#shoulders blended together. mike in yellow will in blue

[scoopsgf]

there is no heterosexual explanation for this. only homo.

[lighthouseas]

one day - a byler secret santa fic

merry christmas and happy holidays @foodiewithdahoodie !! surprise, i was your gifter! please enjoy this fic i wrote just for u :))) have a wonderful holiday season!

@bylersecretsanta

December 30th, 1989.  

Winter break was coming to an end.

Which sucked.  It completely and utterly sucked.  

Small flurries of snow were silently dropping outside the tall windows; a small beauty in what would soon be a rush of midterm exams and stress and late nights and a little bit more caffeine than what was probably healthy for the human body.

Will felt a hand grasp his own, snapping him out of his daze. He smiled, squeezing back.  

“This one’s pretty.” Mike motioned his head up ever so slightly, allowing Will’s eyes to drift to the painting Mike was referring to.

It was funny, considering how long they’d been together, that this was their first proper date.  Alone.  While doing something that required payment from another (Mike had insisted on paying despite Will trying to talk him out of it).  After all that had happened to them over the years, there hadn’t been much time between them actually getting together, then immediately after having to apply for college, and then move out of state.  Then, even after that, both Mike and Will were busy with college work and really everything that came with being a full-blown college student.  So now, almost two years later, here they were, in Boston, visiting Will’s favorite art museum of all time, even if he wouldn’t have minded doing something he knew Mike would like better (like storming the nearest Starbucks and buying a coffee that was so sugary it barely counted as coffee).

“Hm?” Will leaned his head on Mike’s shoulder, which was covered by a green coat.  He scanned the painting, and giggled.  It looked like something Mike would like.

The painting itself wasn’t exactly a visual - like Will typically drew -  it was more like a spattering of colors on a canvas, most obviously blue and yellow.  Yet the spreading of the colors was mesmerizing; they swirled endlessly, as though desperately trying to meet each other but failing, again and again.

Then, finally, in the middle of the painting, they met - making a green dot, intertwining every colored thread navigating its way around the white canvas.  The middle of the dot was a deep, mystifying green - as though it was extracted from green forests deep within an oblivion not yet touched by mankind.  Yet - this artist managed to capture it perfectly.

It was beautiful.  It was complex.  It was everything any good artist could want in a painting.

“Yeah,” Will replied, smiling. “It is.” He sighed, smiling slightly. “I wish I could paint like that.”

Mike made a face, pulling away from Will to give him a look. “Are you kidding? You paint better than that. Much better.  I - I mean, this pales in comparison to the stuff I see you paint every day.”

Mike had a habit of pretending to work on writing his essays in Will’s art studio because it “helped him think better” when in reality, he was actually just sitting on a worn green couch staring at Will as he blended colors on a canvas.  Mike never ended up actually getting anything done.

Will’s lips quirked up in a small smile. “Really?”

Mike grinned, rubbing Will’s forearm affectionately. “Uh-huh. Really.  Trust me, in five years, your gallery will be on display right…” Mike scanned the room in mock seriousness, and then pointed a finger at a random empty spot that looked rather out of place. “There. Right there. And all of the people who are obsessing over blobs of paint on a canvas will be looking at your beautiful art, and you’ll make tons of money and we can live in a big mansion together, and -”

Will laughed, laying his head on Mike’s shoulder again. “Okay, I get it. Thank you.”

But really, Will’s heart warmed at the thought.  The thought of living with Mike - having a successful art gallery with that much love within it.  Because Mike was always his inspiration, what fueled him to keep creating, to keep making others (mostly Mike) ecstatic with his art. Mike had always been encouraging of Will’s passion since the two were little, and Will had to draw green fire because he ran out of orange crayons; even with Will’s worst pieces that he had wanted to toss in the garbage, Mike had kept every one.  It was Mike who gotten him this far in his artist’s career, Will hadn’t a doubt. 

So one day, yes, Will would have his dream come true.  But that was one day. 

Alas, winter break was coming to an end.

Which sucked.   It completely and utterly sucked.

The same small flurries of snow were silently dropping outside the tall windows; midterms were coming in mere weeks; but, despite it all, it was okay.  And as Will felt Mike next to him, standing with him on this technical first date as he watched the endless blues and yellows intertwine into a magical green, his heart warmed in the midst of a maze of snow flurries littering the outside.

One day, he’d have their art gallery here; and one day, he and Mike would live the dream life together.

Will leaned over, stealing a kiss from Mike. Mike blushed, and then smiled.

One day.

God, Will loved him so much.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Eccentricity [Chapter 2: You Can Run Around Infinite In My Head]

Series Summary: Joe Mazzello is a nice guy with a weird family. A VERY weird family. They have a secret, and you have a choice to make. 

Potentially a better love story than Twilight (we’ll let @killer-queen-xo​ decide when it’s all said and done 😉).

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: Rome by Dermot Kennedy.

Chapter Warnings: Language, mentions of violence. 

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Tagging: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @bramblesforbreakfast​​  @killer-queen-xo​​ @maggieroseevans​​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​​ @escabell​​ @im-an-adult-ish​​ ​ @queenlover05​​ @someforeigntragedy​​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​​ ​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​​ @deacyblues​​ ​ @tensecondvacation​​ ​ @brianssixpence​​ 

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! 💜

Missing In Action

I wish she would stop staring at me.

Lucille sat at the Lees’ usual table and apathetically picked through a heaping salad. (Friday was salad bar day, which I appreciated considerably more than the chicken finger obsession that marred Mondays at Calawah University.) Every once in a while, Rami nudged her and Lucille would spear a cherry tomato with her fork and bite it in half with perfectly even, white teeth. But her large blue-green eyes—they reminded me of webs of seaweed tumbling in the cold, frothing La Push waves—always found their way back to me, strangely focused, inquisitive, perhaps accusatory.

Ben probably told them how much he hates me for whatever nebulous reason and now they all hate me too and I’m going to spend the next two years being death-glared by five ridiculously attractive and somewhat incestuous foster kids.

Chemistry was a three times a week class. Ben hadn’t shown on Wednesday, and I was 99% sure he would skip again today. I spotted him around campus periodically, always from a distance: dropping quarters into a vending machine, clandestinely vaping behind dorm buildings (what self-respecting pre-med student VAPES?!!), browsing YouTube videos in the library next to a tower of unopened textbooks, biology and chem and physics and calculus. He wasn’t home, he wasn’t sick; there was no attempt made to construct any sort of pretext. He was patently avoiding me.

I stabbed moodily at the serrated disks of cucumber in my salad. Jessica was blathering away about the latest season of The Bachelor and ranking the contestants’ eyebrows from best to worst. “...Like seriously, has she never heard of microblading?!”

“For real,” Angela offered, not especially invested but forever a good sport.

Lucille’s eyes settled on me again as she sipped a cup of steaming tea, staring until her forehead crinkled with the effort, staring hard, almost leering.

“What’s her problem?” I muttered.

Jessica shot a glance towards the Lee table and slurped her Sprite. The great mystery surrounding her potential Mormon-ness persisted. “Who? Lucy?”

Only Lucille’s friends called her Lucy. Jessica, a shameless aspiring socialite, presumed she was everybody’s friend unless they explicitly informed her otherwise, which of course no one ever did.

“Yeah,” I answered glumly.

“Maybe it’s your dress.”

“My dress? What’s wrong with my dress?”

Jessica wrinkled her nose and surveyed me as if I were a bug, and not a cute bug like a roly-poly bug or The Very Hungry Caterpillar or whatever. Like a really hideous bug. Like one of those spider-cricket hybrid things that hopped straight out of a hell dimension and into the dark, drippy corners of your basement. “It’s, like, very 1960s. But not in a sexy Woodstock way. In a ‘I’m about to join a hippie murder cult’ way.”

“I got it at TJ Maxx. It was on sale.”

Jessica snorted. “Probably for a reason.”

“That’s it. I’m giving all the hippies in my new murder cult your address.”

She and Angela laughed. Mike and Eric, the missing pieces of our daily lunch puzzle, were preoccupied with a campus protest to convert fried fish day (Thursdays) into tacos day. I sympathized with their efforts, but didn’t feel that my one-week tenure as a Calawah University student gave me much right to go around overhauling the dining hall schedule.

“I doubt she’s actually offended by a dress,” Angela said, nibbling on French fries that shed grains of salt like snowflakes.

Jessica sighed dreamily. “But Lucy’s just so fashionable...and that accent...” She drifted off into some daydream which began—I could only assume—with Lucy’s invitation to go shopping together and concluded with marrying Ben on some lush tropical island in the South Pacific.

Lucille was definitely fashionable, especially today: short black dress with sheer sleeves that ran to her fragile wrists, black polka dot tights, black heeled oxfords, dangling ruby earrings like beads of blood. She would have blended in perfectly at Paris Fashion Week. Rami was wearing a cardigan and khakis, per usual; Joe was in dark fitted jeans and a roomy U Chicago hoodie despite the fact that Forks was at minimum a thirty-four hour drive from the Windy City. What did Angela say his major was? Finance? No, Mathematical Economics. So he’s probably aiming at Chicago for an MBA or Econ PhD someday. Angela had told me that Joe was wicked smart. He better be if he’s entertaining fantasies of grad school at the University of Chicago.

Scarlett had come straight from Fencing Club and was wearing bright pink yoga pants and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut out, sprinkling Hot Cheetos into her open mouth, her blonde hair secured in a tight French braid. You know those girls who are so irrationally, gluttonously, unfairly beautiful that it doesn’t seem possible the genetic lottery could spit out so many winning numbers at once, and you comfort yourself with the certainty that there must be some set of circumstances that would level the playing field—I bet she looks like anyone else without all that makeup, she just has a really good sense of style and knows how to maximize her assets, there are definitely some goofy oversized ears hiding beneath that hair and that’s why she always wears it down—and then one day you run into them wearing sweatpants and a ponytail in the tampon aisle at Walmart and they’re still so perfect it stings you, baffles you, makes you feel like there must have been some divergence in the evolutionary chain because there’s no freaking way you’re the same species? Yeah, Scarlett was one of those girls. Scarlett was the queen of those girls.  

Ben was conspicuously absent from the table.

Scarlett’s pink leopard-print iPhone rang and she answered. “Hello?” She turned to Joe. “Dad says you left your phone at home. Do you need it?”

Joe was gnawing his way through his third slice of pepperoni pizza. “No, I’m good, thanks though.”

Scarlett relayed the message. “Dad says he’s going to bring it by just in case.”

“Oh my god, ScarJo, I’m fine! Tell him not to!”

“Dad says he doesn’t trust you and he’s going to be here in fifteen minutes. He’s also bringing the Game Theory homework you left by the hot tub.”

Joe groaned and rolled his lively dark eyes as Rami grinned at him; Lucille was still watching me and entirely oblivious.

“Isn’t it weird that Ben and Lucille have accents?” I asked Jessica. “That they’re from the U.K.? I didn’t think fostering kids was an international thing.”

“It’s not that weird. Dr. Lee is British too. Maybe there’s some kind of exchange system, I don’t know. But you know what I do know?”

“What?” Now my interest was piqued.

She smiled. “That the British accents are hot.”

“Ugh,” I exhaled involuntarily.

“Please get a hobby,” Angela begged Jessica. “Start a YouTube channel. Make care packages for orphans. Grow marijuana. Adopt a cat. I have a shift at the animal shelter this Sunday morning, you want to come with me?”

“Sorry, can’t. I have a temple thing.”

Temple on Sunday. The mystery is solved. She’s a Mormon for sure. I mentally resolved not to let her set me up with anyone unless I was still single on Valentine’s Day. Which, obviously, assuming I’m not dead in a ditch somewhere, I will be.

I gathered up my trash and slung my backpack over my shoulder. “Okay, well this has been a bizarre lunch to be completely honest, and now I have to go to Chemistry so I’ll see you later and hopefully we can brainstorm some more alternatives to Jessica’s current life trajectory on Monday. Because I am not looking forward to being a bridesmaid in these impending Lee nuptials.”

“Oh please!” Jessica lamented. “He doesn’t even know I exist. You, on the other hand...”

I scoffed. “Yeah, he wants to kill me. I truly have a gift.”

They waved as I left. I could feel Lucille’s eyes on me until I reached the door.

Sure enough, Ben wasn’t in Chemistry. I tried not to notice. I drew my atoms, wrote my equations, took my notes diligently and in my favorite sky blue ink. But I felt the emptiness in the chair next to me like a black hole, like an immense and dragging weight, like a snag in the fabric of all those interwoven strands of physics that orchestrate the universe like an immortal puppeteer. Why can’t I forget this guy? Why do I still feel like I’ve met him before?

Halfway through class, I hauled my emergency sweatshirt out of my backpack and pulled it on over my dress, floral and flowing and golden yellow like the sun, the sun that never shines here in Forks. I had liked it plenty under the florescent lights of the fitting room at TJ Maxx, and I had still liked it this morning; but Jessica’s words hummed around in my skull like wasps. The zipper of the sweatshirt was broken, but it accomplished the task of obscuring my dress well enough.

After Chemistry, I journeyed to the campus library to find a book I was supposed to read and present for a different class. I looked it up in the computer catalogue, spent an embarrassingly long time trying to figure out how the Dewey Decimal System works, eventually wound up finding the book on the highest floor of the library...and, to add a little extra peril to the mission, on the highest shelf. The book mocked me from its lofty, unattainable stronghold. The title was embossed in gold letters down the crimson spine. The Walruses And Me: A Transformative Experience. Idiotic title, I’m aware. It’s about some marine biologist who spent months alone in the Arctic studying the lifecycles of walruses. A noble pursuit, sure, but still a terrible title.

There wasn’t a chair or stepstool in sight. I tested my weight by stepping up onto the second-lowest shelf. The metal immediately squealed and shifted in protest. I retreated back down to the carpet, defeated by gravity. I scowled up at the book and sighed melodramatically. Ugh.

“Need something?”  

I spun around to see Joe in his University of Chicago hoodie and pale flawless skin and intangible magnetism, that bewildering trademark Lee ethereality. I instinctively crossed my arms, clutching the sleeves of my sweatshirt, shrinking inwards like a startled armadillo in the Arizona desert.

“Are you, uh, anemic...?” he ventured.

“Oh no, I’m not cold. I’m just trying to hide my dress. My friend said it was too hippie-murder-cult 1960s.”

I figured he’d laugh, make a snide comment, maybe just blink in confusion. Instead, he glimpsed down at my dress—what could still be seen of it, anyway—and shook his head. “The neckline isn’t right for the 60s. And you seem like you’ve showered at least once in the past two weeks, so definitely not a hippie.”

I smiled, completely unexpectedly. “I didn’t realize Econ majors knew anything about leftist counterculture.”

“Disparaging it is our favorite pastime. Are you trying to get a book or are you just disrespecting university property for entertainment?”

I pointed. “The big red one.”

“The Walruses And Me...?”

“I know, it’s a horrible title. Not my personal preference. It’s for a class.”

“Bestiality 101?”

“Good guess. Marine Mammals.”

“Ahhh.” He glanced up and down the aisle, tapped his chin with agile fingers, pondered something I wasn’t privy to. “Turn around for a second.”

“What? Why?”

He waved his hand mysteriously in front of his grinning face. “It’s a magic trick. I’m going to make your problem disappear.”

“You can’t climb that,” I warned. “You’ll fall and break your neck. Or you’ll knock the whole shelf over and cause a tragic domino effect and the university will withhold your diploma until you pay them restitution.”

“I’m extremely athletic.”

“Are you sure?” I appraised him with exaggerated skepticism for comedic effect. “My dad refers to you only as the spindly annoying Lee.”

Oh my god, WHY did I say that?

Now he would definitely hate me. Now I’d have two mortal enemies on one campus. I mentally calculated how humiliating it would be to transfer to some Florida college, any Florida college, after only one week at Calawah. Hi mom, yeah I’m coming to live with you and Paul, a gang of hot pasty foster kids wants to slaughter me.

Instead, Joe threw back his head and cackled wildly. A librarian—mid-fifties, angry red hair from out of a box, fuzzy cat sweater—glared into the aisle and shushed him.

“Chief Swan...he actually...he calls me that? Really?!” Joe managed, wiping his leaking eyes. “That’s hilarious. I’m so glad my life is in his hands. Okay seriously, turn around.”

“Why would you help me?” I asked suspiciously.

“That’s just what I do. I’m a friendly guy.”

“This friendliness must not run in the family.”

Again, Joe’s cheerful demeanor didn’t falter. “You mean Ben? Forget about Ben, he hates everyone. Don’t take it personally.” Then he added: “Plus, as I’m sure you know, we’re not biologically related. No overlapping genetic material whatsoever. I didn’t get the male supermodel gene, he didn’t get the irresistibly charming gene, life’s not fair but the world keeps spinning.”

“It sure does,” I agreed softly. Unexpected wisdom from my new favorite Lee. I turned away from him. “Fine, I’m not looking, go ahead and dazzle me with your supernatural friendliness—”

“Done.”

“What?” I whirled around. Joe held The Walruses And Me in his hand. “How...did you...?!”

He passed me the book as I sputtered incoherently. “I told you. Magic trick.”

“I don’t....?!” I gawked up at the top shelf, at Joe, back to the top shelf. Sure enough, the space where The Walruses And Me once lived was now just a vacant slit in the row of dusty books. How could he have climbed up there that quickly? How could I not have heard anything? “The shelves didn’t even creak,” I murmured shakily.

“Yes, well, that’s due to my conveniently spindly physique.” Joe winked. “Any other problems I can help you solve at the moment, Baby Swan?”

“No. And don’t call me Baby Swan, or I’ll push this whole bookshelf over and tell the feisty librarian lady you did it.”

“That’s cold, ma’am.”

I liked that Joe didn’t make me feel like Ben did: unworthy, unloved, infuriating. Joe made me feel something else, something lighthearted, casual, buoyant; like the world didn’t have anything in it worth worrying about, regretting, agonizing over. Like unadulteratedly myself was all I ever needed to be.

I heard a muted buzz and Joe slid his iPhone out of his jeans pocket. Dr. Lee must have successfully delivered it. “Whoops, I forgot that Ordinary Differential Equations existed. Got to go. See ya.”

“Bye,” I replied. And then Joseph Lee was gone, very quickly, a little too quickly, the same way that Ben had vanished on that first afternoon after Chemistry.

Forks is weird. Calawah University is weird. And the Lee kids are super fucking weird.

Long Walks On The Beach

“Can I ask you a random question?”

“You just paid me $100 for an oil change that took fifteen minutes. You can ask me anything you want.” He grinned, flashing bright teeth and deep dimples.

It was Saturday afternoon. I had shoveled down a Chipotle veggie bowl as Archer changed the 1999 Accord’s oil in a small garage with a cracked concrete floor and the searing pungency of gasoline fumes thick in the air. He had apprenticed all through high school and rented his own shop after graduation. Archer now had a loyal clientele that encompassed virtually the entire Quileute reservation and a growing chunk of Forks...including Charlie and me, of course. Archer was the only child of Larry Foxchild—Charlie’s best friend since they worked together at Dairy Queen as teenagers—and the closest thing to a son my dad would ever have. I guess that made him like a brother to me, something that seemed intuitive now that I’d thought of it.

After the Accord was serviced we drove it down to La Push to walk on the beach, climb the salt-lashed rocks, toss pebbles into the roiling surf, reprise our childhood enthusiasm for poking dead washed-up marine creatures with shards of driftwood.

“Do you know anything about the Lees?” I asked Archer, investigating a deceased green shore crab.

His brow furrowed. He looked so serious like that, suddenly so much like Larry: the same tan skin, jet black hair, umbral eyes like oil wells, strong jaw overlaid with the stubbled shadow of a beard. We really aren’t kids anymore, are we? “The doctor and his kids?”

“Yeah. The foster kids. They’re really pale and strange and half of them are British.”

Archer chuckled. “I know who you mean. They’re hard to miss.”

“Are they...” Just eccentric rich people? Traumatized from abusive childhoods? Government experiments? CIA agents? Secret murderers? The image of Ben in that first Chemistry class came roaring back to me, including the adjective that had flashed red behind my eyes like an emergency exit sign: fierce. Finally, I decided: “Dangerous?”

Now Archer full-on laughed, gripping his belly, shaking his head. Drops of saltwater flew from his short hair. “Seriously?!” he exclaimed. “Come on, they’re freaks but they’re not, like...that kind of freaks.”

“Are you sure?” I was starting to feel better already. Of course they’re not actual demons, you fucking idiot. This is Washington, not The Twilight Zone or Black Mirror. Not goddamn American Horror Story.

“Yeah.” Archer skipped a grey pebble over the water, something I’d never been able to do. “I’ll be honest, I don’t know them all that well. They usually keep to themselves. But I’ve never heard anything bad about any of the kids. And everyone respects Dr. Lee and appreciates him for taking the pay cut to come to some bumblefuck town like Forks. He’s insanely highly credentialed, has degrees from Harvard or Yale or somewhere like that. Super impressive. We’re lucky to have him. I definitely sleep better at night knowing he’ll be the one to fix me up if I ever get a few fingers ripped off on the job.”

“Don’t even say that. Then who would I grossly overpay for oil changes?”

Archer smiled, then sobered as he peered out over the Pacific Ocean.

“What?” I asked, feeling a plummeting in my guts like primal fear.

“Well...okay, so there is one thing that’s always bothered me. You remember Grandpa Foxchild?”

“Yeah, of course.” He had been an impossibly ancient man with long grey braided hair, a low rumbly voice, gnarled arthritic hands, ceaseless wrinkles. I remembered Charlie calling me when he passed away last spring. Renee and I had picked out a flower arrangement to send to the funeral.

“So,” Archer said slowly, like he was still puzzling it out himself. “Grandpa used to say things like ‘That Dr. Lee has been around a long time.’ Which of course makes no sense, the Lees moved here like two years ago. And I’d tell Grandpa that, but he completely ignored me. He would just keep repeating it. ‘That Dr. Lee shouldn’t still be here.’ ‘That Dr. Lee should go on home to where he came from.’ ‘That Dr. Lee isn’t right.’ Creepy shit like that. My dad and I always assumed it was the dementia talking, but...I don’t know. It just bothered me. Because Grandpa...he wasn’t just being gossipy or suspicious. He was angry. And he was afraid. Grandpa was at Guadalcanal and Iwo Jima and he would talk about that no problem, mention landmines or flesh melting off a soldier’s face like it was nothing. He was a tough guy. Immeasurably tough, I’ll never be half the man he was. But if you mentioned the Lees, Grandpa got scared. Why the hell would he be so scared of them?”

I didn’t have an answer for him, not a single word. I just stared at Archer, my eyes growing huge, my heart sprinting, blood pounding in my ears. He knew. Grandpa Foxchild knew there was something off about them, and now I know it too. I don’t know how I know, but I do.

Archer tittered nervously. “Anyway, that was genuinely disturbing. But like I said. It was probably just the dementia.”

“What if it wasn’t?”

“It had to be,” he insisted. “There’s no other logical explanation.”

“I guess,” I agreed, scooping up the green shore crab corpse with my bare hands. I hurled it out into the waves, imagined it sinking through murky water and suspended grains of sand, the body settling into prehistoric silt, the scavengers descending upon it, the inescapable wheel of birth and death and resurrection through those who unwittingly carry our atoms with them into the next generation, into the perpetual future.

That night my dreams were full of pale skin and scorching eyes, Ben and Joe and Rami, Lucille and Scarlett, crashing waves, cold water and bleached bones; and Grandpa Foxchild’s mistrustful refrain: That Dr. Lee has been around a long time.

Benjamin

I soared down the staircase and through the dining room. Gwil was working late at the hospital, Mercy outside tending the animals, everyone else presumably scattered throughout the house. I had to get out before anyone noticed me. I had to get out without Rami or Lucy knowing.

I yanked open the door to the back porch. Rami was waiting there.

“Good evening,” he greeted me in that slow, thoughtful drawl.

“Stay the fuck out of my head.”

“You know how it works, Benny Boy. I can’t ignore the loud thoughts. And you’ve been having some very loud thoughts lately.”

I stared down at my shoes, all black Adidas. Black is good. It doesn’t show stains. For example, purely hypothetically, splatters of human blood and organs. “I can make it quick. I can make it painless.”

Rami’s aura flared maroon; not enraged, no, not quite that, but certainly revolted. I was always finding new and horrifying ways to revolt them, whether I was trying to or not. “She has a family, Ben. A father. You know Chief Swan, you’ve seen him around town. He’s a good person. She’s a good person. You really want to do this? You really want to relapse like this?”

I didn’t reply. I didn’t have to. Hearing thoughts is a tricky thing, and not a gift that I would ever want; unspoken words are rarely a steam and usually a storm, disjointed and twisting, interrupting each other, bottomless layers of whispers and screams. But I was sure Rami could catch the important parts: that I didn’t know the difference between good and bad people, that I didn’t know what to think of people at all, that for me her blood was not a desire but a compulsion. I couldn’t stop envisioning it spilling over my tongue and teeth, down my throat, hot and pulsing erratically and fading. “Why can’t you hear her? Why can’t I see what she’s feeling?”

Rami shrugged, characteristically placid and restrained. It was maddening. “There are seven and a half billion people on this planet. So maybe every once in a while you get one that lives in our blind spots, there’s something chromosomal or psychological that puts them on a different frequency. I don’t know. How the hell should I know? All I know is that you definitely shouldn’t be seriously considering...well. What you’re considering.”  

“Have you ever met someone whose thoughts you couldn’t hear before?”

“No,” Rami admitted; and was that a ghost of unease that crossed his face?

“Please, Rami. Let me go. Pretend you never saw me.” My words come out strained, hushed, like a spilled secret, like a confession. I’ve never wanted anyone’s blood like I want hers.

He heard that; I could see the dismay in his eyes. Now his aura is dark grey, almost black. Disappointment. Resignation. Mourning. “I told you what Lucy saw.”

“What she saw is impossible and you know it.”

Again, Rami shrugged. That blind, mindless faith. I wished I knew what it felt like. “She’s never wrong.”

“Have you told him?”

“Who, Joe?! Of course I haven’t told Joe. He...”

“He wouldn’t believe it either?” I snapped, like it was a victory.

“No,” Rami amended carefully. “No, he would believe anything Lucy saw.” Lucy had visions: flashes of the future, the past, the present. They were rare and unpredictable, often fragmented, snapshots rather than arcs. But they were always true. Or, rather, the other Lees claimed they were. The real Lees. “I don’t know what he would do about it,” Rami said finally. “So I’m waiting it out. And killing one of the primary participants is definitely not waiting it out.”

I seethed as I glared at him, hating him in that moment, hating myself only slightly more; and he heard that too. But then that wispy, fleeting haze around him was a pink like the last threads of sunlight sinking into the Western horizon. Forgiveness. Attachment. Love.

“Come with me, Ben,” Rami said gently, opening the door. “Come back inside. You can beat this. You’re better than this. You’re a good soul. You wouldn’t be with us if you weren’t.”

I tried to laugh. It came out like a snarl. “I haven’t had a soul in a long time.”

[jjmichie]

Mike and Stone Walk in the Snow

Chapter 3 of “Some Words When Spoken”: a Fan Fic

Disclaimer:  The story below is fiction. While inspired by real people, it is not a real account of any actual events, places, dialogues, or situations, just my imagined version of events happening around the Vitalogy era.  

“Oh my God, Stone?!  What are you doing here?”

Mike jumped up from the beige arm chair where he had been sitting with his legs curled up underneath him, leaving behind a TV which continued to blare out a Vikings game over the otherwise calm neutrality of the “common space.”  The soft glow of a fire in a fireplace on the opposing wall blended with the artificial light from the screen, causing a flicker of yellow and blue to dance across both men, as they embraced in a warm and lengthy hug.  

It was immediately apparent to Stone that everything in the room had been designed for maximum tranquility, and the anxiety he had felt earlier on the plane was quickly replaced with relief upon seeing his friend, and seeing that his friend was in such a calming environment. 

“Do you have family here or something?”  Mike continued.  

Stone pulled back from their hug, and looked at Mike strangely, taking a moment to understand the question that had just been slung at him.  “No … no,“ he said.  “I came to see you.” 

Stone watched Mike’s expression go from confused to suspicious to surprised to embarrassed, and finally to grateful, all within the span of about ten seconds.  

“Aww,” he finally said.  “Really?  You flew all the way to freakin Minnesota just to see me?”  

“Well, duh!”  

They stood there for a while looking at each other, both mildly surprised by the awkwardness of the moment.   

“So … how’s the food here?” Stone finally asked, looking in the direction of what appeared to be a dining room. 

“Good!” Mike smiled, beginning to feel more at ease.  “Maybe too good … I could get used to this.  I’ve had walleye, venison, pickled herring, lots of “hot dishes”, and they literally served lutefisk one day.”  

Stone let out an impressed gasp. 

“And look outside!”  Mike walked over to a floor-to-ceiling window and presented the great outdoors to Stone with a wide sweeping gesture of both arms.  A two-foot-deep layer of white pressed up against the window, and beyond the white, a gently sloping lawn was adorned with large pines and spruce and leafless hardwoods.  The afternoon sun created a surreal glistening across the top of the snow.  It looked like a Currier & Ives placemat.  “It’s beautiful, but colder than fuck.  Do you want to go out there?”  Mike asked eagerly.  

“Yeah! Let’s do it!” 

Neither was dressed appropriately for the harshness that confronted them the minute they stepped out from the comforting arms of the brick building.  They shivered in their light jackets, and their cheeks and noses immediately turned pink.  

“Oh weird, there’s like, a crust on top,” Stone observed as his boot produced a crackled depression in the tough exterior of the snow, and then pushed through into the delicate powder underneath.  So different from anything they normally encountered in Seattle. 

“Yeah, it does that on super cold days,” Mike explained.  “And the strange thing is the sunny days seem to be the coldest.” Stone found it endearing that Mike sounded so proud.  

They ventured out further into the pines, listening to the crunch their boots made with each step.  

“So … how’s recording going?”  Mike asked.  

“Good!” Stone tried to sound enthusiastic, but then sighed. “It’s good, but I mean, you know, there’s some weird stuff, like Eddie’s got this … “song” about bugs, and wants to bring in an accordion player.”  Stone noted Mike’s guffaw and celebrated inside.  “It’s … creative.  Maybe it’s a new direction … or something.  Okay, honestly I don’t get it at all, but whatever, I guess it’s not my place to say … “

“Of course it’s your place!” Mike gave a slightly confused laugh.    

Stone didn’t respond.  They continued their trudge in silence, lifting their feet high to clear the snowy surface, then plunging deep, leaving a trail of footprints behind them.   

“How’s the Dave situation?”  Mike asked. 

Stone stopped mid-step, his boot high in the air.  He wobbled and reached out for Mike’s shoulder to regain his balance.  Mike helped to steady him by placing his mittened hand over Stone’s.

“Umm … I don’t know.  The same I guess.”   

Stone was glad that the frigid air had already made his cheeks pink.  

“Eddie’s getting really good on guitar though,” again Stone tried to sound positive, hoping Mike would buy it.  Mike gave him a sidelong glance.  “He just picked it up like it’s nothing.  He’s a really fast learner.  And it makes it easier for him to write, you know.  He can just write songs by himself now.  I don’t even have to be there.  It’s … convenient.“

Another glance. 

Stone finally laughed.  “I’m not fooling you at all, am I?” 

“Nope, not for a second.” 

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t want to dump all this on you,” Stone looked down.  “Truth is, It’s going shitty.  It’s totally shitty. ”  

Mike nodded, his brow furrowed.  

“The situation with Dave … is way worse.  They don’t even talk to him.  He doesn’t talk to them either.  I end up being the go-between.  I guess that’s like, my role now.  I’m not sure what else … what else I’m there for … fuck, I don’t know.”  

Mike looked concerned.  “Wow … “ was all he could say.  

“And it’s DIFFERENT for you and Jeff.  I mean, no one else in the band can do what YOU do, or what Jeff does, and of course Jeff and Eddie are like, a force all their own, but with me – “ Stone bit his lip.  “I’m just not sure there’s … room any more.  Honestly - I don’t even know if I want to continue.”  

“Oh my god, Stone … no.  What are you saying?”  

Stone looked desperately at the snow, at the trees, and even at the building behind them.  He knew he had needed to talk to Mike, but the horror of actually verbalizing the thoughts that had only been in his head for so long made him wish for a moment that he hadn’t come at all.  

“I just can’t deal with this any more.  Every time I go in there it feels worse and worse.  I feel like everyone in the band is disappointed in me.   I mean, Dave … ” Stone took a deep breath.  “… gives me this LOOK every time Eddie changes my songs.  Every time Eddie makes a decision without me.  Every time Eddie dictates … anything.  It upsets him so much.  He thinks I’m being a doormat.  And the weird thing is, I honestly don’t mind that Eddie is stepping up.  It wouldn’t be so bad at all if it was just between him and me … but it’s … being humiliated in front of the band, in front of Dave … that’s the part that I can’t – “ Stone stopped himself.  “I know I’m probably not making sense.” 

“No, it makes total sense,” Mike was looking at him so sympathetically that Stone wanted to cry. 

“I need to do something about it … I can’t let it go on this way.  If I don’t do something … they will.“  

Their eyes met as the chill of a sudden wind unleashed a punishment on their cheeks.  

“Let’s go back,” Stone pleaded with a shudder. 

******

Later that evening, after walking back in silence and warming up by the fire, the two had retreated to Mike’s room. They lay on the bed, on their sides, facing each other.  

“Remember when we were young and we used to lie around like this and read all those rock magazines?  And trade pictures of our favorite guitarists?”  Stone asked. 

“Ha!  Yeah.  We were such dorks.”

“Did you ever think we’d make it here?”  

“Where …  rehab?”  Mike’s smile faded.  

Stone stopped smiling too. “I’m sorry.”  

Mike rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.  They were both quiet.  

Before long, Mike’s eyes closed and his breathing became louder, but it was irregular and peppered with involuntary soft moans.  Despite the mind-numbing tranquility of the environment, and despite what should have been the comfort of sleep, Stone could see Mike’s jaw was tightly clenched, his teeth grinding, his face scrunched as if in pain.

As Stone helplessly watched him, he realized how selfish he had been to come here.  He had told everyone, including himself, that the trip was to support Mike, but the truth was he needed Mike more than Mike probably needed him.  

“Mike … “ Stone finally whispered, unsure of whether Mike was asleep or not, or whether he was hearing him. “I’m sorry … I know I’m stressing you out.  I just had to talk to you.” Stone played with a ruffle on of one of the neutral-toned pillows the facility had provided the bed.  “And I know I’m being selfish, fuck, I haven’t even asked how you are.  And I cherish you so much, I don’t tell you that often enough –”  Stone thrust the pillow away and put his hands over his eyes.  “I need you to get better, Mike … I can’t do this without you – ” 

“Jeez dude, it’s not like I’m going to DIE,” Mike suddenly chided, apparently having heard everything. 

When Stone didn’t reply, Mike rolled back onto his side so they were face to face once again.  

“And you’re not being selfish.  Believe me, I’ve done nothing but talk about myself and think about myself and my “issues” since I’ve been here – it’s actually GREAT to think about someone else’s problems for a change.”  

But Stone didn’t seem convinced. Mike gave his shoulder a little shake.  “Hey … Stone … I’m going to be fine, okay?  I promise,” he paused, suddenly understanding why this was so hard for Stone.  “Mmmm, I know this must remind you of … “  

Mike stopped.  It wasn’t necessary to finish the sentence. Instead, he wrapped his fingers around Stone’s, in a handshake of solidarity.  

“Just don’t do anything crazy, ok? It’s like you told me when I first came in here, this band is a really good gig, and we both deserve to be a part of it.  I’m going to be back before you know it … and we’ll figure this out together, okay?”  

Stone squeezed Mike’s hand back, but didn’t say anything.  

[byerly-strange]

mike singing offkey "I wanna hold your hand" to Will after everyone else has left

This took a really long time, apologies for that. I think I am actually pleased how it turned out though which is nice. Hope you all enjoy.

The record began spinningon Nancy’s turntable, the music bounced off the walls in Mike’s room. Mike had draggedWill up there after everyone had departed from a long day of Dungeons &Dragons. All of Will’s surroundings had begun to slow down after the first noteplayed. Mike had been adamant about not showing Will what record he was playing;he only knew that Mike wanted to show him the song that he had been learning onguitar for the past few weeks. Will had not been expecting to be serenaded by“I Wanna Hold Your Hand” by the Beatles. The song invaded all his senses, hecould swear that the record was splattering different shades of pink and yellowall across Mike’s walls.

Will’s crush on Mike was knownto almost everyone but Mike himself. According to Jane and Max he wore hisheart on his sleeve. Dustin and Lucas had told him they knew back when theywere 13, saying that Will was so pale that when his face turned red around Mikeit was like a beacon. Everyone had assured him though that Mike had no clue becausehe was too oblivious to everyone’s emotions when they were directed at him.That was why Will knew that this song didn’t hold the same meaning to each ofthem, but that didn’t stop his mind from yearning for Mike. The idea of Mike’shand slowly enveloping his, their fingers over lapping, intertwining their soulstogether. It made Will feel like the world was collapsing when he realized thatwould only be a fantasy; that’s when Mike began to sing.

“Oh, yeah, I tell ya something

I think you’ll understand

When I say that something

I wanna hold your hand.”

Mike’s voice wasn’t badby any means. He wasn’t on key, but he had this confidence and this crackle inhis voice that suited him, and the way he played the song made Will fall deeperand deeper into the grave he called love. Even if Mike had sung like a dyingpig Will probably still would have loved this, but it certainly helped that hesounded like one of the punk bands Jonathan played for him. His voice made Willfel welcomed, like no matter what else happened he could always come back toMike and his voice.

“Oh, please, say to me

You’ll let me be your man.”

Mike give Will this look.It was the first time Will had ever seen that look. It was the same look his Momand Hopper gave each other, the look Lucas and Max had at the Snowball twoyears ago. It made Will have the smallest glimmer of hope that Mike meant whathe was singing to Will. That seemed impossible, but Will had been trapped in analternate dimension, and possessed by the evilest thing he had ever felt, soimpossible was right up Will’s alley.

“And when I touch you

I feel happy inside

It's such a feelin' that my love

I can't hide”

It was then that Mike sethis guitar down, leaning it gently up against his dresser. He continued to singto Will, neither dropping their gaze from the other. He walked over and leaneddown in front of Will taking his hand in his own. Electricity filled the roomat the touch. Will could swear those previously yellow and pink colors turnedto an electric blue. The colors flew across the room like lightning bolts. Willwas so surprised by the fact that he and Mike were holding hands that hecouldn’t help but be wide eyed; however, Mike just kept singing like everythingwas normal. He began to brush Will’s hair behind his ear, never letting go offhis hand.

Will never really gotused to the contact, but he ended up just accepting it, staring into Mike’seyes as he continued to sing. Memorizing every detail of how his chocolate eyesseemed to seamlessly blend with his pupil, they looked like they could seeright through all the bullshit in a person and straight to the important stuff.Will got so lost in them that he didn’t notice Mike had finished singing. Hecertainly noticed when their lips collided together. It was just quick kiss, didn’tlast more than a second but to Will it was an eternity. When Mike pulled away hehad to gasp for air.

“Oh my god! I am sosorry! I should’ve asked if I could do that! I just, I, I got lost in themoment.” Mike who had been so calm during the whole song, had began to falterand stutter over his words. Will found it adorable.

“It’s okay Mike. It’sactually better than okay. It was nice. It was my first kiss, and I wouldn’twant it to have been with anyone else.” Will grabbed Mike’s hand again andrested his head against his shoulder. It provided a certain level of comfortthat Will hadn’t felt in a long time, it was a feeling he could get used to.

[danysghost-archive]

1, 2, 3

hey there! my first reddie fic is finally here! i really hope you guys enjoy it, and if you want to make any requests, just hit up my inbox! also, my inspo for this fic is this song, so go listen to it if you want the ‘full effect’

word count: 3,018!

warnings: mentions of abuse, mentions of drinking, swearing, eating a bug, and one homphobic term (sorry :(  )

Rainy days were always the best for Richie and Eddie. They could steal themselves away from the rest of the town and become the entire world to one another. On this particular afternoon in, the taller teen was stretched out on his bed, feet almost hanging off the edge. The smaller asthmatic lolled his head onto the bare chest before him. Their legs were tangled together, and the sound of Toto’s ‘Africa’ blended with the rain pattering on the window.

Richie already had his eyes on the back of Eddie’s head. When did he not? The boy was beautiful. His fingers were wrapping themselves in his brunette curls, and if he knew it wouldn’t hurt his boyfriend, he’d use Eddie’s hair to bring their lips together. Instead, after admiring him long enough, he poked the back of Eds’ skull, desperate for attention. “Hey… Spaghetti boy,” he spoke gently.

Slowly, Eddie lifted his head and turned to face Richie, resting his chin back down. “I thought we agreed that you’d never use that nickname? I hate it.” His smirk said otherwise. He stared at Richie dreamily, reaching his hand up to stroke his cheek. “What’s up?”

Richie grinned lazily, reminiscing on some of the best times he had with Eddie. “Did I ever tell you about how I fell in love with you?” He pushed himself up into a sitting position, pulling Eds with him. He draped his arms around Eddie’s frame, hugging him close to his body. “I can think of a few times that led me to loving you. Remember that day at the quarry, with the cricket?”

Eddie raised his eyes to Richie’s, a disgusted look on his face. “Ugh, really? That was attractive to you?” He let out a belt of laughter, just like the way he laughed when they were kids.

five years ago

Six of the losers were sitting in a circle at the edge of the quarry, all screaming at each other in a mix of separate conversations. There was only one member missing, Richie, who was supposedly on his way, but for some reason, incredibly late. Apparently he’d found something, and was overly excited to show it off.

Soon enough, Richie swung his bike up to the group of friends, with a small takeout container gripped in one hand against the handle bars. Without a word, he lept off his bike and slid right up next to Beverly, presenting the container to her. “Eat it,” was all he said.

Confidently, Beverly scoffed, beginning to open the container. “You want me to eat, what, some old Chinese food? Is that it?” When she unlatched the box and peeked inside, however, she groaned and made a puking motion off to the side. “No. No way!” She passed the box back to Richie.

He dumped the contents into his hand, revealing to the group a large cricket. Before it could jump away, he cupped his other hand in front of it, creating a dome. “Why not? It won’t hurt you!” He showed it to Stan, who was on his other side.

“It’s disgusting, dude. Admit it,” Stanley retorted. He snorted in laughter and shook his head, not surprised by Richie’s latest antic.

“Come on, it’ll be so funny!” The boy seemed to have his heart set on it.

Beverly, rolling her eyes, suggested, “Then you eat it.” She nudged Richie’s shoulder, nearly knocking the creature out of his palm.

A voice of reason spoke up immediately. “How about no one eats it?” Mike shouted, trying to drown out the ridiculousness of what his friend was suggesting. He reached out across the circle to Richie’s hands, attempting to open them up. Just as Richie was about to protest-

“I’ll do it.”

All eyes turned to Eddie, who was now standing up. There was something about him that Richie noticed, a new air of assertiveness around him. He hand his thumbs looped through the belt loops of his khakis, and his fanny pack was stuffed. Richie rose to be eye level with him, holding the cricket close to his chest. Everyone was watching them, as if it was a cowboy standoff.

“No way,” Richie challenged. He narrowed his eyes, testing the hypochondriac's seriousness.

“You’re joking?” Ben said, but it came out as more of a question. He, along with Bev and Mike, began to stand as well, ready to jump in if Richie forced the task on Eddie.  

“Nah, come on. Hand it over,” Eddie assured, stretching out his hand to take the insect. He also moved closer to Richie, to avoid the risk of letting the cricket go. They were less than a foot apart, and he scooped his soon-to-be next meal into his hand.

“Are you serious?” Surprisingly, this question of worry came from Richie himself. He’d never expected anyone to actually go through with it, let alone Eddie. His face of amusement was gone, and his eyebrows were now scrunched in concern.

At this point, everyone was on their feet. Bill stood right behind Eddie, and placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to talk him down.“Don’t f-f-fuck with him, Eddie. He’ll make you d-do it.” He went to knock Eddie’s hand away, but Kaspbrak was too quick. He spun out of the crowd, still holding the cricket, and wearing a smile on his face.

“I know. It’ll shut him up.” He took a look at the insect in his hand, contemplating his decision. At first, it looked like he was understanding the reality of the situation, like might reconsider. But, after just a few seconds, he met the gaze of every loser and nodded in affirmation.

“Oooh-ho-ho, fuck yes.” Richie was shaking with anticipation. He flipped his hair out of his eyes, gesturing for Eddie to go for it whenever he was ready.

A chorus of voices rang out around them, with words like, “Eddie wait,” “Are you sure,” “You

don’t have to do this,” “Just let it go, Rich-” But all of them were silenced with the soft words of Eddie Kaspbrak.

“Watch and learn, friends.” And down the cricket went. A sickening crunch signaled its demise in his mouth, and his hard swallow meant that it was real. No one was shy about their feelings on the event they just witnessed.

“Disgusting,” Ben choked out.

“Oh my god,” Bill followed, almost sounding impressed.

“Did he just-” Stan started.

And Bev finished, “He did.”

The one who was most vocal was Richie Tozier himself. After gaining his composure, he clapped a couple times. “Ho… ly… shit, Kaspbrak! Ha! I didn’t think you had it in you!” He slapped a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, proud of his typically quiet friend.

With a wiggle of his eyebrows and a wipe of his mouth, Eddie replied, “Oh, I’m full of surprises, Trashmouth.”

After recalling the day, Richie nuzzled his face into Eddie’s neck, giving him a bunch of tiny kisses. “I knew we were friends, but that was definitely when I decided you were worth keeping around,” he mumbled, his voice still drenched with sleepiness.

Eds shied away, being so ticklish, and pushed Richie off of him. “Jeez, trashmouth, didn’t know it took such extreme measures to get your attention.” He leaned his head back against the headboard, staring at his boyfriend. “If I’d known that, I would’ve eaten a cricket a lot sooner.”

Richie lightly punched Eddie’s shoulder, grinning playfully. “There was more to it than that! Remember the movie night we had with Stan? When we went to see Jurassic Park?” Based on the confused look he got in response, Richie brought him back to that night.

three years ago

The three boys were sitting in the balcony seats of the Aladdin Theatre. Richie was wedged between Stan and Eddie, holding the bucket of popcorn in his lap and hoovering nearly all of it down. The screams of the characters kept his eyes locked on the massive screen, even as Stan snatched his snack away.

“Dude, stop hogging the popcorn!” he whispered as loudly as he could. He was enjoying the movie, but Richie’s common color commentary was a growing annoyance. Plus, he’d barely gotten a chance to enjoy the deliciously buttery treat they had all wanted to share.

Richie scowled at his friend and slapped him on the back of the head, snatching the popcorn back while he was stunned. He shoved another handful of popcorn into his mouth, and simultaneously said, “I’m the one who bought it! I get hogging rights!”

Eddie, finally fed up with their bickering, leaned forward in his seat and glared at them. “Both of you, shut the fuck up.” As they were silenced he leaned back, and returned to munching on his Reese’s.

After a minute, Richie started to fidget. He looked between his friends several times, knowing that they were paying attention to the film. He didn’t want to disturb them, but staying still and quiet for so long was becoming difficult. So, he decided to focus on something. He glanced at Eddie for what must’ve been the twentieth time. He noted what he was wearing - a yellow polo shirt and a pair of dark blue jeans. His shirt was neatly tucked in, wrinkleless, and his pants were perfectly cut off at the ankles. As he stared, he felt a blush creep up his neck, which spread to his cheeks; there were knots and butterflies forming in his stomach. On a whim, he nudged the boy’s arm with his elbow. “Hey Eds.”

The boy didn’t respond. Not even a sign of recognition from him.

Confused, Richie shoved his arm a little harder this time. “Eds.” He raised his voice slightly to get his attention.

Still no response. Stan, however, noticed Richie’s attempts, and scoffed in disbelief.

Giving up on the subtlety, Richie pulled him to face him. “Edward!” His voice was nearly a shout, and several people shushed him. But all he cared about was Eddie’s response, which was -

“What?!” While his tone sounded angry, his brows were raised and there was a hint of a smirk on his lips.

Richie chuckled at this difference. “Jeez, don’t bite my head off, Spaghetti boy,” he murmured, feigning fright and gesturing to the velociraptor on screen.

“Ugh,” he groaned in disgust. “Come on, Rich, don’t call me that.” This was his response to any nickname the trashmouth gave him. Even though he may have said he hated them, the pet names always made Eddie feel special in some way.

Richie patted his arm reassuringly and whispered, “Hush now,” as if it was Eddie who’d drawn the attention of half the theatre. He continued, in an unusually sincere voice, “I just wanted to tell you… you look nice tonight.” They locked eyes, and for a moment, it seemed like there was a deeper meaning those words.

He was shocked. What should he say? Eddie’s whole world had suddenly halted over, what, a simple comment on his style from Richie Tozier? “Oh…” he began, not wanting to stare too long. “Oh, thanks. Uh…” he quickly peeked at Richie’s torn up jeans and oversized flannel, “So do you.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, either. Eddie loved how Richie’s style fit him so well.

At this, Richie winked, attempting to play his nerves off as cool. “Heh…” he started his British accent, “shall we take this to the bedroom, spag-”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Eddie cut him off, placing a hand over his mouth. “And please never call me ‘Spaghetti Boy’ again?” He was obviously pleading at this point.

The trashmouth nodded and slid Eddie’s hand away from his face. “We’ll see.”

“See?” Richie croaked out between fits of laughter. “I never actually agreed to getting rid of that name!” He had one arm braced across Eddie’s chest, and was ruffling his boyfriend’s hair with his free hand.

Eddie had both hands locked behind Richie’s neck, staring up at him with the biggest smile on his face. “Okay, I concede,” he cried. When he was released, he snuggled back into Richie’s side. “What about love?” he asked after a moment.

“What about it?”

“Well, you’ve told me about liking me, and really liking me. But what about… loving me?” Eddie’s eyes hadn’t left the beautiful face in front of him, but Richie couldn’t seem to meet his gaze.

Still, without a second thought, Richie answered: “Oh, that’s an easy one.”

two years ago

Richie had his knees pulled up to his chest, curled beneath Eddie’s open bedroom window. Tears were staining his cheeks, and blood ran down his forehead. His breathing was shaky, and he looked like he would break if touched. Eddie found him there not long after hearing the crash of his friend clambering inside.

“Richie…” He quickly shut his door and grabbed the first aid kit in his desk. He sat on the edge of his bed in front of Richie.

After a sniffle, he finally spoke. “It happened again, Eds,” his voice barely audible. “She was drunk off her ass, throwing empty bottles around the kitchen.” A sob escaped his lips, tearing through his body. Out of all his friends, he was crying in front of Eddie fucking Kaspbrak. He straightened his back, not wanting to give up his facade completely. “I - I went in… to see if I could calm her down, ya know? Shut her up?”

“Richie, you don’t have to tell me,” he interrupted. By now, Eds had the gauze, bandages, and antiseptic wipes all laid out. “Let me just clean you up.” He doused a cotton ball in hydrogen peroxide and held it out to his friend, who pushed it away.

The boy rose to his feet, with a surprising surge of energy. “No, I…” He paused, meeting Eddie’s eyes. “I need to tell you.”

There was a pregnant pause. The teens just stared at each other, one sympathetic, the other furious. For a while, all they could hear was the sound of their own breathing. It seemed that they were confirming for the other that everything would be fine; that what was about to be heard wouldn’t effect them in the morning. Slowly, after what felt like hours, Eddie moved his first aid supplies onto his lap, clearing room for Richie next to him.

“Okay,” was what he finally said.

Richie took the offer being made to him and sat on the bed. He pushed the hair against his forehead away, peeling it out of the sticky, half dried blood. With his free hand, he cleared his tears, smudging his glasses in the process. He winced slightly upon feeling the towelette against his skin, but resumed his story nonetheless. “I walked in… and she just… She turned on me. I’ve been in her cross hairs before, but… not like this. She said she didn’t want a fag in her house; that I was a disappointment!” There was no holding back his emotions after that. Richie let himself collapse onto Eddie’s shoulder, letting go of any inhibitions. “She threw a bottle at me, Eddie! She could have killed me! I had to get out-”

Eddie immediately embraced his friend, running a comforting hand up and down his back. “Hey, hey, hey. Come on, shhhh…” He let the first aid supplies fall to the floor. “You’re fine. You’re fine, she’s not here. You’re safe, Richie,” he whispered, his lips grazing the boy’s ear. He had both arms wrapped around Richie’s midsection. “I’ve got you.” With his face pressed into the side of Richie’s head, Eddie repeated the soothing words, reminding his favorite loser that he was loved, safe, and cared for.

After his sobs stopped, the foul mouthed Tozier sat upright. He chuckled at himself, attempting to regain his humorous, sarcastic exterior. But before he could: “Thank you, Eddie.”

It didn’t take long for Eddie to answer; hardly a second. “Of course. I’m always here for you trashmouth.” And it was true. Eddie would always drop everything for Richie. It was never a question. He interlaced their fingers, and gave his hand a squeeze. “Always.”

There it was. The deeper meaning they had been looking for.

Richie let out a short laugh, almost not believing what he was hearing. To think that someone he liked - someone he loved - actually cared just as much for him was an entirely new concept. He looked down at their hands, already knowing that he never wanted to let him go. “Really?” he asked in disbelief. Now was the moment to tell him, and he knew it. “Eds-”

Before he could continue, he was cut off by the soft lips of Edward Kaspbrak. He felt a hand in his hair, another on his neck, and his breath being taken away. It didn’t take long for Richie to kiss back, prepared to love Eddie for however long he wanted.

Eddie was sitting on Richie’s lap, his body tightly pressed up against the other. “I never knew that was when you fell in love with me.” He pressed his nose to Richie’s collarbone, closing his eyes. “I guess it makes sense though.”

Richie huffed a short breath, combing his fingers through Eddie’s hair. “I thought you always knew.” He readjusted his boyfriend so that he was straddling him. “Ever since that night… I have been crazy, deeply in love with you.” He smirked devilishly, shaking Eddie’s shoulders playfully. “Now it’s your turn.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “My turn for what?” He wound their hands together, playing with Richie’s lanky fingers.

His brows pushed together slightly. “Your turn to tell me,” he kissed Eddie’s nose, “how you fell in love with me.” He placed another kiss at the base of his throat.

Eddie shook his head, leaning in slowly to kiss Richie’s cracked lips. “That story, my love, is for a day yet to appear.” He took Richie’s face in his hands and kissed him again.

The sounds of music on the radio lulled them back into their own blissful world of each other. The rain pattered on against the windows, quietly keeping the rest of the town away.

tag list: @lomo-is-not-cool @80srichie @wintersember

[15hont1c]

The Haunting of Hill House - Camera Movement Analysis (SPOILERS) + Shape of Water

One of the shows I chose to analyse is Netflix’s ‘The Haunting of Hill House’ (2018), directed by Mike Flanagan. The ten-episode series is a loose adaptation of Shirley Jackson’s gothic horror novel of the same name. It focuses on the Crain family and how their past and present lives are affected by the Hill House. The narrative structure is constantly interlacing between the past and present.

I specifically chose episode six: ‘Two Storms,’ because it was one of the scenes for them to film. The crew utilises a long one-take shot effectively to portray the family drama and dramatic tension. One of longest scene in the episode was 17 minutes long with no cuts. There are two parts that happened within the same episode which used one long, continuous take. 

The opening sequence shows the present day father (Hugh) entering a bathroom in a funeral parlour before he turns a corner and becomes his young self back in Hill House years ago. The seamless switch kicks off the one-shot sequence that is introduced by one simple ‘cut on action.’ The audience is taken into the past during a stormy night in Hill House as they try to deal with a broken chandelier and keeping everyone calm. 

Using a dolly shot, the camera is wheeled around to follow Hugh as he tries to find his wife in the house. The beginning shot of this clip shows the wife, Olivia, wandering around in a fugue state after witnessing a ghost boy in a wheelchair. She drifts aimlessly in the halls before the camera shifts over to Hugh, who is looking for her. All done in one long take, the camera follows Hugh with some over-the-shoulder shots as he pursuits what seems to be Olivia in the distance. In the frame itself, Hugh is always on the intersected points of a rule of thirds grid. The leftover spacing allows some ghostly details to be shown on scene, and also shows what Hugh is seeing through his line of sight. 

The use of a continuous take and over-the-shoulder shot further enhances the horror and suspense as we follow Hugh in his journey in the house. The sharp corners of the house with the camera following creates suspense and dramatic tension as we peek down the dark hallway. 

Each family member is suffering differently and focuses on how they cope and deal with it.  Throughout the episodes, the story constantly slips between the past and present. Even though we are going back to an event that happened in the past (and provides more exposition), the story’s pace is not hindered and further enhances the family’s story. The intricate editing allows the scenes to fade and transition effortlessly and smoothly into each other. 

In this present scene, the father, Hugh, enters the funeral parlour and sees his children as they were in Hill House years ago. The camera slowly pans around the room and Hugh as he thinks about the events of what brought them together. By the time the camera makes a full 360° turn, the children are adults again. As mentioned by Ruth Franklin in a review of the episode, “parents often tend to picture adult children as younger than they really are” (2018.) This particular panning and the change of his children is used because of his estrangement from his children since the horrific events that happened in Hill House. He still views his adult children as the scared young versions of themselves years ago and his need to protect them.  He may also have looked at them with nostalgia as this ‘reunion’ was one of the first time they were all together since the incident. 

The rest of the episode revolves around the funeral and how each sibling is coping with it. Their common anger and distrust towards their estranged father is also shown when they argue in the funeral room. 

One of the main differences in distinguishing between the past and present is the use of colour. The flashback scenes have warm hues with bright colours and various textures. Take the scene back in at Hill House when they were children. The Crain family is well lit and wears various bright clothing with many textures that makes them more distinct. Colour paletteThe brown and almost woody textured background makes the characters appear more close and upfront to the screen. They do not blend into the background, and are brought forth to show their close relationship. 

In contrast, the colours in present time with the grown-up children appear more chilling and washed out. The flat and almost lacklustre colour of the scene creates a sense of sadness and sorrow. Everyone in the shot is wearing drab and muted colours, seemingly blending into the background. The colour palette is much more sombre and dreary, as if all life is drained from it. The use of blue, green and yellow hues elicits a sense of melancholy and dissociation in the room. The low contrast of the shot also adds to the emotional depth. It shows isolation from each character, who each have their own demons to face. 

While the colour key is useful in differentiating the past and present side of the story, it is also used as a plot device and symbolism of the house’s more sinister nature. 

In conclusion, I really enjoyed the TV series and its excellent use of camera work. After the lecture, it made it much more interesting to analyse modern shows/films and how they use these techniques to effectively tell a good story. I learnt that every camera movement and set-up is deliberate and carefully considered. Every little movement gives more insight on the story and characters, and overall adds more upon the atmosphere and plot. I highly recommend watching the series!

Reference:

http://www.vulture.com/2018/10/the-haunting-of-hill-house-recap-season-1-episode-6.html (R. Franklin, 2018.)

https://culturedvultures.com/the-haunting-of-hill-houses-funeral-episode-is-phenomenal/

https://www.vox.com/2018/10/26/18023200/haunting-of-hill-house-color-use 

I thought that perhaps I would choose this clip as one of my chosen scenes for the comparison essay. The other scene that also used a tracking shot was the opening credits of The Shape of Water. 

These were some of the notes I made on the sequence and comparison notes.

One continuous tracking shot underwater

Tour around Sally’s home

Almost fairytale-like

Colour palette: very blue, cyan and greenish hues

Good lighting from above; enhances magical/fantastical nature and water themes

Camera movement is fluid and always moving; again enhances underwater theme

Character introduction of Sally sleeping - foreshadows ending events

Crafted with 8 puppeteers; objects suspended with string

Smoke and vapour effects were used to enhance the watery nature: CGI touchups.

Dry for wet technique -> no water was used but effects were used to make it seem like it