and she wasn’t about to start now. “No, seriously. What kinda workout do you give your fingers? Those buttons look like they were hammeredin.”

Still a little flustered, Cassandra curled her fingers in and out. “Push ups. Finger bands. I use a lot of. Uh. Methods.”

Push-ups. Stephanie cocked her head, remembering their work-outs together. Remembering Cassandra’s finger push ups. An entire human body supported by a single finger. Her mouth made an ‘o’ shape. “Riiigghhht. Got it.”

“I could teach you,” Cassandra offered, looking more enthusiastic now. She curled her hand into a fist, punching the air ahead of them. “Just like before.”

“Uhhh….” Stephanie suppressed a shudder, remembering how their first time around as teacher-student had gone. Vomiting. Bruises. Bones that felt like they should have been broken but were miraculously not. Sure, she was better now: faster, quicker, stronger, all of that jazz. Part of her feared that would make Cassandra’s spartan training even worse, that she’ll kick it up a notch thinking she didn’t have to hold back now. “I’ll…think about it.”

“Chicken!” Tim teased, chuckling.

Cassandra turned to Tim hopefully. “To make up for the controller.”

He froze mid-laugh. Like a deer in the headlights, he was only able to blink and nod.

“Fraidy cat,” Stephanie muttered, rolling her eyes. Falling back to walk apace with Cassandra, she bumped shoulders with her. “Honestly, with the allowance you guys get, I bet Tim won’t even notice the controllers.” As they entered the kitchen, she leaned forward, shooting him a questioning look. “How much do you guys get again?”

“Finished with your games, are you?” A formal, clipped tone interrupted their discussion. Alfred Pennyworth stood in front of the counter, whisking briskly in a plastic bowl. “I am afraid you will have to wait a little longer for the waffles.”

“Alfred! You remembered!” Stephanie gave Alfred a side hug. He was even wearing the frilly apron she gave him last year. “It’s been so long since I had one of your waffles!” Excited, Stephanie pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and sat on it backwards. Resting her chin on the chair’s back, she grinned cheerfully. “Best food ever. This is why we had to do this here.”

“The curtain’s why we have to do this here,” Tim mocked, rolling his eyes as he sat next to her.

“Didn’t you ask for the waffles?” Cassandra asked. She stood next to Alfred, watching curiously as he stirred. “For Steph.”

Tim coloured at that, turning away when Stephanie gave him a questioning look. “Cass! You weren’t supposed to say that!”

“Ooohh?” Stephanie grinned, looping an arm around his shoulders. He covered his face, but she could see his ears and they were as red as a tomato. “Did someone miss me?”

“Vey much so, Miss Stephanie.” Alfred smiled kindly, cracking an egg and adding it to the batter. “I dare say the house had been too quiet with you gone. It is good to have you back.”

“Aww, Alfred.” Stephanie could feel her own face flushing now, her skin warm, and she blew him a kiss. “I missed you too.”

“I have to apologize, though, for the state your waffles are in.” Alfred wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, before folding it neatly and returning it to his pocket. “I had created a batch with blueberries earlier but Master Damian consumed them.”

“He ate them,” Stephanie replied flatly. Her hand curled into a fist and she looked up at the ceiling, in the direction of Damian’s room. That little punk. There was no way he wanted those waffles—they weren’t ‘elite’ enough for him. She narrowed her eyes. “He’s just messing with me.”

“That’s just…” Thinking about it a little more, Tim rubbed his neck. “He is. He definitely is.”

-x-

“We should do the party game,” Stephanie suggested, scrolling through Tim’s game list. It was simple enough—throwing a die and hoping to land on the right tile. Just like Monopoly! Most importantly, it sounded like something she could win. “Pure luck.”

“You’ll still lose.” Tim picked up an old Gamecube case. “Maybe Starfox. Or Sonic.”

“You trash talking me?” Stephanie glared at him. “I beat you before and I’ll beat you again.”

“That’s like one out of—Cass?” They watched as Cassandra re-entered the living room, calmly walking over to her bag. She gave them a short nod as she reached in and pulled out a rope. “Uh…what’s that for?”

“Damian,” Cassandra replied, her voice eerily flat. She coiled the rope around her arm and headed to the door.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Stephanie dropped the Switch and a frantic Tim dived to catch it. Quickly, she ran in front of Cassandra, her arms spread wide. “What are you doing?”

“Catching Damian,” Cassandra explained, as though it was the most natural thing.

“With a rope?” She tugged the rope, trying to pry it free. “What’d he do?”

Setting the Switch down carefully, Tim stood back and crossed his arms. “Did he attack you?”

“No.” Cassandra paused, an uncharacteristic frown on her face. “He…complimented me.”

“Huh? Damian Wayne? Mr. Snobby Brat himself?’ Stephanie tried and failed to keep her jaw from dropping. Sure, she highly suspected Damian would like Cassandra; with her assassin-like skills and taciturn behaviour, she was almost everything Damian wanted to be. It was still another thing to hear it. “Then why’re so angry?”

“…he insulted you.” Cassandra walked around her, pushing open the door.

They watched her leave, Tim giving a low whistle. “Three strikes, and he’s out.”

“Do you think we should, uh, follow?” Stephanie bit her cheek when it was clear Cassandra wasn’t coming back. “It might get...bloody.”

“Oh definitely.” Tim grinned, practically skipping out the door. “I only wish I had popcorn.”

-x-

“You know, it’s too bad Damian didn’t want to join us,” Stephanie sighed, selecting her car for the race. It was a hard choice between something purple and semi-good, and something ridiculous. She went with ridiculous. Baby Daisy in a Flame Ride.

“MMMFFFFF.”

Tim snickered, pressing start. “I know. I can almost hear him now, begging to join us.”

“MMMMMNNNNNFFFF.”

“I think he is cursing us.” Cassandra looked over her shoulder curiously at the strung-up Damian. Strung upside down like a turkey, his face was red as he continued to shout. Or tried to shout. The cloth muffled most of his words. Squinting, Cassandra tried to read his body language but even with her skills, it was an impossible task. “I think he is…angry.”

“I’m sure he is.” Stephanie nodded sagely, before gently turning Cassandra’s face toward the TV. It was just like her to miss the point; they were supposed to be ignoring the jerk. “We’re also in the middle of a race.”

Doubt colouring her expression, she looked uncertainly over her shoulder at Damian’s struggling form. He swung side to side, outraged. “Should we take him down?”

“That’s what got him there in the first place,” Tim quipped. He laughed when Damian growled. “I never knew how much I needed to hear that.”

“Me neither.” Stephanie sighed blissfully. “Should have done that ages ago.” Watching as Cassandra hesitantly selected Mario, she raised a brow. “Really? Him? He’s like, the most stereotypical choice.”

Cassandra stared at her like she was crazy. “How can the others drive? They do not have thumbs. Or a license.”

“It’s…part of the game.” Well, when it was put like that, Stephanie couldn’t really argue. Giant gorillas, toads, and babies; none of them made sense as drivers. “They’re not actually—well, they are actually gorillas but…um…cartoon gorillas? Real life doesn’t really mean anything to them.” When Cassandra still looked at her questioningly, she moaned and pressed ‘x’. “Look, let’s just start the game, okay? It’ll make sense later.”

Three matches later, Stephanie wasn’t sure if it made any more sense, but it certainly hadn’t stopped Cassandra from branching out and becoming a flower monster, an elf, and a turtle. Lying on the floor, she turned her hands left and right with her car, as though she were speeding down the track with it. Not that Stephanie was much better—honestly, there was just something about a racing game that made you want to veer with it. Sitting on Cassandra’s back, she gritted her teeth as Princess Peach slammed into a tunnel wall. “That’s cheating, Tim!”

“It’s in the rules, Steph!” Tim growled back, his hip bumping into her arm as he tried to keep Link on the tracks.

“Interference!” she shouted, hitting buttons wildly. One of them would make her go faster. Or shoot down Tim. Or burn down the racetrack. “You hit my arm.”

“And you spilled my drink!”

“MMMMMHHHHH.”

“See? Damian’s on my side!”

-x-

“Ah, Miss Stephanie.” Alfred exited the kitchen, a tray in his hands. Three glasses of pop sat on them, looking far more expensive than the coke she found in the supermarket. Even the chips she brought looked elevated in a ceramic bowl, and she wasn’t sure if that was Alfred’s magic or if it was just how expensive everything else was. “I was just bringing snacks.”

“You’re the best, Alfred.” Stephanie tried to take the tray from him but he smoothly stepped out of her reach. “Alfred?”

“Allow me to perform my duties.” Alfred smiled, lowering the tray in front of her. “Drink?”

“…alright, but I’ll bring the dishes back, ok?” With a grumble, she took a glass. “My mom would kill me if she found out I did nothing.”

“I’m sure we can find something for you to do.” Alfred approached the living room, peaking in. His eyebrow raised at the sight before him. “Is that Master Damian?”

“Yeah…” Stephanie admitted sheepishly. “We’ll untie him soon. Promise.”

“When you do, I would advise Master Timothy to hide his games. I do not imagine this has made Master Damian any fonder of them.” Alfred’s smile didn’t drop, amusement colouring face. “I am surprised you managed to catch him.”

“Cass, it was all her.” Stephanie shivered, not sure what would have happened if she hadn’t been around. Death. That was probably it.

“That would explain it.” Alfred chuckled softly, turning to her. He smiled fondly. “Truly, it is good to have you back.”

Something about how he said it made it all feel official. That she was finally home, after everything. Giving him a one-armed hug, she smiled. “Me too.”

[clacing]

The eye emoji is for art but I feel it fits for writing too! 👀 🥰 📝 👉

🌈 ✨ 🕵️‍♀️

First of all THAT’S SO MANY THANK YOU!!!!

 the 👀 a piece where i tried something new

Gonna say be the thing that buries me here, for a few reasons! First of all, I tend to be very longwinded when writing, and rarely manage to keep myself under 10k, so trying to keep it to 2k for the zine was a really a challenge. I thought I could do it until I realized I’d made up enough lore and worldbuilding to fill an actual novel, and when I realized I’d already wasted more than half of the allotted word count just to set the story up. I had to completely change the way I usually write, and think of it less as a story followed from beginning to end and more as a snapshot of the wider story. Entire scenes I’d written out ended up being scrapped and mentioned as an aside in the final version. POVs had to be swapped and edited accordingly. It was all about figuring out how to fit the most story in as little a word count as I could, and honestly, I loved it! I had never been creatively challenged like that.

What’s more, I had the privilege of collaborating with @astrumumbrae​, and that also influenced the story! I’m usually very wishy-washy when it comes to descriptions (I always joke that all my stories take place in a void), but since the piece had to be illustrated, I had to make things clear in the text - and some details we had to figure out together, going over the drawings and deciding what colors would look best on Catra, or what Catra and Adora’s weapons of choice would be. It was just really fun, and I’d never done anything like that, but it definitely improved the quality of my writing and made the whole experience for me!

🥰 a piece i’m really proud of and why

brave face talk so lightly (hide the truth). I’ve actually been thinking about it a lot lately and I kinda wish I could go back to it. Looking back on my fics I do think most of them come off too cheesy or too self-indulgent, but this one I’m honestly fond of. I’m usually also very slow and a fic like that would have taken me at least a month; I wrote it in three days, writing non-stop, and I loved every second of it.  Maybe it’s because I had the outline ready for months before I started writing, so the whole sequence of events was always clear to me, but damn, writing had never felt so effortless and so satisfying. I think I’ve managed to capture exactly the feeling I was going on in not-too-many-words and I’m really glad it’s my most popular fic.

📝 a line or paragraph i’m really happy with

UHHHHH SHIT THIS IS HARD. So many. I’m gonna pick a couple that I can think of right now, and that’s only for published WIPs, otherwise we’re going to be here all day:

She looks different almost every time Adora sees her, but her software is set to recognize Catra’s soulprint in all of her incarnations and it’s already downloading everything it has on her, words quickly flashing across Adora’s vision.

Then Catra notices her staring, and Adora waves the words away. She might not remember her, but she already knows everything there is to know about her - like her previous disappointment, Catra is a constant of hers, a wrinkle in her personal timeline. Some of Catra’s code is embedded into Adora’s programming to allow for better soul recognition and improved fighting ability, a vaccine that grows more and more elaborate with every one of their interactions.

Catra smirks at her. Adora fears that, one day, Catra’s coding will override her own, and she’ll be eaten up - corrupted beyond repair.

&

It’s almost scary, sometimes. Adora feels with Catra the way she thinks old married couples are supposed to feel - not the newness, the freshness of discovery, but the simple, quiet comfort of knowledge already acquired, of bones being able to rest. She wonders if Catra feels the same way about her. She wonders if Catra will get tired of her, at some point, if she’ll want more from her life than Adora is able to give her.

& This is technically cheating because I wrote it in 2019 but..... it was published in 2020 so.... 😶

"Someday you will have to face it, you know. The emptiness."

"I said shut up," Catra snapped. "I'm perfectly safe, respected, with no one to tell me what to do. I have friends, a family, and a kingdom. I don't know what you think I should feel empty about."

"All that power," Double Trouble tut-tutted, almost pitifully, "all that unconditional love, self-love, familial love. And something's still missing, isn't it?"

And when she kept avoiding their gaze, wishing they could stop, just stop for one damn night, they lifted her chin up towards them with a single clawed finger. "Oh, kitten," they mumbled, "now that you finally got what you needed, I was hoping you'd figured out what it was that you wanted."

👉 a WIP i’d like to try and finish next year

Definitely how you besiege me (and feed me). That fic’s just proof of my longwindedness and slowness and I’d like it to stop haunting me 😔 But yeah I said I’d try to put out chapter 5 before the end of the year, and then only the epilogue is left.

I also really hope to finish the “estranged childhood best friends meet again” AU. It’s gonna be three chapters and I’ve had the first one ready for a while but I can’t publish another WIP before I finish HYBM.

🌈 favourite colouring

Mmmh so full disclosure, when it comes to SPOP I kinda just use the same coloring on everything and make a few adjustments ghgfhgh if it ain’t broke don’t fix it

✨ a set where i tried something new & 🕵️‍♀️ a detail i’m really proud of

Conflating the two because they’re about the same gifset. When I got the request for that one I honestly had no idea how to go about it because the quote seemed so metaphorical to me and I couldn’t figure out what scenes to use, but THEN something unlocked in me and I figured out all the metaphors at once. My favorite has to be “Catra stealing the moon for Adora” as in “allowing Glimmer to escape”.

[thespacenico]

haven’t posted here in a while, so here’s a short klance drabble commissioned by @helloklancee!

twitter | instagram | klancemas zine!

·:*:·ﾟ★ sweet spot ★ﾟ·:*:· - 2.1k word oneshot - getting together - college au

“Keith, I swear to god if you make me kill my boba—” 

“I’m not! I’m just, moving it around a little—stop peeking!” 

“I’m not!” 

“Lance, I can literally see your eyeball right now.” 

Lance closes his eyes and covers them fully with his hand for the second time, heaving an unnecessarily long and overly dramatic sigh. “Why can’t we just drink our bobas! Like normal people. What if I smash the side of “Then I’ll just buy you a new one,” Keith snorts, clearly amused by Lance’s antics. A moment of haphazard shuffling as he adjusts the position of Lance’s cup on the table, and then it stops. “Okay. Go.” 

“This is a terrible idea,” Lance mutters, blindly lifting the straw in his other hand. He hovers uncertainly for a moment, arm fully extended over the table as he relocates it to where he hopes Keith has moved his cup, then swings downward. 

There’s a loud pop! and when Lance doesn’t feel anything spilling over his hand and into his lap, he cautiously peels his hand away from his face, opening one eye to see that his straw has gone straight through the center of his cup’s lid. 

“Ha!” he crows, pumping one fist in the air and laughing gleefully at the incredulous look on Keith’s face. “Nailed it! I told you, they don’t call me ‘Sharpshooter’ for nothing.” 

“No way,” Keith shakes his head, crossing his hands in a time-out motion. “There’s no way—you cheated! You peeked again, didn’t you?” 

Lance sputters. “Wha—no! I did that all by myself, fair and square! Can’t you just appreciate my awesomeness for once?” 

Keith chooses not to respond, instead picking up his own cup and watching Lance through narrowed eyes as he takes a sip. Lance follows suit, squinting as he props his elbows against the table, takes a sip, and promptly chokes on a boba pearl. 

It’s worth it to hear the way that Keith laughs, bright and unabashed throughout the quiet of the shop. 

They’re in the midst of finals week, and technically they should be studying right now, but it’s always nice to get off campus and breathe every once in a while. It’s not unusual for them to go out together; in fact, it’s a pretty regular thing. 

Lance is Keith’s go-to, Keith is Lance’s go-to, meaning that outside of classes and routine schoolwork, they take up almost all of each other’s time. Keith had texted Lance about needing a study break, Lance had mentioned that he’d been craving boba for the past eighteen hours, and the rest is history.

That’s often how it goes. It’s just a little bit infuriating. 

Infuriating, in the sense that Lance has had a big fat crush on Keith since the first semester of their freshman year, and nearly a full year later he still can’t bring himself to make a move. It’s kind of ridiculous, because honestly, what would really change if they were to start dating? 

They’re like a package deal, together nearly every moment that they’re able to be. They go the the cafeteria together, they do homework together, they let each other crash in their dorm rooms—quiznak, they even alternate paying for off-campus outings, considering that they happen so often. 

“People don’t do all that with just anyone,” Hunk has told Lance, time and time and time again. 

Maybe not, but Lance doesn’t take this stuff lightly. He’s not sure he wants to risk what they already have.

They spend a while at the boba shop—longer than they should have—complaining about their professors, giggling through several card games, snapping a few very unflattering pictures of each other sipping on their boba. Lance snags an extra straw from the front counter and sticks one in each nostril, and Keith laughs so hard that he nearly falls out of his chair, which only makes him laugh even harder. 

The trip back to campus is no less lively. They sing their lungs out to A-ha’s “Take On Me,” as is tradition for them, and by the time that Lance is pulling into the parking lot outside Keith’s dorm, his cheeks are flushed with warmth and mouth smiling as they both climb out onto the pavement into the cold. Part of him wishes their night didn’t have to end here, but they both have a lot to do, and together they tend to distract each other, so. It’s probably for the best.

The sun set hours ago, but the moon is bright and full in the sky, the winter air crisp and inviting. Lance shoves his hands in his jacket pockets as Keith slips out of the passenger seat and walks around to the other side, shivering as he zips up his coat. “How are you not freezing? I feel cold just looking at you.” 

“You’re just cold-blooded,” Lance shrugs, and yelps when Keith pokes him sharply in the side, snickering at Lance’s half-hearted pout. “Hey! No one’s keeping you here, just hurry up and go inside if you’re so cold!” 

He can’t tell if he only imagines it or not, but if he didn’t know any better he’d say that Keith’s smile seems to falter slightly, as if the thought of parting with each other bothers him as much as it bothers Lance. “I… yeah,” Keith nods, and Lance finds his own smile wavering when he lowers his gaze to the ground, kicking at a pebble on the sidewalk. “I guess I should get back to studying.”

Lance mentally kicks himself, although he doesn’t even know what he’s kicking himself for. Keith sounds disappointed. Why does he sound disappointed? What has Lance done. What did he do. What was there to be done.

He opens his mouth. Closes it, as he searches for the right words. “Um, yeah. I probably should, too.”

It’s unclear if he’s made things better or worse from the expression that Keith wears when he looks up again, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other. There’s something almost shy about his posture, nervous energy radiating off him in waves as he takes a breath as if to say something, then pauses. He seems anxious, and that makes Lance anxious, because he doesn’t like the thought of being someone who makes Keith anxious.

“Hey, are you okay?” Lance pulls his hands from his pockets but they only hover uselessly at his sides, uncertain. Keith shuffles in place, silent and mostly avoiding eye contact, which is odd and rather concerning since hardly a moment ago everything seemed to be totally normal. Lance’s brow furrows. “Seriously, what’s wrong? You seem kind of—” The rest of his words die on his tongue before he has the chance to utter them, because then Keith quickly steps forward, leans in, and kisses his cheek. 

Lance’s brain sputters. Chokes and fizzles out, just like the new fizzy drink on the boba menu that he had earlier considered and ultimately decided against. He stands very still, frozen to the spot as Keith pulls away just as quickly, cheeks visibly flushed despite only the moonlight and streetlamps to make it out. 

He clears his throat, reaching up to brush a piece of hair behind his ear. “Just, um. Thanks for tonight. I really needed it.” Lance stares at him, speechless, face burning as Keith takes a step back, mumbling. “Good luck with studying. And I’ll—see you tomorrow, I guess.” Then just like that, he turns and starts toward the front doors of the dorm building, leaving Lance standing rigid and flabbergasted on the sidewalk wondering exactly what the heck was in his drink. 

At least, he tried to. Lance doesn’t let him get very far. “What—Keith, wait.” 

Keith stops in his tracks, glancing over his shoulder at where Lance’s fingers have closed around his wrist, then up at Lance. Lance blinks back at him, almost as surprised by himself as Keith seems to be, but he doesn’t back down. For a moment they’re both silent, a thick, heavy tension settling over them. The air is electric, prickling at Lance’s skin and sending a shiver down his spine that he’s barely able to suppress. 

Lance’s heart is racing, beating painfully behind his ribcage as he searches Keith’s face. His gaze is more open and vulnerable than Lance has ever seen it, his expression an apprehensive mix of uncertainty and anticipation, like he’s waiting to see what happens next but is afraid of what that might be. Lance opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out, especially when Keith’s eyes widen ever so slightly, almost too hopeful for Lance’s poor heart to bear.

He makes a split second decision. 

Lance pulls a willing, albeit puzzled Keith back toward him, and kisses him. It takes a rather mortifying, agonizing moment for Keith to kiss back, but when he does, Lance can’t believe they took so long to make this happen. 

Once they get started, Lance can’t imagine ever wanting to stop. Keith’s hands slide up to rest on his shoulder and cup the back of his neck, eagerly pressing against him when Lance gently tugs him closer by the waist. And either Lance moves back or Keith moves forward, because hardly a second later Lance is backed against his car door and gratefully leaning against it, desperate for some kind of support considering how easily his legs have turned to jello.

Keith tastes sweet, which Lance can’t help but think is entirely fitting. It reminds him of all Keith’s favorite drinks, of the coffee he takes to class every morning with too much sugar mixed in, of the candies he always asks Lance to bring back from the store when he gets held up at dinner with his brother. Lance shifts slightly and Keith follows, voicing zero protest as Lance slowly turns them around so it’s Keith backed up against the car instead, fingers tangled in Lance’s hair. 

Every time one of them pulls away the other only drags them back in, noses brushing with every tilt of their jaw, blinking butterfly kisses against each other’s cheeks from the sheer proximity. Lance practically melts at Keith’s touch, humming when he brushes a thumb over his cheekbone, wanting to be closer and closer even though they’re already as close as they can be.

If he wasn’t cold before, then he certainly isn’t cold now. At some point Keith’s arms wind around his neck, one hand pressing between his shoulder blades, and Lance feels like he’s burning but not unpleasantly. 

His hands hover near Keith’s waist, slipping underneath his coat, playing with the hem of his shirt before pressing underneath that as well, settling his fingers over bare skin. And maybe it’s instinctive, or habitual, but Lance finds himself rubbing a single, gentle circle against his hips with his thumbs without thinking, causing Keith to make a small sound in the back of his throat.

He abruptly breaks apart, breath catching in his throat, and Lance immediately withdraws his hands from underneath Keith’s shirt. “Sorry, I—I’m sorry, was that—”

“It’s fine,” Keith rasps, breath hot on Lance’s mouth. He swallows, eyelids fluttering and hands gripping Lance’s shoulders tightly to steady himself. “Just… trying to—process.”

Lance relaxes, shoulders loosening as he slips back underneath his shirt and settles his fingers there. He’s quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on Keith as he tries to catch his breath, letting himself admire everything he’d tried so hard to ignore, way back when: the slope of his nose, the dip of his chin, the faded mark on his cheek from an accident when he was sixteen, even the place at the corner of his mouth where he knows a dimple would be if he were smiling. 

Having Keith this close to him, eyes heavy and cheeks flushed and breathing hotly against his mouth—it hardly feels real, after all this time.  

He lifts one hand to rest against Keith’s cheek without remembering when he ever told it to move. It makes Keith look up at him though, and he finds himself smiling when their eyes meet, tucking a stray piece of hair behind his ear. “You know, now that we got the hard part out of the way, I think now is a pretty good time to tell you that I have a big fat crush on you.” 

Keith laughs breathlessly, gripping the collar of Lance’s jacket. “I should hope so. I have a big fat crush on you, too.”

“How long?” Lance asks, with very thinly veiled curiosity. 

“God, I don’t know. First semester of freshman year?” 

Lance stares at him. “We’re both idiots.” 

Keith doesn’t ask why, only laughs again in agreement and leans forward to kiss him again, a gentle press of his lips against the corner of his mouth. “That’s okay with me.” 

(Needless to say, Lance doesn’t get much studying done that night. And that’s just fine with him.)

[i-just-love-spop]

Of babysitting and (potential) kitchen fires (trimmed-down version for zine application)

[Catradora and some minor Glimbow. Takes place several years after the show. Summary not included in the excerpt.]

—

“That day, the most selfless girl in the galaxy learned that it was alright to choose herself for once – that it was the right choice to be selfish sometimes. And that’s how she saved the galaxy. The end.”

Catra clapped her hands together to empathize the ending of the story.

The little girl with the violet hair looked up at her. There was an excited glint in her eyes.

“Start over, I want to hear the story again! Please!”

Catra laughed as she ruffled the girl’s hair.

“Nice try, sweetie, but the time has come for little Arrow to go to sleep, because Queen Sparkles will show up soon and throw me out of your room if you don’t.”

Arrow pouted.

“Come on, auntie Catra. Just one more time. Auntie Adora can keep mom distracted in the meantime.”

The adult woman stroked the child’s head again and giggled softly. Damn, she really liked this kid.

“As much as I like the way you think, Glitter, your mom will end me if I keep you awake any longer. And I think she’s pert near issuing a decree about how much I get to talk about Adora here before I must be forcefully removed from the building at all costs,” She joked.

The child laughed.

“But mommy and dad are just as bad!”

“You’re the cheekiest girl in the entire universe. I’m so proud of you.” Catra hugged her gently. “Come on, little one. Time to sleep. I’ll tell you more stories tomorrow.”

Arrow squeaked happily, snuggled up to her aunt and caved.

“Okay, fine. But only if you promise.”

The adult smiled softly. Arrow was just about her favorite person in the entire universe – except for Adora, of course.

The remaining members of the best friend squad were pretty close behind, though.

“Of course. I promise, Glitter.”

She gently tugged the girl in the cupcake pajamas into bed.

“Wanna sleep lights on or lights off today?”

—

Glimmer and Adora watched Catra from the doorframe as she tugged Arrow in and then started singing her to sleep.

Adora was pretty close to melting into a puddle right then and there. Instead, she almost started crying and rubbed her wedding band nervously, all the universe’s love in her eyes in that very moment.

The scene alone was enough to turn her head all over again, and that wasn’t even including the fact that Catra’s singing was down right enchanting, and she would have happily listened to nothing but that for the rest of her life.

“Adora? ... Adora?” Her best friend gave her a gentle nudge. “Hey, Brightmoon to She-Ra, you in there?”

The blonde jerked extremely startled.

She’d been in a completely different world for the last couple of minutes.

“Yeah, uh, I was just-”

“Zoning out at Catra again. I know.” Adora went beet-red. Glimmer winked at her and laughed softly. Despite her visible exhaustion, she still insisted on teasing her best friend. “I’m still surprised how good she is with kids. Arrow loves her to the stars and back.”

“Yeah, I know...”

She-Ra was still way too mesmerized by the scene to take her eyes off her wife and her niece.

“Have you two thought about it yet? You know, the... adoption thing we talked about?”

Well, that jerked the warrior princess back into reality, alright.

She turned away from Catra and Arrow, instead facing the wall across from the child’s room.

“I- we- uh-” she stammered. “I... don’t know. I think I’d be a terrible mom.”

Glimmer shook her head and looked at her best friend sternly.

“Why would you think that? That’s complete nonsense.”

“Well, I’m kind of a complete mess, and extremely chaotic and clumsy and- I tried cooking something recently, and then Catra hugged me from behind while I was doing it, and then my brain short-circuited and I almost burnt down the kitchen because I still can’t believe I’m married to Catra and it’s been ten years-” She was once again talking in that very Adora way where Glimmer wasn’t sure if her friend even took a single breath while sentence after sentence came out of her mouth in such a speed that it was hard to understand everything. “-and, I mean, I can’t take care of a child! I can barely take care of myself, and-”

Her best friend put her hands on the shoulders of the blonde.

“Adora. Breathe.”

“...right. That... That’s a... thing I should be doing.” She listened, took a couple of long-drawn-out breaths... and slowly, she started calming down again. “I’m sorry. It’s just... I don’t know if I would be a good mother.”

Glimmer smiled at her and pinched her cheek.

“Of course you would be a good mom. I mean, you’re not Catra, but you have watched Arrow before, and you were pretty good at it. And kids love you.”

Adora let out a long sigh.

“Yeah, maybe, but... I don’t know.”

“Hey, nobody’s forcing you to do anything, alright?” Glimmer hugged her. “If that’s not something you want, that’s perfectly fine. Kids aren’t for everyone, and you two are great together on your own. You don’t need kids to be happy.”

Adora shook her head.

“Yeah, no, I know, that... that’s not it. I... I actually think we would both like to have one, but.., the only mother figure we had back at the horde was Shadow Weaver, and I think we’re both afraid we could end up being the kind of parent she was. Catra more so than me.”

Glimmer broke off in mid-sentence.

That though alone seemed completely insane to her.

Adora was just about the nicest, kindest person she had ever met – except for maybe Bow –, while Shadow Weaver was most definitely cruelest, most manipulative asshole she could think of.

And while Catra’s story was... more complicated on that behalf, she still couldn’t imagine her being the kind of mother Shadow Weaver had been. Catra had learned from her mistakes, had overcome her fears and weaknesses and had become a better person along the way.

Shadow Weaver had never learned, never changed, and while her last moments had been a sacrifice, it had been one of cowardice more than one of courage.

A dead person didn’t have to face the mistakes she made. Didn’t have to deal with the people they hurt – the hate in their eyes and the words of anger, sadness and spite that would get thrown at them otherwise.

Catra had faced all that. She’d worked to complete exhaustion to rebuild the cities she’d helped destroy, and she’d went to the end of the galaxy and back to prove that she’d truly changed.

Despite that, some people hadn’t forgiven her, and they never would.

Some people still thought Adora deserved better, and that Catra was treating her badly and should be banished from the planet for good for everything she’d done.

That wasn’t happening... and Catra had learned to live with and accept what people thought of her. She knew she’d hurt others. And as much as she would have liked to turn back time to right her wrongs... she couldn’t.

What others thought of her wasn’t her choice to make. If she had hurt people too much for them to ever give her another chance, that was valid, and she accepted it.

It wasn’t her choice to make.

That made her a much bigger person than Shadow Weaver had ever been.

“Are you serious? Neither of you is anything like her, and you never will be. The way Catra treats Arrow, how she tucks her into bed and sings her to sleep... that’s something my mom used to do when I was little.” For a moment, there was a glint of sad melancholy in her eyes. “Mom would have loved Arrow. And Catra would have driven her absolutely bonkers... but if things hadn’t happened the way they did... I think she would have liked her too.”

Adora pulled her best friend into a hug.

“I...” She started, but Glimmer shook her head and interrupted her.

“Shadow Weaver wasn’t like this at all, was she?”

That was a pretty clear signal.

She didn’t want to talk or think about this any longer. At least not right now.

Adora could accept that and just continued on with the conversation as if nothing had happened.

That was part of their silent agreement when it came to talking about Angella.

“No, she wouldn’t have. Shadow Weaver was never the singing type.” She raised her hands and wagged her fingers in a silly imitation of a spell caster, hoping that would lift the mood again – at least a little. “She was more like ‘uuuuuh, I’m so evil and mean, and if you don’t go to sleep then the weeping princess will show up and murder you, or maybe I will, if you annoy me too much!’...”

She stuck out her tongue.

Glimmer giggled, and Adora joined in.

She could laugh about it today... at least a little.

That had been different for a long time.

—

“Hey Adora.” The two of them spun around. Apparently Arrow had fallen asleep by now, because Catra was now standing right next to them, the door closed behind her so they could speak loudly without waking the child up again. She looked at her wife all lovey-dovey for a moments then turned to Glimmer, grinned and bowed playfully. “Queen Sparkles, I humbly report your daughter has been put to bed and is asleep now.”

That earned her a gentle nudge against the shoulder from said queen, who rolled her eyes as she laughed.

“Why are you like this?”

Catra gave her a cheeky grin and winked at her.

“What can I say, it’s part of my charm.”

She then put an arm around her wife gently, who had finally stopped zoning out enough to properly greet her.

“Hey Kitty.”

Catra rolled her eyes.

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

Adora pulled her close and looked at her smugly.

“You love it when I call you that.”

“I do not.”

Their faces were now merely inches away from each other.

Truth be told, Catra had given up on ever getting rid of the nickname when Adora had used it for the first time several years ago.

By now, she was sure just about all of Etheria knew about the dumb nickname – that maybe, just maybe, did send a nice feeling of comfortable warmth through her body when Adora said it.

The annoyed facade she put up was nothing more than that – just part of their playful flirting.

Their kiss was unsatisfyingly short. Adora broke away almost immediately, grimacing. She wiped her mouth.

“...why do you taste like glitter?”

Catra, who had been kind of irritated and hurt until now, started cackling.

“So I might have given the kid a goodnight kiss to the forehead when I tucked her in, sue me.” She turned to Glimmer. “Sparkles’ husband kisses her all the time – I wonder how he does it.”

Her friend and her wife joined in the laughing really soon.

“I’ll have to thank my daughter for finding the absolutely only method I can think of that can keep you two from constantly making out in front of me,” Glimmer chuckled, smiling to herself.

Those two were almost disgustingly cute.

Almost.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but there’s nothing in the entire universe powerful enough to keep our hands off each other for long,” Adora commented truthfully.

The Horde, a war, a collapsing reality and an army consisting of robots and the clones of an insane maniac hadn’t stopped them. Keeping them away from each other for long was a task that would have required something a lot more complicated than a little glitter.

She put her arm around her wife’s waist and kissed her cheek.

Glimmer had a hard time keeping herself from commenting the purring that ensued as the smile on her lips grew wider.

She just looked at the two of them silently for a while until she spoke up again.

“Oh, and Catra... thanks for babysitting. I really appreciate it a lot.”

Spending time with them was nice... but she also started to feel her exhaustion more with every passing minute and wanted nothing more than to just collapse into her bed and sleep for a small eternity... or at least for approximately an hour before she would be woken up again.

The thought alone made her head spin.

But she was really, really thankful.

Catra had been immensely helpful when it came to watching Arrow, especially during these past few weeks.

“Hey, you know I love the kid. Anytime.” The brunette smiled. “I forgot to ask... how was your meeting?”

[…]

[im-fairly-whitty]

Friends -- A Dr Facilier Oneshot

I’m finally able to post what I wrote for the Princess and The Frog 10 year anniversary zine! Enjoy my take on how the Shadowman got his start with his friends on the other side.

“Marceline, come on, I thought we are friends?” Facilier crooned, smiling with a pout as he crossed his long bony arms on the tabletop.

“I’m your older sister, not your friend,” Marceline said sharply. The gold hoops and small bones hanging from her ears clattered together as she shot him a dark look. “And I said no, André. You’re already deep enough in hell as it is without voodoo. Now get.”

“Aw, those are mighty fine words coming from a witch.” Facilier said with a grin. He smoothed one hand across the silky maroon fabric of the tablecloth and plucked a sickly green feather from the pile she was sorting. It made his fingers itch with an icy hot feeling, “And I told you, I don’t go by André anymore.”

“Well I’m sure not calling you “Doctor” nothin’,” Marceline snapped, snatching back the feather with ring encrusted fingers, her long nails scratching his hand. “You’re not even a man yet and already so full of yourself you’d think you were a royal dandy, strutting around with that ridiculous silk hat of yours. Did you kill someone for it, or were you rifling through trash again?”

“Marci please,” Facilier said, dropping his smile, leaning heavily on the table, palms up amid the scattering of foreign coins and silver trimmed tarot cards, “I need an introduction, and I know you know them.”

“Which is why I’m telling you no.” Marceline growled.

Facilier could have sworn he saw a flash of otherworldly purple light in her eyes just now, and the sight sent an excited shiver down his spine.

“What do you want?” He asked eagerly, “Marci please, I’ll cut you a deal, whatever you want, I’ll get it for you, but I have got to meet them.”

“This is why I’m not letting you meet them, you idiot!” Marceline said, standing and slamming her hands on the table, a sound like a thunderclap shaking the small heavily draped room.

He glanced around the dim room, his breath catching a little as the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to sway and swirl on their own. He looked up to see Marceline’s own shadow, cast from the flickering light of the kerosene lamp on the table, loom up over him.

It seemed even angrier than she was, and if his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him, her shadow was watching him.

“You and your deals,” Marceline spat, her gold canine tooth showing its tiny ruby inlay as she sneered at him. “You’re so desperate for what you want that you never think about what will be required of you. You’re so filled with jealousy and greed that they would chain your soul in an instant and you wouldn’t even know it until you were being dragged into an early grave. You have no self-control André, that’s why I’m not introducing you to them.”

But Facilier barely heard her, only seeing the way her shadow was stepping around the walls of the room on its own accord, the way that the old wooden masks hung on the walls seemed to be looking down at him with intelligent fanged grins, and the dark electricity in the air that he could feel tingling through his bones.

So much power.

Real power.

He had to have it.

“Look Marci,” he said, getting to his feet, a small switchblade slipping down his sleeve and into his hand behind his back, “I need the kind of power you’ve got, and it’s not fair for only you to have it. I came here hoping you’d do me a favor, but if you want to do this the hard way then-”

Marceline snapped her fingers and he felt himself thrown back in his chair hard enough to crack his head against the high wooden back. His wrists were pinned to the arms of the chair, something dark and solid feeling nearly crushing his wrists, forcing his hand open to drop the switchblade, the knife silently falling to the plush carpet underfoot.

Marceline walked over to him, gripping his face in one hand hard enough for her nails to cut into his skin. There was definitely a harsh purple light in her eyes, as purple as Mardi Gras beads, flickering and glowing as clearly as the lamp on the table, which had turned a shivering lime hue.

“No.” Marceline said.

Facilier was pretty sure that for at least that moment, when her voice dropped deeper than any human he’d heard before, that her dark skin became translucent, showing the bones beneath, making the dark curls escaping her bandana even darker against the pale bone.

“Okay!” Facilier said, not having to fake the sweat breaking across his forehead as he tried to lean away from her, trapped against the back of the chair, “Alright, I’ll give it up, okay? Just let me go, I’ll leave.”

Marceline glared at him for another moment, then released his face with a shove. The darkness around his wrists slid away and he saw her shadow slip back out up the wall behind her.

He felt his jaw gingerly, getting to his feet.

“But how did you meet them?” He asked.

Marceline snarled slightly in warning, her arms folded tightly. The shadows in the corners of the room whispered and swirled, their hushed chattering sounding teasing and mocking.

“Well,” Facilier said, stooping to retrieve his switchblade, taking the moment to scan for something promising looking that he could steal, but seeing nothing that caught his eye, “it was nice seeing you Marci,” he straightened, tipping his top hat to her like a real gentleman, “I’ll be seeing you around.”

“Not likely.” Marceline said dryly.

She flicked her wrist and the door out slammed open, making Facilier jump. Just a little.

“Give up your search.” Marceline said, watching him sharply as he walked out the door, “Trying to make friends on the other side will only chain you down, not get you the freedom that you want so badly. Promising away your soul will only end badly for you.”

“Have a wonderful rest of your evening, Marci.” Facilier said, waving a hand gaily as he walked down the alley without so much as looking back.

He heard the door slam shut behind him, and when he glanced back the door had vanished entirely. Marci’s place was completely gone, leaving only overgrown cobblestone in its place.

Facilier ground his teeth together as his pretended smile dropped.

He had been so close, so close. He had seen it, he’d felt it, all that power and Marci had kept it all to herself.

Anger rattled through him as he savagely kicked at a crate, picking up an old stick from among the trash and cracking it in half against the wall. He panted as he held the broken half of a stick and continued to beat and kick every bush and box and bit of trash in the ally. He didn’t care if he looked ridiculous, he needed to take out this overwhelming rage on something.

He spotted the flickering sickly pale lamp high on the wall above him, its flame an odd yellow green, almost like Marci’s had been.

He growled, looking around for a cobblestone he could heave at it to shatter the glass.

But stopped when he felt something.

It was a soft kind of tug at his feet, a tingling sensation where his shoes and his shadow and the cobblestones met. His shadow was stretched along the ground and halfway up the opposite wall.

His chest was still heaving a bit from his tantrum but his eyes were wide as he stepped closer to the wall, letting his shadow move up it in full.

“I want to make a deal.” He said quickly, holding up his hands, making his shadow do the same, “I need some friends on the other side, I want power, I want glory, I want to be even more powerful than my sister.”

His heart raced as his shadow smiled, doing something shadows should never do.

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” he said, rushing on, “money, my soul, the whole city, whatever you want, just help me.”

He watched as his shadow creakily began to move by itself, one dark hand peeling itself off the wall, black bony fingers reaching out to him as if offering a handshake.

Facilier grabbed the hand, shaking it as hard as he could.

It felt like a bolt of lightning struck him, a shattering thunderclap rocking the ally, making him stumble back as colored sparks and dancing shadows swirled in his vision. A biting shivering sensation ate up his arm, sweeping through him in a single painful moment.

He blinked hard, trying to clear away the ghostly afterimage of a cackling...something...from his sight.

He gasped for breath as he shakily pushed himself to his feet. Apparently he’d fallen. He still held his half a stick in one hand, his other, the one he’d shaken with, felt as though he’d burned it in a fire despite looking perfectly normal.

Facilier shook a little, looking around for some sign that whatever had just happened was real.

“Is that it?” He yelled at no one, “Where are you? I wanted power!”

He felt another tug at his feet, a much stronger one this time, and looked up to see his shadow waving at him. Instead of the stilted slow movement it had had a moment ago it now shifted as easily and loosely as he did, as if a second him were casting it.

His shadow smiled when it saw it had his attention, tipping its hat. It held up the shadow of the stick they held in their left hand and pointed to it, making a snapping motion with its free hand.

Facilier looked at his broken half of stick, a mounting sense of excitement growing in his chest. He snapped his fingers and nearly dropped the piece of wood when it changed into a sleek glossy cane with a burst of light, leaving tendrils of purple mist to fall through his fingers.

He started to chuckle, a chuckle that turned into a full laugh as he brandished his cane at the night sky in triumph, the purple knob at the top glinting darkly in the weak lamplight.

“Yes!” He called into the night, not caring who heard him.

Because he had done it, he’d done it.

He glanced back at his shadow, who applauded silently in approval, grinning as widely as he was.

Facilier tipped his hat back into place, leaning grandly on his new cane as he looked down the alley, then started walking.

It was going to take a lot of experimenting to see what it was that he could do, a lot of trial and error and a lot of deals to get stronger and stronger. He knew enough about magic to be sure of it.

But he was grinning as he stepped out into the street, his shadow trailing behind and to the side of him in the wake of the streetlights above.

Because he didn’t care, he’d finally gotten power and he couldn’t wait to see what he could do.

[amilynh]

teddythecat1234 replied to your post: For the reader's ask: How did you find your first...

I’m not into Star Trek anymore either. I used to be into TNG when I was young and I stuck with it through DS9 (which I never enjoyed as much) and Voyager (which I liked much better), but Captain Picard will always be MY Captain and the Enterprise D is MY space ship. I never got into any of the later spinoffs.

I have seen all 78 eps of TOS, I saw all the movies up through First Contact (after the hand-off), and my friends and I even got all gussied up like we were going to the formal opera, and we called our opening-night First Contact even "Prom Trek" since none of us had gone to prom (NO regrets: we gave ZERO fucks), and so we made our own prom circa age 26-28 doing something we loved.

I watched TNG S1-S5, and then probably saw half of S6, and really not much afterwards, though I tuned in for the final ep (and was DEEPLY disappointed). My true love there was Beverly. (Ah, Gates McFadden, one of the three main people responsible for the realization of SO MANY of my generation's fans of, "Oh...I'm a *LESBIAN*!!" ...the others are Gillian Anderson and Linda Hamilton.).

I have heard SUCH good things about DS9, but I was at uni at the time, and it was one at, like, 3:30 on Saturday afternoons...and it would break up the day, and I'd forget...it was so inconvenient and non-intuitive that I never remembered to watch it, so I've only seen a smattering of eps (including OF COURSE the Mirror episodes...SO GOOD!). I wanted to like it, but timing worked against me.

I watched and LOOOOVED Voyager. I shipped Captn Katie and Chakotay SO hard..."Resolutions" OMG OMG. I was TRULY hopeful that they would address Captn Katie's escalating instability and risk-taking. And I was even MORE hopeful when they did the ep where she locked herself in her cabin for 3 months. I wanted to see them ADDRESS her severe depression and loss of sense of self when separated from the structure of Starfleet that she was so committed to and dependent on. I wanted to see the Doc relieve her of command in order to address and TREAT her depression...to acknowledge that she needed HELP rather than enabling her and ignoring it. But...they skirted that, as they skirted EVERYTHING they built up.

I hate Brannon Braga with the fiery passion of 10,000 suns. I mean, when he was asked, in S1, how they were going to handle when Tuvok inevitably went into Pon Farr, and THAT ASSHAT was like, "What? Pon what? ...OH! Oh, but that's from the OLD show and this is a different show, so that doesn't apply." WTF YOU ASSHOLE OMG YOU'RE PART OF A WIDER CONTINUITY....AAAARRRFGGHGGHH!!! And...then they DID do ...something with it...and it fell TOTALLY flat for me.

I watched S1-S5 (again), and I WANTED to like "The Year of Hell," but it just didn't LAND for me Because Reset. I LOVED the episode where it turned out that Barclay was able to communicate with them...that slender connection to their home...that was VERY cool. And I LIKED Seven...but I didn't like that stupid catsuit...nor did I like that it became the Seven Of Nine Show.

I loved B'Lanna and Tom. I loved how they DID handle HER response to the obliteration of the Maquis and addressed that she was deliberately engaging in dangerous behaviors. I just wish they'd ALSO done that with Captn Katie; she was ENDANGERING THE WHOLE SHIP. I did appreciate that they revisited the concept, but with another character.

A friend had the headcanon (which is really just logic) that the Delaney twins from Stellar Cartography could almost NEVER rest because, typically, on a small ship working in well-travelled areas, just how much does Stellar Cartography DO? ....And then suddenly they're in a TOTALLY UNMAPPED AREA...and they need to recruit DOZENS to help them do all the mapping of this entirely un-documented area...but there are only 120-140 PEOPLE on board...so they must have never slept.

I think they should NEVER EVER let Chakotay fly the shuttles; they couldn't REPLACE them...and he kept crashing or damaging them or (check out the Coffee Nebula) just, you know, ACCIDENTALLY LEAVING SHUTTLECRAFT BEHIND by flying down to the planet and then BEAMING BACK UP.

I missed it when they stopped emphasizing that there was a SHORTAGE of resources. When Janeway couldn't have her coffee? SO awesome. When Neelix was cooking weird variations of the same thing? SO GOOD. I missed that as they forgot that resources were limited and caution was SUPER necessary.

I watched the series finale and was like...Chakotay and SEVEN??? WTF??? And I wanted not to see it END with them returning...I wanted to see the conflict of "Now we're FINALLY back to Starfleet YAY!" ...and the realization that, after HAVING to function independently for so long, finding it VERY difficult to fit into the demands of a command structure again. I wanted to see the reaction to how things had changed in the Alpha Quadrant...the Maquis adjusting to the annihilation of the Maquis...SO many missed opportunities.

I tried to watch Enterprise. I tried. I mean...Scott Bakula. Hoshi. COOL stuff. And yet, they managed to make SCOTT BAKULA--a man who could make the cut of a dress look GOOD and who could sing, dance, play piano, play football...do ANYTHING (see: Quantum Leap) while seeming personable and likeable...they managed to make him BORING. WTF???? I thought Enterprise was a boringly hot mess...but their Mirror episodes were good. I mean...EMPRESS HOSHI? YES, PLEASE. And the ep where T'Pol told the story of her grandmother who got trapped on earth and "invented" velcro so that she could sell the patent and get money for the family who helped her (I call it the T'Nana episode because it was T'Pol's Nana, yo)...I liked that...but I liked the novel "Strangers from the Sky" better....and it's the same plot.

And since then, and especially with the reboot...I just have walked away; I've DONE my time with Trek. I am no longer enamoured, and yet I still appreciate it.

I REALLY love, even now, some of my favorite Pocket Books novels (from before Pocket made the rules so rigid that the novels were no longer just authorized fanfic). My FAVE ones are "The Entropy Effect," "Ishmael" (Barbara Hambly steathily got them to PUBLISH a Star Trek/Here Come the Brides crossover!!!! With Doctor Who jokes! And there's TIME TRAVEL!), and Jean Lorrah's PUBLISHED Sarek and Amanda novels (which ENTIRELY have the backstory that is from her zines that were my first serious fanfic knowing it was fanfic).

I'm forever grateful that Trek fandom was large enough and FINDABLE enough that it gave me the "in" that I needed, back when there was no internet, to FIND fandom, then to follow the bread crumb trails to the fans of OTHER shows I also loved.

[challengerbmxmag]

Sam Waller Interview

Sam Waller co-runs, the UK based Central Library, “a shop in the North West of England that sells zines, DVDs and other interesting bits and pieces.” He’s also part of the current resurgence of quality independent BMX media with his Red Steps magazine. In addition to that he finds the time to contribute to Challenger with his quarterly column, ‘Notes From A Fancy Island’ and of course, ride. And, when you talk to Sam, you can tell that riding reigns supreme.

Sam and I email back and forth fairly often because of the column but also about other random stuff like old spots, concrete skateparks, music, etc. It’s fun to email with Sam so I figured it would also be fun to ask Sam some more in-depth questions. Hit the link below for the full interview.

All photos by Gaz Hunt. Thanks, Gaz!

I know you live in Manchester, England now but where did you grow up and what is your BMX origin story? I grew up in the complete middle of nowhere in a place called Colton in the south of the Lake District. Whilst the countryside in film and television is often shown as a tranquil, quaint place, the reality is a fair bit different, and Colton in particular seemed like a hotbed for strange stuff going on. Only recently a large farmhouse was burned down by a wild woman who owned loads of pigs. She was exiled from the county, but the pigs remained to cause havoc.

Anyway, my older brother has played guitar since he was six or seven, but as I was a useless at it and couldn’t get my hands to move properly, I felt obliged to find a similar all-encompassing past-time.

I was mad on Formula 1 racing for a while (thoughts go out to the Schumacher family), and I went to a karate lesson once (a hobby quickly scrapped after the whole hour was spent being taught how to bow honourably), but up until the age of 12 or 13 it just felt like I was dawdling about.

All of this changed when, for some reason I’m not entirely sure of, me and my friends decided to make some jumps and drops and stuff to ride on our mountain bikes in some woods near a dual carriageway.

One of my friends knew some older lads from nearby who had proper bikes and Little Devil hoodies, so I think they must have planted the seed of raditude with him, but I think at that time I was just happy to be out the house and not playing Tekken 2. We later found out that the woodland we’d chosen was a popular dogging site frequented by truck drivers (I'm not sure if 'dogging' exists in America - maybe look it up), and quickly moved our spades and everything into another forest. By that point the damage was done and my mind was snagged.

After a bit of bouncing about on a mountain bike, I then splashed out on a second hand Standard that someone had painted post-box red, affixed some stunt nubs and never looked back (or lookbacked, for that matter).

The nearby town of Ulverston had a pretty big riding and skating scene, but thinking now about us lot trying to lay down ‘street style’ in this small historic market town, we may as well have been the Jamaican bobsleigh team — the rough ledges were strictly for stalls, and the closest thing to a flatbank was a grass verge round the back of a Texaco garage.

What were some of your biggest inspirations as a kid and what about now? I always think about how the 16 year old me would probably make fun of some of the things I'm into now. Is that the case with you at all? Apart from the receding hairline and the slight increase in responsibilities, I think I’ve stayed pretty much exactly the same since I was 16. Back then I think my favourite film was probably Natural Born Killers, and my favourite album was maybe something like Bad Moon Rising by Sonic Youth. Whilst I’ve maybe expanded my interests a little, I’ve pretty much been in a rut since then.

I’m not into memes or internet humour in the slightest, but I remember someone once showing me a video of a wrestling fan in America crying and shouting, “It’s still real to me, dammit.” That’s how I feel about a lot of things I was into back then. A lot of people who I went to school with moved on from being into music and films and pissing around on bikes, whilst I’m still snagged on it all, listening to The Minutemen and wearing check shirts. It’s pretty stupid really.

What's The Fancy Island? Good question. Just next to Strangeways prison and only a mere stone’s throw from Manchester’s slick centre, lies a true rat-pit of questionable activity. I’ve seen loads of stuff happen here, such as an aggressive man chase a prostitute with a two-by-four and a creep lying in an alley trying to lure small boys into his lair.

In amongst all this, there’s loads of naff wholesale shops that sell everything from low-end Halloween costumes to fake Air Jordans made out of cardboard and fuzzy felt. All these shops have mad names like EEZZEE and Vibe Centre.

Getting to the point now, coming up with titles for things is pretty difficult, so a few years ago when I was cobbling together a zine, I nicked the name Urban Mist from one of these shops, and then, when I went to set up a Tumblr during the carefree pre-Instragram era, I nabbed ‘Fancy Island’ from a similar establishment.

I think Fancy Island has closed down now, but it’s no doubt been replaced with yet another shop with a daft name selling cheap batteries and t-shirts with swear words on the front.

Whilst I’m explaining names, I’ll state that Red Steps is a classic spot in Manchester that I ride past on my way to work every day. It boasts a rusty, needle-thin flatrail, a few small stair-sets (that are indeed red) and a large flow of gormless students to crash into. I’m not too sure why I named a magazine after it, but it just struck me as a funny name for a spot and I was struggling to think of anything else.

One thing I struggle with is balancing how to take BMX seriously while balancing a sense of humor about it as well; i.e. it's pretty goofy but is also this amazing vehicle for new experiences, ideas, and a pretty incredible community. Do you ever think about this? Like with most things in life (except crucial necessities like eating and breathing), riding bikes is pretty stupid and abstract if you try and think about it too hard. That said, I don’t see why bike riding should look goofy (apart from actual goofy-footed grinding - as a self-confessed goofy grinder myself I’ve got a lot of time for George D, Ralph and Dave McDermott) — riding is loads better than pretty much all other activities, but it’s constantly being made to look daft, when it could so easily look dope.

I think to stay juiced and not turn sour, you’ve got to completely ignore most things going on with riding and stick firmly to the bits that you like. I treat riding like music or films or anything else. In the same way I don’t go to the cinema to watch big summer blockbusters, I don’t spend my free time watching Corey Martinez edits or endless hours of footage from some zany mega-comp.

I’m a simple man. As far as riding is concerned, I like smith grinds, bottles of Heineken, Galaxy chocolate, black and white photos, sitting on benches and talking complete nonsense. The rest of it is irrelevant to me.

I constantly hear/read people complain about the lack of BMX magazines but there's so much cool stuff being printed right now. We've discussed this in email a bit but it seems weird that people are complaining. It's almost like people just have an idea of what they think a magazine should be and if it doesn't have look or read a certain way they are just confused. How do you feel about all of this? A solid group of people do buy things and support these independent projects and whatnot, but I think it’ll take a while for the loud-mouthed Instagram warlords to come to terms with the fact that the new magazines around might have different names to the ones they used to subscribe to 15 years ago. I suppose it’s maybe easier to talk about the lack of magazines out there than actually go to the effort of seeking them out, but having said that, it’s not exactly hard to find stuff these days.

I remember years ago hunting down anything beyond Dig or Ride was an absolute hassle involving a lot of e-mail mither and blind faith - but now with yourself, Berks St. and 90East stocking interesting stuff in America, me and Clarky doing Central Library over here and the newly formulated Wiretap down under, it’s easier than ever for anyone to get their hands on zines and DVDs and all that.

The new stuff that’s coming out now is ten times better than Dig or Ride ever were anyway. Endless contest reports and dull bike checks have fallen by the wayside, and I haven’t seen a photo of Jimmy Levan’s zebra-print leggings in years. Things are really looking up.

What do you do for work? Thoughts on pursuing money via BMX and also what's the best job you've ever had? By day I work in an office writing stuff for a clothes shop. As you can imagine, trying to come up with an interesting way to talk about the 659th blue shirt you’ve seen this week can get a bit tough, but I can’t complain too much really. The office is fairly warm and there’s a kettle in the kitchen.

As for pursuing ‘serious wonga’ via riding, I’m one step ahead of you. Central Library has just received big investment from Duncan Bannatyne and Deborah Meaden (of Dragon’s Den fame), meaning we’re finally able to stock all those bizarre Caramac-coloured tyres that real bike shops seem to stock. We’re also expanding our print line to offer crime fiction and the Goosebumps novels. My main aim in life is to become one of those creepy industry characters who spends their time sniffing around young and naïve talent in the hopes of flogging a few ‘dad caps’.

My finest job was probably working for my dad in the family trade of dry stone walling (which explains my surname). I’m not sure if dry stone walls exist in America, but they’re those fairly humble looking stone walls you see dividing up the fields and forests around the English countryside.

Anyway, building them isn’t too bad as far as manual labour goes. When it’s raining and you’re miles up some hill wallowing in the mud lugging big stones around with nothing more for lunch than a chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle and a Penguin biscuit, then it’s a little miserable – but on a good day when the sun is shining and you’re working with ‘good stone’, it’s hard to beat.

The best days were when my dad would fall asleep just a few minutes before the end of the lunch hour, basically extending the break for at least another 45 minutes. Thinking about this job now, I’m not sure why I ever gave it up.

Do you have any other hobbies besides riding? Yeah, but I’d say the lines were pretty blurred. This is maybe a pretty boring answer, but I suppose riding lends itself to other hobbies pretty well. I might be wrong, but I don’t think keen swimmers or budding javelin-throwers get into photography or making videos in quite the same way. It’s sort of like the ‘pillars of hip-hop’ or something – riding, taking pictures, messing round with video stuff and generally snooping around all fits together nicely (or at least it does in my peppered mind).

It’s not like I’m slipping on my Etnies t-shirt for my weekly two hour power sesh and then the next night I’m wearing some short-shorts down at the climbing wall. Even when I’m on holiday with my wife, I’m still just snooping around the same way - we’re not buying tickets for some naff rollercoaster or dining out at exclusive restaurants with Abe Froman.

Are you able to take time off of riding and not feel like you're missing out or feel guilty? I have one friend who really goes in on the guilt tripping if I don't ride. Related: You said you like sitting on benches. Can you do that on a nice day? At the age of 28, I’d like to feel like I can just about deal with a few missed sessions. Obviously I still need a comprehensive run down of spots seshed and feats accomplished when I’m away, but it’d be mad if I was out all the time. The human body can’t handle that much raditude.

Fear of things going un-photographed does creep in sometimes, but Clarky will have filmed it anyway, and Gaz and Wozzy are better photographers than me, so if they’re about then hopefully someone caught the action.

Moving onto the subject of benches, these babies really come into play during my dinner break at work. I get on fine with everyone there, but when the clock strikes twelve I’m not going to be sat in the office spilling reheated chilli over my keyboard… I’m straight out into the city centre on full sit-off mode – hopefully getting into some daft conversation with one of Manchester’s many vagabonds.

A few months ago I was sat in town when I was approached by a fairly scruffy gentleman who was bleeding loads from his forehead after someone kneed him in the skull. The rest of my lunch break was spent trying to sort him out a bit. One meal deal, some wet wipes and a pack of king-skins later, he seemed alright. You don’t get these hijinks sat inside all day.  

I was just thumbing through the new Red Steps (nice job) and I just realized how much I enjoy your interviews -- what is it that you like about interviews? Not trying to stroke the ego here but you are really good at it... Cheers. Any ego strokes are much appreciated. This maybe sounds a bit daft, but I want to know everything. This is probably evident to the people who know me, but I’m a complete mither, completely hassling everyone with questions all the time.

This pesky nature extends into everything, meaning that I spend a lot of time reading a lot of interviews about the things that I’m into. I buy a lot of old copies of magazines like Wire, Ray Gun and Sidewalk on eBay, and even though the interviews contained within those pages might have been conducted in the corner of a pub maybe 25 years ago, they’re still worth reading today.

A proper interview with a little intro and some photos laid out nicely on a page… it’s mint – it’s a finished thing – sort of like a well-edited video or something. I know a lot of people are into ‘podcasts’ these days, and that’s fair enough, but to me – they’re not complete enough. I don’t want to hear people say ‘um’ and ‘err’ all the time, and I want something sick to look at (and by that, I don’t mean a load of pundits sat around a table with headphones on).  

I’m going to rattle on here whilst I’ve got the chance. Anyone reading this who gets the opportunity to answer questions for an interview, a ‘bike check’ or anything else…don’t just write a lazy sentence for each answer – go mad. Tell some funny stories. Or if you’ve got nothing to say, just make something up. No one cares about how responsive your headtube angle is or how you ‘usually just cut the bars down’. This could be your only chance to air your thoughts into the wider world, and you’re going on about what PSI you put in your tyres? COME ON PLEASE TRY HARDER YOU BORING GIMPS.

(above) Spread from Sam’s zine, Latvia Photos. (below) Cover of Sam’s zine, Around Town.

You also make photo zines/books not related to riding. Do you have any high art aspirations with this stuff? No real aspirations I’m afraid. Wine gives me bad heartburn, so I generally try and swerve anything resembling a gallery opening schmooze-off. As I was sort of saying before, making photo zines is just an extension of everything else. I like taking photographs, so it makes sense to put them together. It’s all pretty small-time really – it’s not like I’m getting thousands printed.

To be honest, it’s all a complete faff that I could easily avoid by not bothering and just sitting around watching American power-dramas, but it’s good to have stuff to look back on – even if it’s just a 40 page zine that nine people will see.

Crouching under a tattered old curtain processing rolls of film every night whilst being mithered by my cat isn’t particularly glamorous and I’d imagine there are probably easier ways to get cosy with the artistic elite.

What's your favorite slang word? Going back to my walling days, my dad uses some pretty intriguing slang terms. Unlike inner-city slang, which will usually be documented in music or useless BBC3 comedies, these more rustic words don’t get much recognition. I don't use these terms myself, but I certainly respect them. Here’s a few choice cuts…

“A few skins on the job” – a large workforce “Keitel” – a fairly humble work-jacket “Bait” – lunch “Bray it – hit it “Kessen” – when an unclipped sheep falls over onto its back and can’t get up due to its weight. This happens more often than you’d think.

You can buy scoop up a copy of Sam’s magazine, Red Steps, in the Challenger web shop here, look at the online shop, The Central Library, that Sam runs with Clarky here, and check out some of his other photo zines/books here.

[electricdazemag]

Hello, I’m Sorry: Interview

by Tasha Bielaga

The sadboy party rock genre you’ve been missing is finally found, thank god. Seattle based indie pop/trash band Hello, I’m Sorry has been stirring up the Washington DIY scene for a little over 2 years. Songs like Good’s Not Great feature that panning of guitar lines between speakers, you know, the one’s that make your brain feel like it’s spinning when you listen to it with headphones. Vocalist Seth Little, drummer Paul Rhoads, and bassist Cam Richardson all live in Bellingham, WA, where their daily antics are filled with schoolwork and pestering their guitarist Alexander Henness, who lives south of Seattle, to come work on music. The band’s fuzz pop feels reminiscent of warm summer nights full of friends and basement gigs. It’s the embodiment of what goes on in most youth’s heads, set to a tune you can dance, or mosh, to. We talk about saying goodbye to Seth’s beloved 2002 Jeep Grand Cherokee, the best cassettes printed to date, and their janky mic set ups, the epitome of DIY.

Electric Daze: How do you balance making music, working, and going to school?

Paul: School is the only reason I live in Bellingham actually, I’m from California. As much as I would love to just do music 100%, I’m paying a lot of money in tuition and I know what I’m studying, so a lot of my life is based around school. I always make time for music on the weekends though.

Seth: Music is the funnest thing for me, it’s what I enjoy doing the most. But, I am paying a lot of money to be here and should probably be putting more work into school. Whenever I have down time I always try to write something or be productive with my music.

Alex: I think it’s definitely worth it to find a good balance between everything. Since I drive up here all the time to play shows and hang with these guys, music is the most important thing that I want to spend my time doing when I’m not working.

ED: What was the first DIY house show you played that really pushed you to get into this scene?

Seth: We played the Karate Church in Bellingham with Roar Shack back in February of last year! It’s this church that, I don’t want to say renovated because it just looks like half of it got torn down on one side, but you know. There’s this basement part that has a dirt floor. That was definitely the first show where I was like “this is tight, this is such a cool DIY scene”

ED: You guys have obviously played a lot of different shows, from bars to house to dirt floor basements. What makes you want to keep pursuing the house show scene vs. a different approach?

It’s sweatier, they’re more fun! I’m a huge fan of the DIY scene. All the music we’ve recorded has been on laptops, and the DIY part just seems like people are always there more for the music. It’s a lot more intimate.

Are there any songs you particularly like to play live?

Bodies, Sleep by the Phone, Little Plan. People go wild to those. We played a house show with the band Cruise, and it got really crazy really fast. Somebody spilled FOUR LOKO on Alexander’s pedal board, SO sticky man. And then I was worried for the foundation of the house, I felt like I had to be a dad about it you know like “Yo! Let’s be safe out there!” and then give a thumbs up and play the next song.

You do so much releasing on cassettes, which is super tight! I saw there was a mini zine that came with one of them, what was the inspiration for that?

Our good friend Mimi Jaffe actually did those! She also did the cover art for Consolation Party, she’s one of my favorite artists in Bellingham. She did a page for each song and I printed them for the cassettes.

How was working on the Z-Tapes cassette compilation? How’d you get in on that and why’d you pick that song to cover?

Filip from Z-Tapes hit me up and originally wanted to put out some of our tapes, but he had a lot back ordered. I ended up putting ours out ourselves. Anyway, he asked if we wanted to cover a theme song to be included on this cover compilation, and I thought that was tight so we did. I originally wanted to do (Theme from) The Monkees, but it was taken. So I really dug deep and found this mini 70’s tv series that used a Sex Pistol’s cover of Eddie Cochran’s Somethin’ Else, and I thought ehh that technically works, so we covered it!

What’s your favorite cassette that you own?

Alex: There’s this rapper on Stone Throw Records named Koreatown Oddity, and he made a mixtape that’s him rapping from the Fresh Prince of Bel Air's perspective with these really late 90’s beats on it. It’s a 1/100 copy.

Seth: I’m really into The Replacements, but I’m not huge on the album “Don’t Tell A Soul”, but that album has a song titled “Asking Me Lies” that is Paul Westerberg’s attempt at a pop song and it’s SO awful and amazing at the same time, especially on cassette, so that’s my favorite right now.

Paul: When I was a little kid I had a cassette of The Lovin’ Spoonful that I used to listen to in the car, that’s probably my favorite.

ED: You guys did a west coast tour back in August. How do you feel the cities music scenes vary?

Well LA was hands down the best city we played it. They were very receptive to new music that they probably hadn’t heard before. We ended up meeting with mutual friends in most cities, which made the whole tour very cohesive, and not vary a lot surprisingly.

ED: Do you have a wild story from your tour?

OH! We bought a new car! This tour was very very DIY, we didn’t even rent a van. We had Paul’s 2009 Scion xB Box Car, that he just loves, and Seth’s 2002 Jeep Grand Cherokee. On the way back up it was so cramped in the jeep, the engine light was flashing, and the gauges would go all the way up and then all the way back down, and we’re just thinking something’s wrong, something is terribly wrong. So we pulled over on the side off the road in Weed, California, and Seth found a dealership that would trade straight across. We get a 1999 Volvo cross country, and that car, was the worst car, in the entire world. It had a coolant leak, so we pulled over every 45 min from northern CA to Seattle, WA, to pour coolant in. At one point one of the covers for the headlights just flew straight off while we driving, and there was a huge semi truck that had exploded, so the drive just took forever.  We got into bed at 7am the next day.

ED: You guys have accomplished so many cool things in 2016, like playing with Together Pangea, playing EMP Sound Off, and more recently you played with TV Girl. What goals do you hope to accomplish this year?

Playing with bands that we really like is always a goal of ours. We also really want to play a festival this year. We’d love to do, you know, like, Coachella, hahaha. Touring again and more shows! We have to figure out how our summer’s going to look individually and then work around that.

ED: Good’s Not Great has 20,000 views on YouTube, and 107.7 has been spinning it lately, which is so cool. Were you expecting that song to kinda be your single and the one people listed to the most?

Seth: Honestly, no. When I recorded it, I recorded all the instrumentals and I was super hyped on it. Then I recorded the vocals and it just sounded fucking awful, I was like this song is the worst thing I’ve ever made in my entire life. I remember going “holy fuck, these vocals suck, I forgot that I can’t sing” and I was super depressed for like two days. And then I went in and redid the vocals and went “alright these are better, this song is passable now”.

ED: Do you have a specific writing process? I know you do a lot of half done demos, what’s the process for that like?

Seth: Yeah! I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a total tool, but recording for me is part of my writing process. I normally have a half baked idea and I go in, record it and work with it. I send a lot of small ideas to the rest of the guys and they’ll give me feedback on whether I should continue it or not, and that’s what drives my song writing.

ED: Do you do most of the song writing yourself then?

Seth: Yeah, I do almost all of the writing and recording. We always rework the song live though, and sometimes they end up having a completely different energy which I’m a huge fan of. What I’m trying to new with the new album is make demos and then play them and work through them as a band, and then re-record them to match what we do as a band.

ED: What’s your mic set up like? I know small bands always have the coolest (shittiest) mics.

Seth: The jankiest for sure! I have two mics that I use for recording, one’s a Sennheiser condenser mic, and I think the other is an Audio Technica that I use for vocals and drums, sometimes everything. Sometimes when we practice, I take a 1950’s ribbon mic and run it through a solid state 80’s fender amp with chorus on it for a while, because I didn’t have an amp that could take the xlr input. That was probably the jankiest situation.

Paul: Sometimes when I’d use a vocal mic, we’d string it over the rafters in the basement because we didn’t have another mic stand. So it would just kinda dangle in front of my face.

ED: How do you guys feel about music videos? Any plans to do some soon?

We’re doing a live recording of our set today with Bellingham Sound Check actually! That’ll be nice to have a video of how our songs sound live vs. what Seth records. As far as our own music videos, we’d like to do one for Good’s Not Great. We like to sit around and talk about what would be a cool video for each song.

ED: Is anyone a different kind of artist? Obviously you’re all musicians but is anyone acquainted with other forms of art?

Seth: I am definitely NOT.

Alex: I play soccer, and I think Soccer’s an art.

Paul: Well I’m in a jazz band! Which is still music, but a different kind.

Cam: I have a friend who lives in Texas who asks me for beats that he can rap over. So I send him some terrible beats to rap over.

ED: Would you ever make beats for Hello, I’m Sorry, maybe less lofi more terrible rap? If you had to cover a rap song, what would it be?

I feel like we could rap. We could cover Gangsta Gangsta, or definitely Rap Snitch Knishes. Maybe Mathematics by Mos Def but it would be hard. We could take a stab at it though! We’ll make a bad demo and follow up.

photo by Emma Hatwell

Connect with Hello, I’m Sorry on Instagram at @hello.imsorry and on Facebook here.

You can listen to their music on bandcamp at helloimsorry.bancamp.com and on Spotify here.

The cassette with the mini zine can be found here, and the ZTapes compilation here!

This is the first installment of features on Seattle based bands. Check back here soon to read the rest!

Check out Tasha’s work for the magazine here. 

[kumeko]

A/N: For the Across the Universe Zine! I actually made this as a companion piece to go with another Mahabharata!based Voltron piece, but this one is getting posted first hilariously.

Summary: Rage was easy. Keith had a lot to be angry about: the war looming over his head, Allura’s futile peace talks, Shiro’s inability to blame any of the gods for what happened. Yet, when Shiro took his hand, it was hard to be anything but grateful for this last moment alone together.

…

…

…

…

“This was the worst plan,” Keith bit out, pacing back and forth on the red stone floor. The cool stone did nothing to reduce his temper, his irritation spiking with every turn he made. As his footsteps echoed in the vast chamber, the domed roof echoing every noise, he barked at his partner, “We shouldn’t have agreed. I shouldn’t have agreed. We all know how this is going to end and we still did it.”

 “Is it really that bad?” Reclining on a pillow on the ground, Shiro watched him with an amused grin. Dressed in cool silk, his expression serene, Shiro looked practically unflappable. With the plates of fruit and fancy dishes around him, he looked like he was at a picnic instead of at a strategy meeting. One would be forgiven for not thinking a war was taking place the next day. That Shiro would be at the forefront of that war. Remaining calm was what a leader was all about, but Keith wished that sometimes Shiro would show his true feelings more. At least to him, if to no one else.

 There was no way he could actually feel that calm. No one could.

 “Of course it is,” Keith snapped, displeased. “They’ve done—” His expression softened as his eyes fell on Shiro’s right arm, on the marks that lined his flesh, and he quietly added. “You of all people should know that.”

Picking up on his emotions, Shiro rubbed his arm for a long moment. “They have done a lot.” He stared at his arm contemplatively before turning back to Keith, a reassuring smile one his face. “Still, it’s worth a shot. It could prevent the war.”

 “Sure. If she wasn’t talking to Lotor of all people,” Keith growled, crossing his arms. Was he the only one who thought this plan was terrible? Well, maybe Lance had agreed with him, but that thought didn’t comfort him at all. Of all the people to be on his side, it had to be the moron. “He’s not going to change his mind. He doesn’t back down from anything. He doesn’t even compromise.”

 “You don’t know that,” Shiro disagreed, pursing his lips. “Allura is pretty persuasive. If anyone can convince Lotor, it’s her.”

 “If anyone could, sure. But no one can. Otherwise, we wouldn’t even be here in the first place. There wouldn’t be a war.” His feet continued its steady pace, treading and retreading the same path. Despite this being a minor palace, the rooms were larger than he was used to. Mirrors and candles were inlayed in niches in the walls and he could make out his distorted reflection as he marched past them. “This could have all been over years ago.”

 “True, but people can grow. Can change. You’ve already seen it with some of our allies.” Shiro pointed out. Picking a mango slice off a nearby silver plate, he bit into it as he mused, “Maybe Lotor just needed time or a change in perspective.”

 “He needs a new perspective, alright.” Mango juice dribbled down Shiro’s lip and down his neck. The orange drop slid to his bare chest, a trail leading lower and lower and—Keith dragged his eyes away from the drop; now wasn’t the time to be thinking about that. Or about wanting to lic—no, he was not going to think about it at all.  They were strategizing for a war. He had a princess to worry about.

 His lover would have to wait till later.

 God, was it hot tonight.

 Keith cleared his throat, forcing himself back to business. “Those other guys aren’t the crown prince of an enemy nation. He did half the things we’re fighting against.” He ground his heel onto the floor as he paced his quarters once more. Even the huge room, he felt trapped, a tiger pacing in a golden cage. “We shouldn’t have let her go alone. He could hurt her. He has hurt her.”

 Shiro winced at the memory. It wasn’t like anyone could forget it any time soon, the time Lotor had snuck into their ranks and then broken them. It had been an almost fatal attack on their rebellion. “Just…trust her. She’s stronger than you think. She’s half-goddess, remember? That makes her pretty sturdy.”

 “She’s also half-Altean,” Keith pointed out contrarily. “And they’re pretty fragile.”

 Setting aside his peel, Shiro finally got up. Clasping Keith’s hand, he pulled him to a stop. “Come on, if you keep pacing like that, you’ll burn a hole in the ground.”

 “Great, then maybe I can make a tunnel to the Galra and end this war myself,” Keith grumbled, but he didn’t pull away. There was something comforting about the strength in Shiro’s hand, in how firmly his fingers grasped his wrist. It was grounding and he could feel his worry ebb away slightly.

 “Sure. But for now, let’s go the balcony. It’s pretty hot tonight.” Shiro gently tugged Keith, heading to the other side of the room toward the balcony. Thin, gauzy curtains covered the exit, a repellent against the mosquitos and other denizens of the night. Small charms clattered gently as they stepped out into the night air, wards to protect them from the demons and angry gods.

 Keith took a deep breath as they approached the balcony railing. It wasn’t any cooler out here than it was inside. His skin was slick with sweat and even as a night breeze ran over his bare chest, he didn’t feel any better. His red lungi clung to his legs and from the corner of his eye, he caught Shiro discretely fanning himself. There was no relief from this heat, just surviving through it. Maybe if they went up north, to the mountains—but no, even that would have to wait till the war was over.

 It was a strange thought. When the war was over. They had been fighting the Galra for so many years, he’d forgotten what that was like. If only Lotor and his father hadn’t usurped the crown from Allura. Or if the gods, in their fits of whimsy and amusement, hadn’t joined sides, throwing fuel to the fire whenever it suited them.

 A blasphemous thought, perhaps. Then again, Keith had never been one for convention.

 Still, tomorrow was the final battle. The exiled princess would be banished no longer. Whether it was through death or victory, it would all be over.

 “So? Feeling better?” Shiro asked, leaning against the railing. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “Smells great.”

 “As long as I don’t smell you,” Keith scoffed, begrudgingly taking a spot to Shiro’s right. Jasmine and Queen of the Night grew plentiful here, in pots and crawling up trellises. In the night, their flowers opened wide, giving the air a sweet, cloying scent. “And it’s still hot.”

 “Well…not much we can do about that,” Shiro admitted sheepishly, scratching his chin. He glanced down. “Seems you’re not the only one restless tonight.”

 Keith followed his gaze to the garden below. Moonlight glinted off the many fountains that dotted the messy garden; Allura liked nature its natural state. Or, as Hunk liked to call it, she didn’t want to waste money on upkeep. Next to one of the many streams, the red tiger quietly prowled, his tail lashing behind him. Nearby, the black tiger kept watch, and Keith snickered. Bonded as they were to these messengers of the gods, it seemed bits of their personalities had rubbed of onto the magical beasts.

 “For something divine, they don’t really feel like it.” Keith commented. Elbow on the rail, he rested his jaw on his hand and observed them. They looked like bigger versions of the pampered palace cats, examining curiously new and foreign scents. There would be plenty now, with all the reinforcements they’d called.

 “Colours aside, they look just like normal tigers.” Shiro leaned forward, gazing at them with pure wonder. Despite all that they’d seen, all that they’d gone through, that aspect of him didn’t change. He was pragmatic but still optimistic, always believing in the best. It was something Keith loved and worried over. “I wonder sometimes, if we act like them or they act like us.”

“If it’s the first, that’d explain why Lance is a little smarter,” he commented snidely, a mocking smile on his face.

 “Keith,” Shiro admonished, but his tone was entirely ruined by the smile he fought down.

 With a careless shrug, Keith muttered, “You think it too.” He raised a brow, daring Shiro to refute him. “Right?”

 Shiro stared at him a long moment. The corner of his lips twitched, a laugh threatening to emerge, and he quickly forced his gaze away. “Lance has his strengths,” he answered, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to control his emotions. “He’s saved you a few times.”

 Keith didn’t say anything, a scowl forming on his face. There were things better left forgotten or, barring that, unsaid.

 “He did, didn’t he?” Shiro teased, leaning closer. There was a light lit to his voice and he rested his head on Keith’s shoulder. “You remember, right?”

 “A few,” Keith reluctantly admitted, spitting the words out like they were poison. “But don’t ever repeat that to him. Can’t let his big head get any bigger.”

 “I won’t.” Shiro promised. It was completely unconvincing considering how much he was laughing. “You two are at it like monkeys.” He took a deep breath, calming down. With a serious expression, he added, “Just don’t let it get in the way on the battlefield.”

 “I won’t.” Keith shrugged nonchalantly.

 “You’ve said that before.” Shiro stared at him doubtfully. His brow furrowed. “Several times, actually.”

 “And I mean it every time,” Keith muttered, moodily leaning forward on the rail and resting his head on his hands. “You didn’t make him promise.”

 Shiro stared at him a long time before giving up with a sigh. “Just make it through tomorrow in one piece, okay? I know you two can work together that long.”

 Keith glanced at him, then away. To be quite honest, he wasn’t sure anymore how much he hated Lance. Part of it felt more like he was going through the motions, clinging to a disgust he no longer fully felt. And then at other times, Lance would do something idiotic and he felt entirely justified. “I will. I promise. You…you be careful too.”

 “Of course.” Shiro stepped closer, until their shoulders touch. His skin was warm, almost uncomfortably so, but Keith didn’t step away. Instead, he leaned into it. “We promised, didn’t we? I’m not leaving you.”

 “Yeah.” Keith swallowed and looked down, keeping his gaze fixed on the gardens below. “Your arm…it feels so real.”

 “It does.” Shiro flexed his right hand, his fingers curling in and out of a fist. The whole appendage looked indiscernible from his left arm—from his dark brown skin to his long fingers to even the muscular tone. The only things that marked it as unnatural were the long trellis of red ink that marked his skin, as though henna patterns were permanently etched onto his skin. “It even acts like the real thing. If a bit stronger. The gods were generous when they gave me this arm, though perhaps that’s because Allura had begged them to do so.”

 “Generous?” Keith snorted, standing straight. Even now he could remember how cold Shiro had been, the blood pouring out of his arm endlessly. The colour fading from Shiro’s skin as Allura pleaded with her father to save him. “There’s nothing generous about this. You lost your arm in a war that they started. Because they’re bored. And now we have to fight it and we have to die in it, and for what?”

 “Sacrificing this arm saved Allura,” Shiro pointed out, his voice soft. “And the Galra would have attacked either way. You know Zarkon was gearing up toward it. If he hadn’t, Lotor would have.”

 If there was one thing Keith couldn’t stand, it was Shiro’s kind, patient expression. His gentle words. As though he didn’t feel anything about the loss of his arm. As though it didn’t matter if the gods had started it all, he’d clean it up.

 And he would. That was Shiro—always fixing problems, always taking care of others but never himself.

 “The gods still made this worse than it had to be! They kept poking and prodding where they shouldn’t have, just throwing fuel into the fire.” Keith snarled, tired of it all. The final battle was tomorrow and they might not survive. He pressed his hand against Shiro’s right arm. “Some gift! Even if you survive, they’re taking this back after. It’s only until Allura’s crowned, right? They’re gods, this wouldn’t even mean anything to them, and they still can’t let you have it.”

 Shiro fell quiet, unable to refute his points.

 Maybe they should have gone to the mountains after all. Just stayed away from this whole business of being Allura’s protectors, of following and guarding her throughout her long exile. There had been a moment, when they’d met the tigers, that Keith had believed it was worth it.

 Now, now all he could feel was that it was a trap and he was just another piece on a giant chessboard. They all were.

 “Keith.” Breaking the silence, Shiro held Keith’s hands in his own, gently tugging him toward him. He brushed a thumb on the back of Keith’s hands in soothing circles. “You’re right.”

 Keith blinked, not expecting this admission. He jerked his head back to Shiro. “What?” He had expected an admonishment, a resigned sigh, anything but an agreement.

 “None of this is right and the gods might have just made it worse.” Shiro reached up, cradling Keith’s cheek with his fake hand. It felt as soft as skin, as warm as his other hand, and despite himself, Keith leaned into his touch. “But I can touch you like this again, even if it’s only for a little bit. I saved Allura’s life. And I don’t regret any of it, despite how and why it happened.” He leaned closer, pulling Keith down until their foreheads touched. “I can’t be angry like you. Only grateful.” His thumb brushed Keith’s cheek tenderly.

 “I know you can’t,” Keith softly whispered. It felt as though if he spoke any louder, the moment would end and the war would start. And he wanted more of Shiro’s touch, more time together. It felt like they never had enough time, running from battle to battle. He reached up, covering Shiro’s hand with his own and closed his eyes. “That’s who you are.”

 “Just like I know you’ll never let this go, it’s who you are,” Shiro answered, his voice gentle.

 They stood there, just breathing in and out. Their scents intertwined with that of the night flowers and if there was one thing that Keith was willing to give the gods credit for, it was for creating all of this. For creating this universe, this world, Shiro.

 For Shiro, always.

 A whistling sound carried through the night air and Keith reluctantly pulled away. Scanning the night sky, he could just barely make out the shape of a glowing, white dot approaching them through the air. The white tiger was returning. And with it, Allura.

 “She’s back,” Shiro said, watching as the dot came closer and closer. “I guess we’ll have our answer soon”

 “Yeah.” Keith sighed. One way or another, this was the end of it all. He clasped Shiro’s hand tightly.

 As the dot came closer and closer, Keith could start making out the white tiger’s shape and the faint form of Allura on top. Her shoulders were slumped slightly, the way she always got when she thought she was alone and everything was just too much.

 Bad news, then.

 Keith hated it when he was right.

 When she was close enough to make out her expression, Allura straightened up. Shoulders rolled back, lips pursed, she gave them a solemn nod as her partner soared through the air past them. “We leave at daybreak,” she said.

 No further details were needed. Shiro and Keith bowed slightly as she soared past to her quarters.

 “I guess this is it,” Shiro stated, his expression heavy. He watched as she landed on her balcony and dismounted quickly. When the princess disappeared hurriedly into her quarters, he added, “It ended badly.”

 “Obviously,” Keith snorted derisively. “It was Lotor. There’s no other way it could have ended.”

 “You never know,” Shiro replied half-heartedly. He stared at her empty balcony once more before turning around. “I should check on her.”

 Keith glanced at him. Shiro’s expression was weary and Keith suddenly realized just how much his lover had been banking on this discussion.

 Shiro didn’t move. “She’s probably not taking it well.”

 It wasn’t like Shiro was taking it any better, but for once Keith silenced his caustic tongue. There was a war tomorrow. One or the other or even both of them could die. It was a last night, few hours really at this point.

 The mango juice was still on Shiro’s chest, a dried sticky mess.

 “I should go,” Shiro repeated tiredly.

 “You should,” Keith agreed, taking Shiro’s hand.

 “Huh?” Shiro looked at him in surprise, not expecting this response at all.

 “She’ll need your advice,” Keith continued, gently leading Shiro back into their quarters.

 “I…” Shiro blinked, not sure how to respond. “Yes.”

 “And you have to look your best.” Ignoring his lover’s questioning stare, Keith headed toward the blankets and pillows that made up their bed. Silently, he yanked Shiro down, pushing him until he lay flat on his back. Without a moment’s pause, he straddled Shiro.

 “Keith.” Shiro stared up at him, bewildered. “What are you doing?”

 “Cleaning you up.” Keith leaned forward, a smirk on his face as he kissed Shiro’s lips. “Can’t let you see the princess all messy like this.” He licked Shiro’s chin, the mango juice sweet on his tongue. “Coran’d throw a fit.”

 If they were going to die tomorrow, Keith was going to savour tonight. The gods owed him this much, at least.

[kumeko]

A/N: For the Furuba zine. This is uh, a little old, and I’m not sure how I feel about it anymore, but I love writing these three together. And I want them to all live together post-series, even if only for a little bit.

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“Arrrrgghhhhh,” Uotani moaned, pillowing her head in her arms. She leaned on the low wooden table, shoving the textbooks aside to make room. Pressing her skin to the cool surface, she asked, “It’s summer, isn’t it? The time when we’re supposed to be at the beach or in a pool or outside?”

 “I think so,” Tohru confirmed eagerly. Uotani could almost hear the cogs in her head churning, a mental checklist run through. Something like: it was sunny, check. It was hot, check. The skies were clear, check. Her head turned every which way, from the window to the door to Uotani to their clothes. Finished, she announced triumphantly with a fist pump, “It’s definitely summer!”

 Hopefully somewhere on that list was a fan. Uotani was practically dying, her shirt drenched with sweat, because a certain, stupid red-head had broken the AC. As fun as it was watching Kyo and Yuki go at it, she wished it didn’t have any consequences for her. She was a bystander! Let her bystand in peace!

 “I am feeling some heat,” Hanajima concurred demurely, her voice soft and low.

At that, Uotani peeked out her interlaced arms. Dressed in a pitch-black dress with a pitch black shawl, Hanajima looked like the embodiment of winter, rather than summer. No, to be frank, she looked like the embodiment of death. As usual. Her delicate fingernails, coated in black nail polish, gently nudged Tohru’s face to one side so she could finish her latest masterpiece. Half of Tohru’s hair was a series mini braids and Uotani wasn’t sure what the end result would be. Dryly, she asked, “Really?”

 “Really,” Hanajima confirmed, not a trace of irony in her voice. Her left hand tugged the shawl slightly, baring her neck.  She fanned it lightly. “Truly, it is summer.”

 “I have no idea how you do that. Or can even say that with a straight face.” Not sure if she should be awed or worried, Uotani shrugged. It wasn’t worth debating over. She had long ago learned there was no point in questioning Hanajima and her ways. The supernatural was the easiest explanation and she stuck with it. Unfolding an arm, she rested her cheek on the other one as she eyed the table. Two textbooks were open, math diagrams taking up the majority of the pages. Several papers were scattered on the table. She gingerly picked up her work sheet, pinching it between two fingers as she stared at it disdainfully. A whole morning of homework and all she’d really got accomplished was a doodle of a bowl of ramen.  God she was hungry. “We need to shred these. Or maybe we can have a dog eat it. There’s one here, right?”

 “N-n-n-no,” Tohru shook her head so fast, it looked like it would spin off her head. “No dogs. Not a single one. No animals either. Nope. Not at all.”

 “Burn them,” Hanajima suggested, her lips curving up into a slight smile.

 “The animals?” Tohru yelped fearfully, her hands covering her cheeks. “Y-you can’t do that!”

 “I thought there were no animals?” Uotani rolled her eyes. It was like this every time they came for a visit. She wasn’t exactly sure what secret the Sohmas’ were keeping, but it seemed to involve owning an illegal menagerie. Or maybe Tohru was; she was soft-hearted like that. Maybe she was hiding stray pets in her closet, feeding them when no one was looking.

 “That’s right!” Tohru slammed her fist into her open hand, looking like she’d just realized something. “There are no animals. So you can’t burn them.”

 “Not the cat, dog, or rat,” Hanajima smiled sweetly, ignoring Tohru’s quiet gasp at each word on the list. “Burn our homework.” Her eyes and voice remained at a deadpan, making it hard to tell how serious she was. “You can start with mine.”

 Knowing laziness, she was probably dead serious. Horrified, Tohru tried to turn to Hanajima, stuttering, “F-f-fire?”

 Hanajima sternly wrapped her hands around her face, turning her back to the front. “I’m not done,” she admonished, selecting the next strands to weave into a braid.

 This did little to assuage Tohru’s concern and she stared at Uotani fearfully. “Uo-chan?”

 “It sounds like a good idea.” Curious, Uotani picked up Hanajima’s sheet. Her name was written beautifully on the top, elegant strokes to make the kanji of her name. The rest of the sheet was left a pristine white, not a single pencil mark on a single question. Not even the easy ones, the ones that Uotani herself managed to scrounge up an answer for. “You didn’t even try.”

 “It makes it easier to burn.” Hanajima smiled serenely. “And I didn’t waste a single pencil.”

 “I’m not sure that’s something to be proud of.” Uotani sighed, glancing at her friend. How she made it into high school was a mystery. Did she study the precise minimal amount required? Use her waves to sense the right answer? Or something else entirely? Still, a fire sounded fun. “Maybe we can have smores later, use this to make a big bonfire.”

“We c-c-can’t burn it!” Flustered, Tohru waved her hands rapidly in front of her. Her eyes darted around the room in a panic, her face flushed red.  “We have to do our homework! The teacher’ll be sad!”

 Breaking into a laugh, Uotani dropped the paper. Sometimes it was too easy to tease Tohru. Cradling her chin her hands, she grinned mischievously at her friend. “Don’t worry, I promise to leave yours alone.”

 “That’s good…” Tohru sighed with relief for a moment before realizing the implication. In a moment of desperation, she tumbled out of her seat, yanking her hair out of Hanajima’s hands. Crawling quickly to Uotani, she grabbed the paper out of her hand. “No, you can’t burn yours either!”

 Uotani covered her mouth as she snorted. Maybe she was a little too mean. “Alright, alright, we won’t do that either.”

 “Promise?” Tohru asked doubtfully, no longer trusting her.

 Hands up, Uotani nodded her defeat. “Promise.”

 Tohru’s eyes narrowed. Scrutinizing her friend for a long minute, she sank to her knees with a smile.  “Phew. That’s good.”

 As Tohru started organizing the papers, gathering them into one large pile, Hanajima got up. “I didn’t make a promise.”

 The papers fell out of Tohru’s hands. Slack-jawed, she stared at her. “What?”

 “But I won’t burn it as well.” Hanajima sat down next to Tohru, folding her legs neatly beneath her. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she added, “Not this time.”

 “Oh. Good.” Worn out, Tohru’s shoulders slumped and she rested her head on Hanajima’s shoulders. She closed her eyes, leaning into Hanajima’s touch as she tenderly patted Tohru’s head. “I’ll help you.”

 “…I think you missed an important line there.” Uotani raised a brow at Tohru’s content face, not sure how she missed the not this time part. Rolling her eyes, she moved on. What homework did they have left to finish? The closest sheet was math and Uotani scowled as she scanned it. “This is so frickin’ useless. I’m never going to need this.”

 “Maybe in university?” Tohru suggested, sitting straight now. Picking up a different homework assignment, she stared determinedly at the sheet. Uotani could make out a few chemistry symbols on the back—H20 was water, right? “I think Yuki said that it would be useful there.”

 “With my brains?” Uotani snorted at the idea, at the improbability of it all. She could just picture it, a yankee girl in a room full of straight-laced honour students. Maybe she’d make it in, but lasting longer than that? “Not gonna happen. Can you just imagine it? I’d get thrown out after a day.”

 “You can’t think that way, Uo-chan!” Tohru refuted, her expression cross. She glared at Uotani, her fingers crinkling the paper. “You’d last more than a day! A week even!”

 Uotani blinked. Processing it, she shook her head wryly. “So I’ll get kicked out either way?” Taking the paper out of Tohru’s grip, she smoothened it out on the table. “All that staring is just going to burn a hole in the thing.”

 “If I look long enough, the answers might appear,” Tohru suggested hopefully, her hands clasped in front of her chest as though she were praying to a science god. Or maybe just a homework god. Uotani would take a math god, if she could.

 “You’ve been spending too much time with the Sohmas’. At least, the idiotic ones.” Uotani flopped on the ground, staring at the ceiling. Man, she couldn’t wait to graduate. At least then there’d be no homework. Lowering her eyes to Tohru, she asked, “You’re going to university?”

 For a moment, Tohru sat straight, her hand pumped up and ready for whatever speech she was about to give. Her mouth dropped open, she took a deep breath, and then she sighed and slumped forward. “I’ll just get a job.”

 Uotani winced. Yep. That sounded about right. “Gotcha. We’re a trio of idiots. Maybe we can find a job together.”

 “Oh, that sounds great!” Tohru perked up, her eyes shining at the thought. “We can work together and have lunch together.” She started counting on her fingers, excited. “And walk home together and—”

 “We can do almost everything together,” Hanajima agreed, grasping Tohru’s hands gently. She squeezed once before dropping them. “Except for the work part. I will go to university.”

 If Uotani had a drink, she would have choked. Actually, even breathing air, she choked. Hanajima. In university. No matter what angle she looked at it, it was impossible. “You’re going to university? What would you even do there?”

 “Get my M.R.S.” Crossing her arms, Hanajima nodded seriously. “While it would be ideal to be Kyo’s mother, I want to check my options.”

 “Kyo’s m-m-mother?” Tohru’s jaw dropped, her eyes as wide as dinner plates.

 “Step-mother,” Hanajima corrected.

 “You, stop that.” Reaching over, Uotani chopped Hanajima on the head. “Save it for when Kyo’s around.” The joke was less funny when he wasn’t there to react. At least, she hoped it was a joke. “You can barely study for a test, how’ll you pass the entrance exams?”

 “That’s easy.” Hanajima picked up a pencil, one with the letters ‘A’, ‘B’, ‘C’, and ‘D’ at the end, and rolled it. “I just have to choose the right multiple choice answers.”

 “There’s more to tests than multiple choice answers!” Uotani growled, facepalming. Still, either way, she wasn’t really too concerned about Hanajima’s future. No matter what she ended up doing, she’d probably be fine. That just left her and Tohru and whatever workplace would take in a delinquent and a saint.

 “Do you think I could do that?” Tohru asked seriously, gripping the pencil tightly.

 Uotani stared at her blankly. There were a few times when she wondered if she was the only one that had any common sense. “That wasn’t even a real thing.”

 There was no point to her advice. Not listening, Tohru rolled the pencil herself. It rolled over the table, falling off to the side, and landing on the plush carpet. The ‘B’ landed up and she stared at it for a long minute before looking at Hanajima helplessly. “I don’t know what that means.”

 “No one does,” Hanajima sympathised, patting her on the back.

 “Guys! Seriously!” Uotani resisted the urge to bang her head on the wall. Judging by the clumsy plaster marks on it, someone else had already beat her to it. And to breaking the doors and windows. Actually, now that she thought about it, there were a lot of patches in the building. Sure, Kyo and Yuki fought a lot, but clearly they were worse at home than she thought. Was that a hole on the roof too? Maybe she shouldn’t let Tohru stay here after all.

 “They’re like wild animals,” Hanajima muttered, reading her mind. Probably reading her mind. Uotani had never really gotten a clear answer on that one.

 Tohru froze at the words. Stiffly, she stammered, “W-w-what do you mean?”

 “The Sohma family.” Hanajima sighed, pointing at the patches. “They fight like wild animals.”

 “Oh.” Tohru blinked once. Twice. Third time, she smiled with relief and patted her chest with an open hand. “Kyo isn’t good at fixing—you should see Yuki’s. I can barely tell there was a hole sometimes.”

 “And the roof doesn’t like when it rains or anything like that?” Uotani asked, incredulous. No matter how skilled the Sohma boys were, they were still teenagers. And how the hell did a pair of teenagers break a roof? Even in her days in the gangs, she’d never heard of such a thing.

 “After the first week, my room was declared a safe zone.” Tohru smiled proudly, pointing up. “They’ve always broken somewhere else.” After a moment’s thought, she stared at her door worriedly. “You don’t think they’re getting leaks?”

 “A safe zone…are you in a war?” Uotani was 80% certain that this was because it was Tohru’s room, more than anything else. 20% was the fact that they were terrified Hanajima would curse them if Tohru even mentioned it once.  “Nah, they’ll be fine. But…you know…since it is worrying, maybe we should just live with you.”

 “Huh?” Tohru stared owlishly at her, not comprehending this sudden twist.

 “If we’re going to do everything together anyways—” Uotani explained, brightening at the thought.

 “I’m going to university,” Hanajima reminded, returning to Tohru’s hair.

 “If we’re going to do everything together anyways,” Uotani continued as though she hadn’t heard a thing. “Why not just live together too?”

 “It’d be economical,” Hanajima pointed out, perhaps her only good idea of the day.

 “Ohhhh!” Stars filled Tohru’s eyes and she clapped her hands together at the thought. “All of us. Living together.”

 “There’s enough space here for all of us.” Uotani counted on her fingers the number of rooms she’d seen. The living room. The four bedrooms. The kitchen. The building definitely had a few rooms that weren’t used, it was fricking big. With a little bit of cleaning, they could make them livable. “We could get the boys to help clean. Kyo has to be useful at something.”

 “He’s really good at moving things!” Tohru chirped, almost vibrating in her seat with excitement.

 “If he complains, I’ll pummel him,” Utonai grinned. “And that perverted author would definitely be happy to have more girls here.”

 “He’s very nice!” Tohru defended, though she didn’t argue about the ‘perverted’ part. “I’m sure he’ll let you stay.”

 “Right. If you say so.” Uotani was pretty sure Tohru didn’t have a firm grasp on the reality of her housemates. She probably saw their fighting as nothing more than a petty squabble either. “Anyways, it’d be nice. Remember that time I stayed with you and Kyoko for a week? It’d be like that times a hundred.”

 “Oh that was great!” Clapping her hands together, Tohru nodded eagerly. “You and Mom made…” Tohru’s eyes darkened, and she lowered her lids. Her hands clutched her skirt tightly. Her voice softened. “Do you think she’d be happy?”

 “Happy?” Uotani asked, straining to hear her friend. She leaned closer. Already Hanajima was hugging her from behind, her arms loosely folded around Tohru’s neck as she rested her head on Tohru’s shoulder.

 “That I’m not going to university?” Tohru bit her lip. Her fingers started to dig to dig into her thighs. “That I’m getting a job like her.”

 “Tohru…” Not wasting a minute, Uotani grabbed Tohru’s hands and squeezed them tight. Leaning forward, she pressed her forehead against Tohru’s. “She’s definitely happy. Like, the most fricking happy mom there is. You’re graduating high school! She didn’t even get to do that.”

 “I know she’s smiling at you,” Hanajima comforted her. There was something reassuring about her saying it, as though she was looking at her ghost right now and translating from the other side. “She’s proud.”

 “Really?” Tohru looked up now, staring at Uotani. “Do you really think so?”

 “I know so.” Uotani chuckled, remembering the crazy, ex-gang-member-turned-doting-mother. There was not a single parent who loved their child like Kyoko loved Tohru. Hell, there was not a person alive who loved anyone as much as Kyoko loved Tohru. “As long as you’re happy, she’d be happy.”

 “I am. I am really, really happy.” Tohru turned her hands over, clasping Uotani back.

 “And I’m happy and even Hanajima is happy, if not somehow surviving a heat stroke.” Uotani grinned, before slowly untangling herself from Tohru. Reaching back to the table, she grabbed the math sheet once more. “Though we ain’t graduating without actually finishing this.”

 “Right…” Tohru’s smiled dropped as she stared at the paper. “I don’t know how to do that.”

 Releasing Tohru after a last squeeze, Hanajima flopped backwards onto the ground. She stared at the ceiling blankly.  “We could just take an extra year to graduate. Your mom would understand.”

 “No, we…” Tohru stared at the paper once more, biting her lip. Reluctantly, she looked away and mumbled, “It still counts, right? A delayed graduation is still graduating.”

 “Guys, no. We’re not letting that orange-haired bastard graduate before us,” Uotani vehemently bit out, already picturing Kyo’s smirk. Reaching down, she yanked Hanajima back up into a sitting position. “We just need a little help. And what better help than the resident prince?”

 “Yuki!” Tohru brightened immediately and sprang to her feet. “He’s downstairs.”

 “Good.” Uotani paused, realizing that they hadn’t heard any earthquakes, mass destruction, or even plain old arguing for the past hour. Mount Kyo-Yuki was set to explode. They’d get nothing done if that happened. “Don’t invite Kyo.”

 “Huh?” Already skipping to the door, Tohru immediately halted. Her head cocked one way and then the other before she finally turned around and looked at Uotani in confusion. “Why?”

 “Yuki. Kyo. In a room,” Uotani explained slowly, enunciating each word clearly. When it was clear Tohru didn’t get it, she spelled it out. “They’ll fight and we’ll fail a year.” Not to mention. Tohru’s room would probably get destroyed. Cursed by Hanajima or not, Tohru’s room or not, there was no way the pair would be able to handle tutoring each other for a few hours. Not with Kyo’s pride—he’d take offense at the smallest thing.

 “Kyo could fail too!” Apparently the only word Tohru heard was failure and she ran out of the room in a panic. “Shigure! Kyo! Yuki!”

 “Wait that wasn’t—” It was too late, Uotani could hear Tohru’s shouts as she raced downstairs. Well. There went any hope of a peaceful study session. Uotani glanced at the table once more, at their pile of papers. To be honest, they weren’t getting anything done today anyways. They’d been studying in this room for at least two hours and the only thing they had to show for it was Tohru’s new hairstyle.

 “He’ll fail with us,” Hanajima consoled, with such certainty it felt more like a prophecy.

 “I don’t know if I should be happy about that or not.” Uotani winced as she heard an angry stomping up the stairs. Turning to Hanajima, she raised a brow. “It’s not too late to burn them all, is it?”

[kumeko]

winter’s end (monochrome)

 Character/Pairing: Phosphophyllite, Antarcticite

A/N: written for the Antarcticite zine, Words Lost in Winter! I love Pho’s and Antarc’s relationship (the cute, the angst, the lingering pain).

Summary: Antarcticite could run a clock by Phosphophyllite’s complaints—the morning shovel, the afternoon ice-breaking, the midnight cleaning. Somehow, the already long list of chores felt never-ending in Phos’ company.

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“Why is this so hard?” Phosphophyllite complained, their voice the only sound in the empty plain. Even the wind had died down, as though to listen in. With each word, they slowly dragged their feet forward, the snow crunching as they carved a path forward. A hand plunged into the snow and with a grimace, they shook it clean. “Every single day, we clear a path and every single day it fills back up. There’s something wrong here, right?”

 Antarcticite ignored them. It was almost a daily thing at this point, as consistent as the sun rising or the ice flows gathering. A pattern or even a spectacle. They were half convinced that Phos just liked to complain—despite their words, Phos never backed down from any of the tasks and that couldn’t be out of any love for the job.

 Phos puffed their cheeks, a pout in the making. Gathering a ball of snow, they threw it at Antarcticite. “Hey! Are you listening?”

It was a good thing gems couldn’t feel temperature. The snow slid down Antarcticite’s arm and they brushed the particles off distastefully. Babysitter. That was what they were, a glorified babysitter, and for a brief moment, Antarcticite wondered just who did this during the summer. There was no way anyone let Phos run around unsupervised. Casually slinging their sword over their shoulder, Antarcticite looked back at them. “You can just sleep.”

 Far behind them, dozens of gems were asleep, swathed in white as though the snow had buried them as well. Most life had the common sense to hide when winter came, the bright flowers and cheerful birds of the summer long gone by now. Not that Antarcticite would know much about it, their world was a monochromatic one, broken only occasionally by the black of the night sky or sensei’s uniform.

 Or now, for the first time, by Phos and their green eyes. Maybe the grass looked a little like that too, but it had been a long time since Antarcticite had seen spring, the small shoots of plants and budding flowers slowly growing after a particularly harsh winter. The memory of colour didn’t last long, fading within a hundred years until it was just another white memory.

 Though, even if they did forget Phos’s colour, it’d be impossible to forget their behaviour. As though on schedule, Phos sighed, taking a small break as they flopped onto the snow and considered the offer. “You think so? My pillow is really fluffy.”

 “You won’t disturb the others by joining them,” Antarcticite added. After a week, despite Phos’ stubbornness, they were useless in almost every task. Breaking ice flows, clearing paths, fixing things after sensei’s naps; the only thing that they could do was run and that was if there was as clear path. Of all the gems to stay awake in the winter, of course it was the most incompetent one. Antarcticite could just sigh at their bad luck. “And I’m sure Sensei would feel relieved.”

 “I didn’t really get to wear the clothes Red Beryl made.” Phos cast a baleful stare at their headquarters before taking a deep breath and returning to the vast, white expanse ahead of them. Slowly, they got up. “I can already see Morganite’s expression.” Eyeing the snow distastefully, they cringed as they started to plow through it again. “I. Can. Do. This.” They walked forward several steps before sighing and planting their face into the snow. “Probably.”

 “Really?” Antarcticite looked back the path they’d come. It was funny how different their two paths looked, one clean cut and the other a jagged line. There had been a time when Antarcticite had longed for other gems, a time long ago when Antarcticite had actually worked with others. Clearly, they had been wrong, it was far better to be alone than to deal with this. “We’re only 500 steps from home and you’ve already taken two breaks.”

 Phos frowned. “500 long steps. I worked hard, you know.”

 “That is debatable.” Antarcticite frowned. Running through their mental checklist of daily tasks, they started tallying the work left on their fingers. Ice flow cutting, snow cleaning, checking up on the gems, repairing any damage in headquarters. And they’d managed 500 steps. “We’re behind schedule.”

 “The schedule is wrong,” Phos declared, brazen and confident.

 They were heading to the ice flows now, it’d be easy to lose Phos and never recover the body. Sensei would understand. Eventually. “And the schedule still exists—keep walking.”

 “Aye, aye.” Phos mock-saluted before trudging forward.

 In the distance, something cracked, as loud as thunder. The earth vibrated under their feet and Antarcticite crossed their arms. Well, it had been unusually silent for the past hour and Sensei, despite their words, got terribly sleepy. It’d be easier on them if they just rested with the others.

 It was a day that Antarcticite never wanted to come. “I hope Sensei will sit down this time.”

 “I hope they didn’t break the table again,” Phos muttered, an annoyed look on their face. They glared back at the building as though Sensei could see or hear this conversation. “I just fixed it!”

 Terribly, Antarcticite didn’t add. Tapping their chin, they considered the sound. “I think it’s a support column this time.”

 “That’s…bad right?” Phos cast a worried look behind them, as though they expected their home to collapse any moment. Which, to be honest, could happen; this wouldn’t be the first time that Antarcticite had to make any emergency patch after Sensei had accidentally destroyed something important. Maybe they should have moved Sensei to a safer room before they left, somewhere close to the pond or the outer boundaries of the building.

 They both stared back at the building, waiting to see if something would happen. After a moment, when not so much as a dust cloud appeared and it was apparent nothing would happen, Antarcticite shook their head and continued to march forward. “We can move Sensei when we come back.”

 “That’s it?” Phos chased after them and if Antarcticite had known it would take curiosity to move Phos, they would have done it long ago. “We’re not going to check?”

 “Nothing’s falling apart, it can hold up till we get back.” Antarcticite ploughed adamantly forward. This was their world, they knew every sound for what it was. “Sensei didn’t break anything important.”

 Phos frowned, not entirely buying it. “What were you going to if it was? If…if the building had collapsed?”

 “Go back and fix it with Sensei.” Antarcticite shrugged. When Phos opened their mouth, ready for another argument, Antarcticite rolled their eyes and added, “It wouldn’t just collapse, we’d have enough time to repair it before that.”

 “How do you know—?” Phos paled, realization dawning. “That’s happened before, hasn’t it? I knew that Bort didn’t fix the hole they made!”

 “Either way, it’s fine for now.” Antarcticite cut them off, sensing a long rant. “We’ll deal with it later.”

 For all of five seconds, that shut up Phos. They actually made it another ten steps before Phos realized exactly what that meant. “Wait, that’s even more work.”

 “It’s not like we’re on vacation,” Antarcticite pointed out, a little fed up by now. Silence. They missed the silence that matched the white, scenic expanses. Or maybe it wasn’t silent so much as quiet. The slash of a sword, the crack of ice, the crunch under their boot, all muted as though the white snow reflected sound as well as light.

 “Didn’t look that way when you talked with Sensei,” Phos said slyly, a coy smile on their lips.

 Silence. Quiet. Alone time with Sensei. Private alone time with Sensei. Antarcticite was a gem with few desires, but Phos was destroying every single one of them. Gritting their teeth, they ground out, “That. Is. Different.”

 “Is it?” Phos waggled their brows.

 “It. Is.” Antarcticite hoped the cracking they heard was from the snow and not from their own body breaking in anger. It’d be hard to explain to Rutile or Sensei, though they had a feeling they’d understand.

 “If you say so.” Phos started to make another snowball, throwing it into the distance as they walked. “But seriously, this is really boring and really tiring and really lonely, how do you do this every year?”

 “You get used to it.” Antarcticite shrugged. “Besides, it’s not that boring. There’s a lot to do.”

 Phos looked at them like they had two heads. “You’re just saying that.”

 “Sensei agreed with me,” Antarcticite muttered, cross. There wasn’t just shovelling and protecting in the winter; beyond the chores, there was a world that only Antarcticite knew. A world of snow drifts and specific weather patterns, a world that changed in only the smallest ways.

 Unlike Phos, who’s every emotion and idea showed on their face like a beacon. It was easy to read them; right now, the twitches of their brow were a timer counting down the next syllable uttered. Another thunderous crack echoed in the air, breaking the countdown as Phos jumped.  “How do you get used to that?”

 “Time,” Antarcticite answered honestly, ignoring the face Phos made. Ahead of them, ice flows jutted into one another and they’d arrived. Finally. The walk felt so much longer with Phos. More interesting as well, but they’d never admit that aloud. Phos would just get a swollen head. “Ready?”

 “For another break?” Phos suggested, a hopeful smile on their face. It was astounding how they could ask the same question over and over and expect a different result every time.

 “After we’ve done our work.” Antarcticite pulled out their sword, swinging it high above their heads. Strength, power, mobility, the cold gave them many things, making up for what they lost in the summer. It even gave them a position that no one else could take.

 “How about we just do half of the work?” Phos yanked out their sword awkwardly, still not used to the size and weight. “My sword is worse than yours, I have to work harder.”

 “I think that’s more of an efficiency problem,” Antarcticite rebutted dryly, watching as Phos swayed with the weight.

 They almost fell over before regaining their balance. Swinging it a few times in the air, Phos glared at the weapon. “No, it’s just worse than yours. I need a better one next winter.”

 “Fine, fine.” Antarcticite conceded the point, rolling their eyes. It was sometimes easier to just agree and shut up. “I’ll ask Obsidian to make something better in the spring.”

 “Ohhh. I finally get my own!” Phos’s eyes lit up and they bounced on their toes before dropping their weapon. “Oops.”

 “…maybe they should make something small. Like a dagger.” Antarcticite winced as Phos narrowly avoided cutting off their own legs in an attempt to pick up the sword. “Or a needle.”

 “I’m not that bad!” Phos triumphantly raised their sword, a proud smile on their face as though they’d actually done something instead of just picking up their weapon. “Next winter, you’ll see.”

 “Right, right, next winter.” Antarcticite stopped cold there. Next winter. They’d never really considered ‘next’ before, each winter a repetition of the last one. Clearing snow, watching sleeping gems, tidying up after Sensei.

 Working with Phos. Something new. Something to look forward to. ‘Next’ winter.

 Perturbed by their thoughts, Antarcticite leaped forward. “Let’s go.”

 “Ugh, you’re a monster,” Phos complained, charging at an ice flow despite their words. “Take this!”

 As Phos bounced off the ice, Antarcticite resisted the urge to smile.

[kumeko]

three square meals

Characters/Pairings: The Fellowship, Eowyn

A/N: written for the @lotr-zine, Twilight and Shadow. I got assigned fluff and tried to include everyone. XD

Summary: Even separated as they were, they all had to eat. Had to rest. Had to laugh.

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Breakfast:

“You were serious about the second breakfast?” Boromir stared at Merry and Pippin as they sat on a rock, divvying up sausages and fruit. They had already made four piles of bread, unpacking whilst everyone else was gathering their belongings. It was a mess and not for the first time he wondered if there was any wisdom in bringing such small, impulsive creatures with them.

 Despite their supposed ages, they looked and acted like children at times. Such as now, with Merry grinning cheerfully and holding out an apple. “Should we set some aside for you too?”

 “No.” Boromir frowned, rubbing his forehead. They had been traveling together for the span of a few days and he had a feeling his headache would be a daily thing. “How many breakfasts do you normally eat?”

 “Four.” Pippin said confidently.

 “Five,” Merry replied just as firmly at the same time and the pair stared at each other.

 After a moment, they chorused together, “Three to five.”

 “That’s…that’s a lot of breakfast.” Boromir glanced at their bellies. They didn’t look portly, like some of the nobles in Gondor did when they’d spent their days feasting and nothing else. Though, he couldn’t say the hobbits were particularly fit either. Merry and Pippin often complained about the hike, asking for breaks on an hourly basis, even if they were soundly rejected every single time.

 Though they did keep walking despite their whining, so maybe they were sturdy at the very least.

 Merry shrugged, returning to spreading jam on a piece of toast. “Not really. It’s normal. What, do you only eat two?”

 “One.” Boromir, crouched, glaring at the pair. He was starting to feel like a baby sitter. “And you need to pack, we’re leaving.”

 “Oh, come on!” Pippin crossed his arms and puffed his cheeks and Boromir could not shake the image of a child out of his head. “We’re setting things so we don’t have to stop for breakfast. We can eat while we walk.”

 “Yeah, do you want to hear our stomachs rumble?” Merry swished a butter knife in the air dramatically. “We’re hiding in a bush, away from the dark lord, and then all of a sudden there’s a loud awrrrrgghhhh because someone wouldn’t let us eat?”

 “We won’t hide,” Boromir stated, his hand on his hilt. Despite all the uncertainties of their travel routes and methods, of that he was positive. “We’ll cut past them.”

 “Sure, you say that now.” Merry snorted. Both hobbits were quickly bundling up their food piles and when had they finished preparing? They were surprisingly sneaky little things; it was no wonder Boromir had never seen one before this day.

 “I’ll say it then too.” Boromir got up, looking toward the sun. Toward home. It would miles yet before they were near Gondor, before he could even dream of Gondor, but they would get there. No matter what the elves or Aragorn had said, he was sure he could convince the group to stop by when they were closer.

 “There. Set.” Pippin leaped off the rock, his bag packed. “See, no trouble at all.”

 “Right.” Boromir laughed as the two hobbits puffed their chests with pride. All this over breakfast. “When I take you to Gondor, you’ll see why one breakfast is more than enough there.”

 Merry furrowed his brow, a challenging smirk on his face. “Do you really think you can satisfy us?”

 “You’ll be rolling home.” He ruffled their hair, ignoring their protests. “It’ll be a feast unlike any you’ve ever seen.”

 -x-

Lunch:

“What is your home like?” Eowyn asked, rolling her shoulders back as she straightened her posture. Long rides were nothing new to her; the horse was almost an extension of her body at times, and she could move him through his paces in her sleep. The problem was the tedious pace, the days upon end where they trotted slowly across the kingdom. It was a long trek to Helm’s Deep and they couldn’t go any faster out of fear of outpacing their walking subjects.

 It did not make it any less tempting to squeeze her thighs and urge her mount into a gallop. The wide fields ahead of them almost seemed to call for her.

 Gimli twisted on his seat uncomfortably, his expression dour. His arms crossed as he failed to find any position he liked, and it spoke of his strength that he didn’t fall of the horse like that. “We do not use horses.”

 He’d been like that for the past hour but she was pretty sure it was the elf sitting in front of him that was the real reason for his discomfort.

 “That’s because you can’t reach high enough to sit on one.” Legolas smirked, glancing over his shoulder at his companion. “Don’t worry, the ground won’t be too far when you fall.”

 “When?” Miffed, Gimli’s hand curled around his axe for what had to be the tenth time this morning.

 Eowyn failed to suppress her chuckle in time and Gimli turned his glare to her. With a placating smile, she patted her horse’s neck. “They aren’t too bad, when you get used to them.”

 “If you say so, lass.” Gimli still frowned, looking entirely put out.

 “Why don’t we give him a dog; the ponies the hobbits have might be too big for him,” Legolas suggested, and she wasn’t sure at this point if he actually meant half his insults or he said them only to get a rise out of his comrade.

 Either way, it always ended the same way, with the pair glaring at each other. Bloodshed seemed almost unavoidable now and she glanced at Aragon hopefully. When he merely shrugged, unfazed by the threatening atmosphere, she bit back a sigh. It fell to her then. Tapping her chin, she tried to find a neutral topic. It was close to lunch and her stomach grumbled softly. “What is food like in Erebor? You said something about a feast.”

 “Aye!” Finally, Gimli grinned, wide and full of teeth. He puffed his chest proudly. “Come under the mountain, and you’ll see a dwarven feast. Piles of meat, all cooked to perfection. Goblets of overflowing wine. Nothing is lacking.”

 “Burnt food,” Legolas listed off, counting his fingers. Somehow, even that simple movement looked more graceful than anything Eowyn had done in her life. “Sour wine. Lack of vegetables. No wonder you’re always in a foul mood.”

 “And you’re a bloody rabbit,” Gimli shot back, leaning back to look up at the elf. Some miracle kept him on his seat; any further and he would fall. “All leaves and grapes and your meat’s undercooked.”

 “Or maybe you just don’t know what proper cooking is.” Legolas raised a brow, looking over his shoulder. “You know it isn’t supposed to be black. Even charcoal has move flavour.”

 “You…” Gimli growled, setting off a tirade of proper fire techniques and maybe food wasn’t as safe a topic as Eowyn had hoped. To be honest, maybe nothing was—she had a feeling that even a discussion about the sky would somehow end up in an argument.

 At least it was entertaining.

 “You got them started,” Aragon sighed as he urged his horse next to her, clearly used to the argument. He clicked his tongue as the pair squabbled. “It’ll be hours before they shut up. Even then, only for a few minutes.”

 The amused smile on his face said otherwise. There was a wild rush at seeing that, like racing her horse across the plain, like winning her first sword fight. She looked away. “And what about you, my lord? How do your people eat?”

 “…nothing to talk about,” Aragon admitted slowly. A hand rubbed his neck slowly as he considered the question. “We live in the wilds, so it’s just wild game and herbs. We’re not really known for our cooking.”

 And what are you known for? she wanted to ask. A king who was not king, a man who lived freer than she ever had. Even with her uncle safe, with her brother back, she felt just as trapped as she did back in that cold castle with Wormtongue leering at her. But the words were caught in her throat and she tightened her grip on the reins. “Neither are mine, we spend too much time in the saddle. Oh, but my mother, her stew was delicious.”

 “Stew?” Gimli tuned back into the conversation, interested once more. He leaned toward her and there had to be something supernatural that was keeping him on his seat. “Would that be a meat stew, lass?”

 “Of course.” She brushed a stray hair behind her ear nervously, before blurting out. “I’ll make you some for lunch.”

 Gimli looked delighted and though she wouldn’t look, she hoped Aragon was maybe half as interested.

 -x-

Dinner:

“Keep your hands from the pot!” Sam ordered, slapping Faramir’s hands before they could touch the ladle. The sound echoed in the night air, drowning out the crackle of the fire. “It’s not ready yet.”

 Faramir blinked. It was rare that anyone treated him with such familiarity. Even out here, in the marsh lands, he was still considered a lord, a de facto prince, since few believed the king would return. “I was merely going to stir it.”

 “Oh.” Sam coloured, embarrassed. He twisted his hands nervously. “No offense meant, sire. Just that…well, my friends, they’d often steal bites while I cooked and I…old habits.” He offered a timid smile.

 It was interesting to observe Sam. One moment fierce and protective, the next self-depreciating. Faramir could see a little of himself in the hobbit. “It’s fine.” He sat next to Frodo, who watched the affair with a tired smile. “Are you one of those friends?”

 The hobbit looked exhausted, almost as dead as the land they threaded, but at this a small flush of colour returned to his skin. With a mischievous grin, he confessed conspiratorially, “When he wasn’t looking.”

 “What?” Sam dropped the ladle, staring at him in surprise. A hand reached up, clutching his chest. “I could understand Merry and Pippin. But you too?”

 Looking entirely unapologetic, Frodo shrugged. “Well, I was hungry.”

 “Frodo Baggins!” Sam frowned, disappointed. Sternly, he pulled the ladle closer to him as though some mysterious had would steal it away. “Well, not this time.”

 “Of course not,” Frodo blinked innocently, a beguiling smile on his face. He clasped his hands in front of him, looking troubled by the very thought. “Your stew is safe.”

 Not buying it, Sam shook his head with a distrusting scowl. Lifting the ladle, he took a small sip and rolled the liquid around his mouth. He reached into his pouch, pulled out a pinch of some mysterious powder, and tossed it in. “Ok, this should do.” He grabbed a bowl and poured a spoonful of a steaming hot broth inside. “For you, sire.”

 Faramir took the bowl and inhaled. While it largely smelled like any other rabbit stew, a few unfamiliar herbs flooded his senses. Whatever they were, it was a pleasant scent. “Smells good.”

 “Thank you. Made it just like my gaffer did, a family recipe.” Sam smiled proudly, his hands on his hips. His smile dropped as he swivelled his head over to Frodo and squinted at him for a long moment. Grabbing a second bowl, he mused, “I think I’ll give this to Gollum first.”

 Aghast, Frodo stood up in horror. Clearly, he had not considered the consequences of his admission. “No!”

 “Yes!” Considering how much Sam hated the creature, this was clearly a sore point. With a sniff, he filled the bowl to the brim. “And then maybe for Faramir’s men and if anything is left over, then you.”

 Faramir cracked a smile. “I doubt there is enough in there for all of my men.”

 Sam pursed his lips disapprovingly. He stirred the pot three times, considering it, before conceding. “Fine. But Gollum first and then you. And if you steal a spoonful, that will be your last spoonful.”

 Looking contrite, Frodo nodded. He clasped his hands behind his back. “I won’t touch anything.”

 “I’ll watch him,” Faramir offered, chuckling as Sam trotted away in a huff. Meals with his brother used to be like this, warm and full of conversation.

 Boromir. His eyes lowered, staring at the bowl in his hands. His brother, dead. His brother, gone. It was a strange thought, to know that his brother would never return to him, would never again stride through the halls with a laugh and a hearty wave.

 “Faramir?” Frodo cocked his head, looking up at him in concern. He crouched next to Faramir, his hands on his knees. “Is something the matter?”

 Shaking his head out of his thoughts, he stirred his bowl. “It’s nothing.” He took a small sip and his lips parted in surprise at the warm broth. It seemed Sam wasn’t all talk. “It’s delicious.”

 “He’s a good cook.” Frodo sat, hugging his knees. Staring at the fire, he commented softly, “I don’t think I would have made it this far without him.”

 Ah. The hobbits really did remind Faramir of himself. He had seen that exact look before in the mirror, while thinking of Boromir. “He’s a good companion.”

 “More than he realizes.” Frodo added with a quiet smile. His fingers played with the folds of his pants. “He’s my best friend.”

 His brother was his best friend too. No, Boromir had been his best friend. A dull ache came at the correction, at the realization that he had a lifetime of it. Faramir took another sip, the liquid carving a hot path down his throat. “Did my brother ever tell you about Gondor?”

 “Yes, he wanted us to come.” Frodo nodded, chuckling. He glanced at Faramir. “He told us about your feasts. He said you’d have to roll us home after breakfast.”

 Faramir shook his head. That sounded exactly like Boromir. Always terribly proud of Gondor, even in the smallest of matters. “I’m sure he made us sound grander than we are.” He looked at the bowl in his hands, warmer than any meal he’d had in Gondor since his brother left. If a trace of this could return to the halls, perhaps his father could change.

 Perhaps they could all change and become the Gondor his brother was proud of once more.

 “It might not be as filling, but I’ll make breakfast tomorrow,” Faramir offered.

 “Really?” Frodo snapped his head to stare at him, excitement crossing his face. “Ohh…Merry and Pippin will be jealous.”

 Faramir could almost hear his brother’s guffaw.