#speckled end of year interaction prompts | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

izzyfandoms · 5 years ago

Note

Intrulogical (platonic or romantic) : Forest!God Remus (moss, decay, insects, underbrush darkness, mold, slime ect) meeting Sky!God Logan (Stars, constellations, clean rain, thunderstorm fury, knowledge divined from clouds) and having a complementary relationship with his foil. (It shouldn’t surprise Logan as much as it does. The forest needs rain to grow and flourish- just as the heavens needs the earth to shine. The sky needs the trees to breathe. The plants need the air to live. As is nature)

(Okay, so, this prompt is fucking amazing. I spent much longer working on it that I usually do with prompts and I would absolutely LOVE to write more things in this au (whether it’s intrulogical or another ship). Therefore I’m gonna tag this as ‘clouds and moss au’ which i’ll tag anything else i write in this au as. Also, i only just remembered i have a taglist so i’ll start adding it to my short prompt things from now on. Also this mentions all the other sides once.)

General Taglist - @quillfics42 @ajdraws0430 @phantomofthesanderssides @creativity-killed-thekitten @phlying-squirrel @sly-is-my-name-loving-is-my-game

Intrulogical - Clouds and Moss

Masterpost

Clouds and Moss AU Masterpost

Remus and Logan never really had a first meeting. None of the gods did.

At first, they didn’t exist, and then, one day, they did.

And when they did, they knew their purposes immediately. They knew of the other gods, and they knew, well, everything.

They didn’t need to meet, they interacted with each other through the interactions of their creations.

Humans cooked and danced with fire, and, through them, Patton felt Roman’s warmth.

Janus collected the numerous souls of the drowned, and, through them, he felt Virgil’s waves in his own lungs.

Plants flourished and grew as every drop of rain gave them life. Through them, Remus felt Logan’s gentle touch, like fingertips brushing against his skin. He never knew how much they paled in comparison to the real thing.

“I didn’t know you ever left the clouds.”

Logan glanced up from the tree he was studying, startled. He looked over Remus: the forest god leaning against a mossy tree trunk. It was hard to tell where the moss ended and Remus begun. There wasn’t a difference, really.

The sky god bowed, respectful, before straightening up and adjusting his glasses. Remus wondered why he needed them.

“Good morning, Remus,” He greeted. “I trust you’re having a pleasant day?”

Remus shrugged, wriggling his toes as a beetle crawled over his foot. He watched a butterfly land on a nearby branch. It didn’t know it was in the presence of two gods, and there was something nice about that.

Logan watched it, too. He didn’t seem to mind the silence.

“There will be a thunderstorm in exactly thirty-seven minutes and twenty-three seconds. I hope it doesn’t disturb any of your plans,” Logan said eventually, and that was that.

He disappeared, and a sillouette-shaped cloud lingered for a moment or two, before it, too, disappeared.

Remus sunk into the mud, until he became the mud, and took a nap.

He didn’t know how long it took until he saw Logan again. Gods lived longer than mortals, so most had a rather crooked sense of time. Some moments lasted years; some years lasted moments.

Logan seemed to be an exception to that rule.

“Good morning, Remus.”

Remus sat up. He hit the side of his head a few times, and a few bugs fell out the opposite ear. They hit the ground and scattered. Remus watched them run, and wondered how long it would take for something bigger to come along and squash them.

He didn’t speak for almost a minute, before he finally glanced up at his guest.

Logan was sitting cross-legged, floating a few feet above the ground. He, too, was watching the insects, with an odd look of fascination on his face.

“Why are you floating?” Remus asked, after a minute of watching the other god. “Afraid of a little mud?”

Logan looked up from the ground, meeting Remus’s eyes.

Blue. Logan’s eyes were blue.

Fitting.

“I do not want to get dirty.”

Remus stared at him for a few moments, and then slowly and deliberately - without losing eye contact - picked up a handful of mud. He then threw it at Logan, hitting him in the centre of the chest.

If he was honest, he’d expected the sky god to leave after that - maybe reciting the exact time of the next storm, beforehand, if he wasn’t too irritated at the forest god, but leaving nonetheless.

Instead, the corners of his lips twitched upwards, and he slowly lowered himself onto the ground, until he was sitting in the mud opposite Remus. He placed his hand close to the forest god’s, feeling the mud ooze between his fingers, and gave him a small nod.

Remus, a little perplexed, nodded back.

They sat there in silence for some time, until there was a rumble of thunder overhead, and Logan disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared.

It wouldn’t be accurate to say that Remus began counting the days after that. He had no interest in keeping track of the time. However, he had been watching the sky more, unintentionally keeping track of the days and nights through that.

It took fifty-seven days for Logan to come visit after that.

“Hey, Logan, how are the clouds?”

Logan gave him an amused look, adjusting the glasses that he absolutely didn’t need.

“They are adequate. There shall be some light precipitation in four hours, twelve minutes and three seconds.”

“Cool, cool, cool,” Remus waved his hand. “Why do you wear glasses? You don’t need them.”

Logan blinked a few times, before glancing away, a light blush dusting his cheeks. The red was a stark contrast to the cool blue colours that decorated the rest of his body.

Remus tilted his head, and decided that that colour suited him.

“I, uh… I just like them.”

He said that as if it was a crime, something to be ashamed of, and Remus paused for a moment, watching the flustered sky god, before reaching out and plucking the glasses right off his nose. He then placed them on his own face.

Remus looked around at their surroundings. They looked the same; the glasses altered nothing.

“Hmm,” Remus blinked owlishly at Logan. “I don’t get it.”

The corners of Logan’s lips twitched upwards, and he leant forwards, his face impossibly close to Remus’s. He carefully took his glasses back.

“They’re upside down.” He righted them, and then slid them back onto the forest god’s face. “Here.”

Logan’s fingertips brushed against Remus’s cheeks. They were soft, so soft, as gentle as the raindrops that landed on leaves and stayed there for hours. But Logan’s touch didn’t stay there for hours, no, it was gone within moments, and Remus found himself desperate for more, more, as the sky god pulled away and looked at him expectantly.

“It’s, uh… it’s the same,” Remus said awkwardly. “You really don’t need these, do you?”

Logan shook his head. Little droplets of water fell from his hair and landed on the ground. Remus felt them as if they’d landed on his own skin.

And his hair, oh, his hair. It was as black as night and looked as soft as clouds and Remus wanted desperately to hold him close and run his fingers through it.

Remus took off the glasses, and then carefully - more carefully than he did anything else - pushed them back onto Logan’s face. He let his touch linger, before pulling away.

There was mud on the sky god’s face now, and his glasses were lopsided.

Logan took a moment to correct them, but he made no move to get rid of the mud. The two stared at each other for an unknown amount of time, before Logan’s eyes drifted elsewhere, landing somewhere behind Remus.

The forest god didn’t even need to turn around. He had eyes everywhere, so he knew Logan was admiring a patch of flowers beside a tree.

Remus’s moustache twitched, and the prettiest blue flower appeared in his hand. He reached out and tucked it behind Logan’s ear. His fingertips brushed against a lock of hair; it was exactly as soft as it looked.

Logan’s lips parted slightly in surprise, and he reached up to touch the flower, his hand coming in contact with Remus’s, sending a shiver up his arm and down his spine.

There were a few moments of silence, before Logan suddenly disappeared, and then the rain began. Had it really already been four hours?

Remus turned his face to the sky, feeling the rain hit his skin and run down his body. If he closed his eyes, it wasn’t difficult to imagine that it was Logan’s hands on him instead.

The next time he saw Logan was much sooner than the last.

“Good evening, Remus,” Logan said, appearing behind the other god and peering curiously over his shoulder. “What are you working on?”

“This tree is dying,” He answered, laying his hand on the mossy trunk, feeling the life drain out of it like blood dripping from an open wound.

“Oh.”

Logan placed his hand on Remus’s shoulder. The forest god turned around, opening his mouth to speak again, but the words slipped back down his throat when he saw the other god’s face.

Oh, what a fool he’d been, when he’d called Logan’s eyes blue.

Logan’s eyes were the sky.

They weren’t just like the sky, they were the sky.

They were soft blue during the daytime, sure, but a harsh grey during storms. At night, the irises were dark blue - barely distinguishable from the black of his pupils - speckled with numerous bright white stars. Remus was sure that if you were close enough, you would be able to make out the constellations in his eyes.

And, right now, as the sun began to set over the horizon, his eyes were filled with the soft pinks and oranges of sunset.

Consciously or subconsciously - neither could tell - Remus began to lean closer to Logan, their faces only inches apart.

And then, Logan crossed the gap, and kissed him.

As soon as their lips met, rain began to pour from the clouds. The sky met the forest and it was impossible to tell where they ended and the gods began, but the duo didn’t seem to care.

Remus wrapped his arms around Logan, pulling him closer, pressing their bodies together and deepening the kiss. Time either flew by or crawled at a snail’s pace, neither god felt the need to keep track.

When Logan eventually pulled away, Remus let out an involuntary whine, and the sky god’s eyes - his gorgeous, gorgeous eyes - were wide, his lips parted in surprise at his own actions.

Remus glanced up at the sky, at the passionate storm that raged above them, and then back at Logan.

“Was that planned?” He asked, soft and breathless, and even he didn’t know if he was referring to the storm or the kiss.

Logan looked up, too, as if he’d only just noticed the rain, and then laughed. It rang through the air like bells and Remus silently declared it his new favourite sound. He looked back at the forest god, looking happier than he’d ever seemed before.

“No, it wasn’t.”

The other gods soon learned of the lovers, of course; rumours spread like wildfire. They talked and they talked and they especially loved to say that every drop of rain that hit the forest was a kiss shared between Logan and Remus.

When asked, Logan called the idea prepostorous - basing something as constant as the weather cycle on something as fickle as kisses would be foolish.

But, privately, he knew that they weren’t that far off.

#me #ask #writing #clouds and moss au #intrulogical #sanders sides #remus sanders #sympathetic remus #logan sanders #gods au

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aftgficrec · 5 years ago

Note

staff favorite ~30 to 40k word fics? specific themes don’t really matter, i’d just like ones around that length

It’s always nice to revisit favorite fics; they’re like old friends. Here are some staff favorites in the 30-40k range. Hope you love them too. - A

and in a flash, it’s gone. by Idnis [Rated M, 35881 Words, Complete, 2017, Locked]

‘I wouldn’t associate with Andrew anymore, nor with any of the others. You can’t trust foxes after all.’

The man’s fist connected precisely where his head wound was, and then Neil Josten was gone.

Neil loses his memory and has to somehow make sense of the pieces of his past and present. And Andrew.

tw: blood, tw: violence, tw: language, tw: nightmares, tw: alcohol, tw: scars, tw: vomit, tw: minor character death

The Secret Lives of Neil Josten by Aelys_Althea [Rated T, 37480 Words, Complete, 2019, Locked]

Neil’s life has been a mystery for so long that it was all but expected that a sliver of unexpectedness would reveal itself to the Foxes on occasion. Sometimes it wasn’t as unexpected as it perhaps should have been - but sometimes it most definitely was.

tw: alcohol, tw: implied/referenced drug use, tw: blood

No Place Like Home by gluupor, moonix [Rated T, 31709 words, complete 2019, Locked]

With neighbours like these, who needs enemies? Neil and Andrew have been friends for years, but have never met face to face. Josten and Minyard are new neighbours who start off on the wrong foot. Can they turn a prank war into a courtship?

Corvus, Vulpus, Lupus by badacts [Rated T, 31834 words, Complete, 2017, Locked]

Sin settles later than most.

It’s not until Mary dies that she finally does settle. Neil looks away from the car, dazzled by firelight and the sense memory of her daemon breaking apart, and finds silvery speckled fur with jet-black points and reddish eyes the same colour as Nathaniel Wesninski’s hair. Just like that, he knows she won’t shift again.

tw: canon typical violence, tw: nonconsensual drug use, tw: alcohol

honey don’t feed me (i will come back) by Talls [Rated T, 31725 Words, Complete, AFTG Big Bang 2019]

There’s a new god in the pantheon; Andrew remembers hearing about the scandal a while back, the newest Demeter having a child with the current Zeus and then going on the run, child in tow. They call him Persephone, the god of springtime and new life, the antithesis of Andrew’s realm. It would be ludicrous of Perspehone to ever interact with Andrew at all.

If only someone told Persephone that.

tw: implied/referenced csa, tw: non con drugs, tw: implied/referenced torture, implied/referenced abuse

Push to Talk by alexjosten [Rated T, 33830 Words, Complete, AFTG Reverse Big 2019]

Neil needs a fresh start. He has a new name and a new job in the middle of nowhere, miles away from anything to do with Exy. The only person he speaks to is Andrew, who knows nothing about him… until Neil’s past catches up with him. Written for the 2019 AFTG Reverse Big Bang and inspired by Neyu’s Firewatch AU prompt.

tw: ptsd, tw: mental health issues, tw: panic attacks, tw: scars, tw: alcohol, tw: blood

Here Comes the Sun by Fuzzballsheltiepants [Rating M, 32,382 words, complete AFTG Reverse Big 2019]

Neil was a child when his mother ripped him away from the only creature in the world he loveqd, his pony, JJ. Now ten years later, injured and desperate, he finds refuge in the stall of a racehorse. He ends up on a new track he never could have predicted, with an unexpected prize waiting for him at the finish line: hope.

tw: canon-typical violence, tw: injury

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hysteriium · 5 years ago

Text

Here’s to a Better Year

(A/n): So uhhh, this is late but hey, it’s me, so what’s new? I was meant to write this for New Years, and I especially dedicate it to those who haven’t really had the best time with the holidays, or to those who’ve been alone throughout it, it can be a really fucking difficult time. Arthur’s here to make it all better! That being said, I genuinely hope everyone’s been great and I hope y’all have had an amazing time. Y’all deserve all the love in the world :,) 💓

Summary: The only company you had on New Years was a bottle of alcohol, and a view of a city you often hated to call home. When a familiar face arrives in a rather noisy manner, things could perhaps change for the better.

Words: 1600 words (I KNOW W O W I actually managed to write something short for once).

Pairing: Arthur Fleck x Reader

Warning: Mentions of alcohol, drinking alcohol, implied stalking, depression, swearing

———

New Year’s Eve.

Gotham’s current avidity was a weird combination of distant, yet lively noise as you observed from your elevated haven; excited screams, laughter and drunken singing all merged together in one chaotic swarm of joy. While holidays were never really your thing, particularly parties (and the throbbing headaches blaring music would inevitably elicit), it would be a lie to deny the bundle of sound’s contagiousness – the smile tugging at your lips confirmation of such a fact.

There was one thing, however, you had in common with such partygoers, and that was the bottle of alcohol trapped within your clutch, it’s thin neck rocking side to side as its contents sloshed. As your forearms leaned against the brick half-wall and your hands dangled off the edges with the booze, you wondered how many others were viewing the city from above, like you; admiring a hidden gem.

Gotham rarely looked beautiful. But, from where you were on the rooftop of your gritty apartment block – the nippy breeze caressing your cheeks – the grim, menacing capital was able to achieve such a feat. The skyscrapers and the energetic spirit of colours decorating the city in celebration was almost enough to hide its rot.

Almost.

At the very least, it could make you forget – for a moment.

You were about to throw your head back and take a swig when the distinctive wail of the fire exit pierced the air, interrupting you. Old and wonky like the entire building, the door ensured no stranger could sneak up on you with such a boisterous announcement. Coinciding with this was the frightened squeak you emitted, the gruelling sensation of embarrassment hardly relenting its prodding stings like a nasty wasp.

Before you could even process who'd emerged after revolving around, the smell of smoke was an instant phenomenon. Second, was the orange glow of which the wispy clouds originated. Such an amber radiance posed as a lamp, illuminating the striking features of the new arriver. Clad in a carmine suit, a white patterned shirt underneath an equally red waistcoat, and a tie you could scarcely distinguish, you were sure you’d seen him before – on your floor and mysteriously, albeit seldom, while running errands.

Despite not knowing him from a bar of soap, not even his name, what you had noticed was that inside every interaction, the sorrow engulfing the man’s lithe frame, more so held within his gaze, was a prevailing thing.

You'd never seen him smile.

Now was no different as the stranger focused on the stick between his lips. Ignorant to your watching as his face contorted, sucking on its end.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the flooding relief of the year ending which coaxed your lips to move. You weren’t entirely sure, although it didn’t matter ultimately, as the unplanned remark was something you registered only after it sailed against the wind.

“If we bump into each other one more time, I’m going to suspect you’re following me,” you said, bracing your back against the wall you were leaning over just seconds ago.

Like a cat, you recognised the waver in his stature, a jolt in which had his eyes flying to yours, hinting shock and... worry?

Well, that hooked you in.

The giggle you gave in reply fluttered and cut into the tension, urging the twitching upturn of his lips. Before long, a reciprocal chuckle followed as if a major weight had lifted, his rigid form going lax.

Apparently then, it was your turn to be surprised. It hadn’t taken much for the man to laugh. His own joy graced his features, and so the real tragedy was that upon all the times you had come across him, the lack of spoke volumes. Filing this at the back of your mind, you silently picked up on the indicators of fatigue, particularly the bags under his eyes.

“Long night?” You nodded your head towards the cigarette.

A dramatic pause, then a furious shake of his head was his reply.

“Year.”

Boy, you felt that.

Like a compass near a magnet, his emotions flipped between each other, the predominant feeling of astonishment seemingly returning when you laughed at his quip.

Another small halt.

“So, may I know the name of my stalker?” Your tone was playful as you brought the cold glass up to your maw. It lingered for a moment and traced your lower lip while you stared at the man expectantly, an eyebrow quirked up. Before he could respond, however, you tilted its bottom up, welcoming the rich imprinting burn.

“Arthur,” he said in that same soft-spoken tone, hardly able to contain the mischievous twinkle flickering across his features – an expression which tugged at your chest. Even with the noise of the alcohol scrambling your mind and snugly embracing your form, you were still able to pinpoint your attraction.

Wordlessly, you patted the brick next to you in slow successions with your empty hand. A playful grin decorated your face as you relished in the purity of his reactions – all interwoven with a touch of innocence. For a moment, you held his stare, swearing you could hear him gulp until you abruptly turned back around to resume the absorbing magnetism of the cityscape. Hearing the pep in his step, his stride contained speckled confidence as he scurried next to you.

He made himself comfortable, mimicking your position against the top of the wall. The persistent gusts of wind had you shuffling closer to him; what was lost in its strength was made up with its bite.

“I’ve never seen it like this,” he whispered, struck by the wonderment of sparkling unfamiliarity. His look was almost hopeful, awakening a small twinge which began to eat away at the foundations of your heart; a slither of serenity prompted by the simplicity of such a tender moment.

“Makes you think what it could actually be like… you know, without the crime and corruption,” you jested.

He acknowledged your statement with an absent nod, entranced by the view like a kid's first time at an aquarium; completely enamoured and eager to make sense of the chaotic intermingle of vibrancy.

“Want a sip?” You asked, shaking the bottle with the arm you’d extended.

Sweetly he accepted, his gentle touch grazing your fingers for just a second too long as you passed him the alcohol. He met the entrance of the bottle and drank a generous amount, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He placed it down on the brick shortly after.

“Wait, you never told me your name,” he pursued, angling his body towards you.

“Well you’re not a very good stalker if you don’t know your victim's names now, are you?” You poked, not daring to return to the eyes that were no doubt searching yours. You caved at the uncomfortable pricks silence brought and at Arthur’s expectant gaze – which you could practically feel.

“(Y/n).”

Another unanticipated appearance of the icy gust had you rubbing your arms, a subconscious movement in which Arthur had picked up on. He shrugged his red suit jacket off his shoulders. With a quick maneuver, the material cuddled your upper-half, a safety blanket from the treacherous cold mother nature had bestowed upon Gotham. His thin fingers loitered around your shoulders, pressing down lightly. Judging by the abrupt softness overtaking his features, his green eyes dropping to your lips, you could tell he felt the unspoken, thrilling surge between the two of you too.

"You know, there's a tradition with New Years," you murmured, your heart racing from your escaping words. There was no going back now.

Unbeknownst as to how much time had passed, an eruption of excited cheers came from out of nowhere, interrupting you. It had caught you both off guard for a split second. It seemed like the whole of Gotham had gotten together to count down, those out on the balconies the loudest of the bunch.

"FIVE!"

"Oh really?" he practically purred, ignoring the surrounding clamour, feigning ignorance. His lopsided smirk told you all you needed to know, “do tell.”

"FOUR!"

You reached out, two digits climbing up his chest until they finally reached his tie, a yellow and crimson striped thing which somehow wound up tangled in your fist, pulling him closer. The fluttering of your stomach intensified from his proximity which was, give or take, a few measly centimetres away.

"THREE!"

"A kiss," you said, all but a whisper, gaze refusing to stray from his mouth. As his breath gently grazed your lips, they ever-so-slightly trembled in anticipation.

"TWO!"

“Tradition’s tradition,” he hummed with parted lips, his delicate hands cupping your cheeks.

"ONE!"

His nose gently brushed yours and he angled his head.

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

Cries and laughter were drowned out when Arthur finally closed the gap at the stroke of midnight. You could taste the alcoholic tang on his lips, merging together with his cigarette in a unique union. Although strange, it hardly deterred you, his slow rhythm perfectly matching your own.

Arthur was full of surprises.

When you finally pulled away matching his goofy smile, you both swivelled to awe at the booming array of hues past the towering buildings. Gracefully, the whistling fireworks morphed into soft trails after each climax, vanishing like falling stars.

While there wasn't a whole lot you could positively say about your apartment block, one of the few things was its unexpectedly clear view of the light show. Buzzed and your mind dulled with a fuzzy warmth, you rested your head against his shoulder, releasing a content sigh.

Here's to a better year.

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ohmeohmayohmy · 5 years ago

Text

With the Slightest Smile, Chapter 6

Taglist: @reedusteinrambles @juxt4p0siti0n @kurtnehhhh @singularpurplepansy @chlobo6

Notes: Tumblr was throwing a fit, so it’s taken a while to upload this bad boy. But good god, my heart is thawing out from that sweet, sweet Brian emotional turmoil. I love the man, and sometimes my heart aches for him. Maybe someday things will get better for him. I’d like to think so. Also, DAMN my boys are looking fine. 💕

Warnings: Implications of sexual nature (nothing in detail, no smut), a little bit of drinking, brief mention of body image issues, some F-bombs.

Words: 8.1k+

___________________________________

August 20, 1973

4:04am.

Again.

Only twenty four hours ago, you spent sweet time with Brian, together in the kitchen you shared, enjoying each other's sleepy company. Presently, Brian was alone, laying in bed, trying not to watch helplessly as the time ticked away on his bedside clock. Twenty four hours ago, it was as if you were all his, and he was all yours. No one outside of the confines of the flat existed.

But life goes on.

You were still at work.

And Brian had yet to fall asleep.

He couldn’t stop thinking about what happened at the nightclub mere hours ago. What transpired between you and John. It was cycling through his mind on repeat: the hope in Deaky’s eyes, how enamored he looked through the haze of intoxication; your response, how you held your hand to his chest before telling him no. What Brian couldn’t seem to move past was how you said it. You made it clear that you had no intention of saying yes to John under the influence of alcohol, but that didn’t mean you would still refuse in another situation. He wanted so desperately to convince himself it was the man, not the moment, but all that would come to mind were images of you and John laughing, with you sharing a smile that Brian wanted for himself. It was all too familiar, and he didn’t think he could endure losing you to someone close again.

Years ago, he came up with the rule that neither of you would talk about romantic interests unless prompted. You agreed. He never asked, so you never told. Now, it was all Brian could do to not ask you how you felt about Deaky. He was afraid to know the answer, but god, he wanted to.

Though the window was cracked open and the fan was blowing, Brian felt that the air filling his room grew hotter and staler with each passing minute. He tried to get out from the blankets, to rid himself of any excessive insulation, but in doing so he only managed to get tangled up more deeply in the sheets. Kicking and straining, Brian’s right leg broke free, followed by his hips and torso, then he wriggled his left leg into the coolness of the bedroom. He flung his tee shirt from his clammy chest, and stripped his boxers, throwing them directly at the hamper across the way. None of it seemed to help.

No matter how free he was, Brian still suffocated in sorrow.

_______________

September 27

“Nurse?”

You had your back turned to the desk, facing the center of the nurses’ station, your eyes closed shut. Strangely, the hospital lighting was giving you a headache. It seldom had that effect on you. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that you hadn’t taken a day off in a week, that you were sleep deprived. It didn’t matter.

“Nurse Y/L/N.” The person addressing you sounded more assertive. With a deep breath, you spun around to see whomever it was.

Doctor Tead.

“Hello, sir,” you spoke in a chipper tone, hiding your weariness. “Can I do something for you?”

“Perhaps. Nurse Roberts said your shift ended twenty minutes ago, but discovered you sitting here. Can you explain that?”

“Oh, well I—”

“We are not in the business of paying overtime for those who just sit taking a doze, do you understand?”

You nodded slowly.

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Doctor Tead relished in the moment. “Good girl,” he cooed in condescension, patting your hand, and began strutting off.

You watched the doctor disappear behind a patient’s door, fuming at his gross, patronizing comments. He wasn’t even the head of medicine; he was not your boss and had no real power over the nursing staff. Doctor Tead was the only person in the hospital that you harbored a sincere loathing for. He was a middle aged man who would hit on every new young nurse, and if one were to turn him down, he would make it his personal business to ruin her day. Needless to say, there were many recipients of Tead’s hectoring.

You grumbled as you slid from the seat, smoothed out your uniform, and grabbed your purse. Nurse Roberts, the head nurse, approached you after seeing that you were up.

“Take a couple of days off, honey.”

She was a stern, intimidating woman, but she cared for her nurses with intense compassion. You smiled at her before she could return to her other tasks. “I will see you on Sunday.” With a wave of the hand, she was gone.

You exited through the ward’s doors and began your descent downstairs. The main lobby of the hospital was fairly empty, there was only a visiting family and a few new admittances waiting to be brought up. A nurse standing by the front desk said goodbye before you walked outside. You exchanged some quick pleasantries, then continued on your way. Coming upon the parking lot, your attention was caught by someone walking toward you. He grinned at you. It was one of the younger doctors, Arthur Carlisle.

“Hello, Y/L/N,” he stopped to greet you. “Leaving so soon? Just when I arrive?” He teased you, as he often did, but you weren’t in the mood.

“Shift’s up.” You felt bad for being curt, but getting away from there was your current priority. “Have to get home.” When you tried to sidestep past him, he stuck an arm out.

“Are you alright?”

“I am tired.” You pushed his arm down and out of your way. “Have a nice evening, Doctor Carlisle.” You started to walk again, at a faster pace than before.

“Wait, Y/N,” the doctor called after you. You tensed at the sound of your first name being used. Only other nurses would address you as such. Never doctors. You didn’t take another step, but you didn’t look back at him either. Taking that as an invitation, Carlisle came up to stand next to you. “I’ll give him hell for you,” he said, referring to Tead. You gave him a tiny smirk, then carried on to the nearby stop for the Tube. “And it’s Arthur to you!”

* * *

Rides home were the few times where you could sit back and immerse yourself in your headspace without interference. People wouldn’t bother you in your nurse’s uniform if you appeared to be sleeping–they wouldn’t dare disturb you.

You leaned against the back of your seat, resting your head on the window to your left. You placed your legs up beside you, since your row was otherwise vacant. The rattle of the train was soothing, giving enough noise to make you feel not as alone as you did, but not enough to distract or interrupt your thoughts.

You hadn’t spent time with the band over the course of the last month, only barely seeing Brian when your schedules allowed for it. Roger stopped by once or twice to get things from Brian while you were home, but that was the extent of interaction. You wanted to distance yourself, give any drama that was bubbling up a chance to simmer down. What John had said on his birthday made you question how much time and attention you were giving to the group, and the implications behind it all. You didn’t mean to give anyone the wrong idea. You didn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea. So, you decided it best to stop hanging around the studio for a while. Brian concurred a little too hastily.

Stella kept you company on most of the nights when near-isolation became too much, and Brian was busy. Sometimes her girlfriend, Odette, would join in the festivities of the evening, bringing in pastries from the bakery she ran, but mostly Stella would come alone and let you rant as much as necessary. You found it easier to get riled up on certain days, especially those on which you had interactions with Doctor Tead. More often than not, however, you would sip on the champagne Stella brought with her and speak tipsy, teary musings about love and life. She found the spectacle very amusing, being the sober onlooker.

The screech of brakes echoed through the traincar, taking you out of your head. When you came out onto the street, you noticed the sky was still speckled with rosy-hued streaks and creamy clouds. The trees lining the streets framed the sight like a painting, and you felt like a piece of the art just by witnessing it. You slowly made your way home, passing several people. Some you recognized and others you didn’t, but you flashed a tired smile at anyone who came your way. With work behind you, you wanted to move forward in the day with happiness instead of resentment. The closer you got to your building, the bigger your smile became. Noting that Brian’s car was parked in its usual place, you quickened your gait. As you came up the indoor stairwell, you fished through your purse for keys.

I really do need to clear this thing out.

Walking through the hallway, you smelled something cooking. Making it to your door, you located the source of the scent and heard music playing. The light streaming through the gap between the door and the floor was faint. You hesitantly turned the key in the lock, hoping you weren’t about to interrupt anything. Pushing the door open enough to squeeze through, you glanced around the living room.

No one was there, but there were lit candles twinkling on every surface you could see. You didn’t think you and Brian even possessed that many candles between the two of you.

You tiptoed to the kitchen, trying to remain as inaudible as possible. The countertops were absolutely spotless, and there were two unused wine glasses set out next to a fresh platter of butternut squash ravioli and a bowl of simple tossed salad. You took in a whiff of the food, making your mouth water. It was one of your favorite dishes, and the only thing you had eaten since your shift started at 5 o’clock that morning was an apple. Shaking your head to rid yourself of the temptation, you left the kitchen to see if anyone was in the flat. You knew Brian’s car was downstairs, but you couldn’t know for certain that he was alone.

Inching down to Brian’s bedroom, you could make out a gentle whimper from behind his door. It was quiet, but as you got nearer to it, the more distinct it became. You grew worried, beginning to take larger strides. Then the soft whimpering was accompanied by some panting. It struck you. You didn’t want to barge in on him if he was with a girl, so you froze just short of the doorway with a hand in the air prepared to knock, stopped out of not wanting to intrude on Brian’s privacy. You felt stuck to the floor, unable to move your feet.

To your horror, the door suddenly flew open, and you stood face to face with a sweaty Brian. Upon seeing you, his eyes widened and his expression was mortified. His face was red, possibly from embarrassment, but that was probably not the sole factor. He cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry, Brian,” you spoke first, and started babbling, “I didn’t know you had company. I would’ve made myself scarce or—”

“Oh, no no no no,” he shook his hands in front of his body with great fervor. “I’m, uh, I’m alone.”

You furrowed your brow, confused by the romantic atmosphere. The candles. The wine. The fancy food.

Wow.

You didn’t know what to say.

Say something!

“You really go all out when romancing yourself, huh?”

Anything would have been better than that! Silence is better than that!

You clapped a hand over your mouth, ashamed. You couldn’t bring yourself to make eye contact with your best friend. He towered over you, but somehow, he stood small.

“Sorry,” you whispered from behind your hand. Brian chuckled awkwardly.

“It’s alright, Y/N.”

You looked up at him, and could see his eyes screaming, but decidedly didn’t say anything about it out of gratitude for his understanding. Due to the sheer discomfort, you started laughing involuntarily, with your hand still placed over your mouth. Brian reached out a hand to put it on your shoulder, to calm you, but decided that wouldn’t be best.

You straightened up, wiping a tear of laughter from your eye. “Did you wait for me to have dinner?” He nodded, his gaze intense but sweet. You weren’t paying enough attention to see that.

“I wasn’t sure when you’d be home, exactly,” Brian played with his hair. “It should still be warm. At least, I hope so.”

“Mind if I clean myself up first?” You bit your lip, gesturing to your uniform.

“I was about to ask you the same,” he said, lighthearted. You beamed at his delicate face.

“After you,” you motioned to the bathroom door. Brian gave you a funny look, but you weren’t thinking about your words. He dipped his head and ducked into the room.

You turned to grab clean clothes from your bedroom and kick the shoes off your aching feet. Brian came out after a couple minutes.

“All yours,” he peered into your room with a smile painfully plastered across his cheeks. You gathered up your things and went to turn the water on. A scalding hot shower was all you needed to wash the day away.

* * *

Brian felt foolish as he waited for you to finish your shower. You didn’t seem to understand what he was putting out for you, running around making the flat more presentable. Or the energy he spent trying to figure out how to make ravioli from scratch, and the time it took to ask for help from one of your neighbors when he broke down over his cooking failure. Even getting hold of and lighting all the candles was a larger undertaking than he anticipated. If you couldn’t see what he was trying to tell you, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to bring it up.

You finally opened the bathroom door, steam rolling out through the hall like a thick fog. Stepping into the living room, you radiated warmth. Brian watched you approach him in your purple pajama set, hair still wet but not dripping. The flickering of the candles reflected in the satiny fabric covering your body. Brian had to force his eyes to keep them from dancing all over your figure. He gulped, hoping you wouldn’t notice.

“Should I get down some plates for us?” You started for the cupboard.

“No,” Brian reached out a hand to touch you. “You don’t need to lift a finger, go take a seat. ’Ve got it.” He smiled genuinely, urging you to relax. You appreciated the sentiment, so you went to throw yourself on the sofa.

A few moments later, Brian set down a wine glass in front of you and one in front of the worn “study chair”, where he would sit. He popped open a new bottle of moscato and poured a generous amount into each of your cups. Placing the bottle on the far end of the coffee table, he spun around and marched back into the kitchen. You heard the clanging of some dishes, setting you on edge, but when Brian reemerged with two plates of ravioli and salad, you lazed back into the softness of the couch. He settled into his customary position.

“Cheers,” he held out his glass.

“Cheers.” You smiled into your drink as you took a sip.

Brian had some trouble getting a ravioli to latch onto the prongs of his fork. It was enough to entertain you, until he gave up and started on his salad. You were not met with the same difficulty, and smugly scooped a piece of the entree into your mouth, making sure Brian was watching. He stuck out his tongue, then with a stroke of luck, managed to get one to stay long enough for him to eat.

Of course, it was all a show for you. He just wanted to make you happy. He had spoken to Stella earlier when she called for you, and she let it slip that you were having a hard time lately, between your problems at work and the sudden separation from her other friends, the boys.

“So, what’s all of this, then?” You glanced around at the candles and the cleanliness.

In that moment, Brian decided to put off any big revelations for another time. You were exhausted and needed some time to enjoy yourself, without clouds of worry. He looked down and grinned softly.

“Wanted to celebrate you,” Brian’s voice matched his expression.

You didn’t understand what he meant. You never did.

He perked up. “I mean, someone ought to. You’re one of our country’s finest healers!” His playful exclamation hit you with a wave of affection. You could tell he was trying to cheer you up, and you could feel it working.

“Well, I don’t know about that—”

“I do.”

The conversation subsided as you both took a moment to eat the food before you.

“This is delicious,” you said in between bites. “Did you get it from Sicilian Cafe?”

Brian shook his head, mouth still full of salad. “No,” he swallowed, “I actually made it from scratch.”

You were awed. “Really?” He nodded, feeling slightly guilty for not including the part where the culinary student, who lived on the floor below, helped only after having him cry to her for several minutes, but he didn’t find it to be a necessary detail. He liked your amazement, it made him feel good.

“You’re quite impressive, Mister May.”

Brian took a swig from his wine, finishing off the contents of his glass. Noticing, you picked up the bottle and handed it to him. He thanked you.

“Would you mind topping me off too? ’S been a long week.” Brian complied.

In the middle of taking a drink, something occurred to him. “Oh!” He spilled some wine on the floor. You jumped up to grab a rag to clean it up. Brian took it from you and dabbed at the spillage.

“Sorry, Y/N.”

“Don’t be. I’m just amazed you’re actually cleaning something up,” you teased. “Anyway, what were you thinking about that caused such a frenzy?”

“Well,” he started, draping the rag over the arm of his chair. “The boys and I have been working with these great guys, y’know, Mott the Hoople?” You nodded, vaguely remembering talking to Freddie about them. “And they’ve asked us to tour with them!” Your jaw dropped.

“They what? When?!”

“It was made official a couple days ago, and we’re starting in Leeds in November.”

You got up from your seat and wrapped your arms around Brian. He pulled you onto his lap so he could hold you tighter. You stroked his hair.

“Oh, Bri, I am so proud of you.” As you whispered into his ear, you could feel some tears welling up in your eyes. You pulled back for a second, to look at him. “See? I told you, you were meant to do great things.” Brian gripped onto one of your wrists and brought your hand closer to him. Before he could stop himself, he laid a tender kiss on top of your thumb. Startled, you abruptly pulled your hand away, not expecting the action. He looked upset, or guilty, and you couldn’t decide which.

Maybe he’s getting caught up in the excitement, you thought, writing it off as an intimate gesture shared between good friends in an intimate moment. You got up from where you sat, but shot Brian a reassuring smile, and began to pick up the empty plates. He sprung out of the chair.

“Oh, you don’t have to do—” he cut himself off, “I made dessert, too.”

You put the dishes back down on the table, unsure what to do.

A pause. You hesitated for a bit while debating the notion, but gave into your cravings. “What did you make?”

Brian smiled devilishly. “Red velvet.” He knew you loved the cream cheese frosting, and he was proud that he could actually make it by himself.

You sucked your bottom lip in between your teeth. “You’re too good to me, Brian May. God, what did I do to deserve you?” Brian blushed and turned to go into the kitchen.

Once you were alone, you finally recognized that music was still playing on Brian’s old record player. It was a collection of Ella Fitzgerald standards, one of your favorite albums. Your father gifted it to you for your thirteenth birthday. Wishing you had paid more attention, you could tell you missed most of the tracks. The jazz swelling through the air had a physical effect on you, you found new energy to sway and sing along.

In the kitchen, Brian brought out a lopsided cake covered in lumpy frosting. The flowers that were originally envisioned appeared to be pink globs of disappointment. He frowned, thinking it was glorious before, but now, he only felt embarrassment at the idea of presenting it to you. With a sad sigh and a small shrug, he took out a knife and cut two slices. From where he stood, Brian could hear your voice softly carrying the tune of “Dream a Little Dream of Me” and the faint pattering of your feet dancing across the creaky wooden planks. The thought of you joyfully moving to the rhythm in your skimpy sleep shorts, and your damp hair twisted up in a messy ‘do was enough to jolt him from his pitiful mood.

When he came out with the small dessert plates in hand, Brian was overcome at the sight of you. You had your eyes closed, your hips swaying to and fro, your feet occasionally making steps from one side to the other. He leaned against the wall closest to him and began to sing along with you. You noticed the shift in sound and glanced at Brian.

He started to sing Louis Armstrong’s harmony, so you joined as Ella came in. You walked up to him to take the slices of cake and put them on the coffee table. As you did, Brian came closer and you turned to take his hand in yours. He laughed a little as you grooved more playfully, smiling at your touch. You let him go to show off some disco moves in slow motion, fitting them to the tempo of the song. Brian tried to mirror your actions, but to no avail. His own movements were clumsy and looked very unnatural for him, so you reached out to him again to take him into your arms. Brian was more comfortable that way. Since it was the last song on the record, you let it play through to a full stop.

You released your friend from your grasp to adjust your top. Brian shyly moved to his chair to await your company before touching his dessert. You lounged on the sofa, dangling your clean feet over the arm nearest to him. He offered you the plate with your piece of cake on it, which you happily accepted. Grabbing your fork, you shoveled a portion into your mouth without studying the decorations. Brian felt a little relieved that you weren’t interested in observing the slice.

“This is delicious,” you said with half a bite still in the process of being consumed. Brian usually despised loud chewing noises, but he overlooked them, enjoying your delight.

“I do what I can.”

You were so grateful for this random little “celebration” he put on for you. You didn’t even question the candlelit meal for a second.

“So, how were the boys? Just as thrilled as you?”

Brian chuckled. “Roger and Fred were practically bouncing off the walls.” He intentionally didn’t mention John.

“Do you know the first date yet? I could try to request the day off.” You scrambled for another bite.

“I am not quite sure. I think it’s the fifth or sixth.”

“Well, I could come with you to the studio tomorrow to confirm. ’Ve been given a break until Sunday.”

Brian shifted his position. “We’re actually not in the studio tomorrow.”

You were disappointed, but tried to hide it. Brian could tell. He cleared his throat.

“But we are going to do some shopping, if you’d be interested.”

That perked you right up again.

“Yeah? All of you?”

“As if Freddie would let us pick out our own performance wear,” Brian scoffed. You nodded in agreement. “He says we’ve got to be more ‘glam’.”

You blew out, raising your eyebrows, and nodded again with more subtlety. “I wouldn’t say you or John have the flashiest of wardrobes.” Brian narrowed his eyes with indignation. “Now Roger…” You shrugged, indicating that you considered his fashion to be more adventurous. “But I think Freddie could only be described as ‘extravagant’, ‘glam’ is too mundane.”

Brian loosened up at the notion. “I think he would prefer that, too.”

You finished your dessert and stood up to clear the table. Brian got up to help you, taking the large dinner plates while you grabbed the wine glasses and dessert dishes. You directed him to put everything on the countertop, and turned on the water for it to warm.

“Stella could come too, if you’d like,” he tried to steer the conversation back to the outing.

You snorted, not looking up from the plate you were washing. “You know how she feels about Roger.”

“But she loves judging fashion.”

“As much as she despises him?”

“But she could judge his fashion.” Brian had a gleam in his eye, and it didn’t stem from the excitement that the promise of dish drying provided.

You stopped what you were doing to face him. “I think she’ll pass.” Brian threw his hands up to show defeat, waving the white dish rag in surrender. You returned to your task.

The sound of the faucet was the only noise for a few moments.

“How was work today, Y/N?” He changed the subject, knowing only what Stella had told him over the phone about the past week. You groaned.

“Hellish.”

“Anything out of the ordinary?”

“Not really. Doctor Tead was a total rotter, as usual.” You thought about it some more. “Doctor Carlisle called me by my name.”

Brian was perplexed by the oddity of the interaction, until he remembered the complete division between doctors and nurses. But he hadn’t heard this name before. “Who’s that?”

“He’s one of the younger members of the medical staff. Strange. Great physician.” You paused. “The children adore him. He even lets them call him Arty.”

“Was he there when Tead was around?”

“No, he’d only just arrived as I was leaving. We have wonky timing like that. One of us is always going out as the other is coming in.”

“Does he usually call you that?”

You shook your head. “First time. He even tried to get me to call him Arthur.”

“Maybe he wants to recruit you to join him at the Round Table.”

You threw the sponge into its basket after finishing your cleaning duties. “I think I’d make a great Sir Lancelot.” You puffed out your chest.

“Lady Guinevere,” Brian considered.

“Because I’m a girl?”

“I was thinking I would be Lady Guinevere. You’re the handsome knight who steals me away.”

“Ooh, I don’t know,” you tutted. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of anything between you and Doctor Carlisle.” Brian looked unamused, but he didn’t really mind. He secretly loved the silly banter.

“We better blow all the candles out before we both forget and go to bed.” You shifted the topic of conversation again.

Brian’s face grew red at the mention of it. He wanted to forget where he had planned the evening to go. Before you could even make a step in the direction of the living room, Brian darted out of the kitchen. It was the fastest you’d seen him move in a while. You followed shortly behind, but most of the flames had been put out by the time you joined him.

“Brian?” You piped up. He looked up at you. “Why so many candles?”

So close. He was so close to avoiding the subject. Thankfully, he could think well on his feet.

“Just thought you might appreciate some softer lighting after a long day in the hospital.”

“How did you know?”

“Lucky guess?”

You accepted his answer, blowing on the last of the flaming wicks, and took a seat.

“I think I should go to bed,” Brian began rushing off to his bedroom.

“It’s barely even dark outside.”

He stopped. “Today’s been longer than you could imagine.”

You were unimpressed. “Is that a challenge?” You folded your arms over your chest.

“I’m simply saying I don’t have your motivation—”

“You were able to be at home all day, lounging like some lizard on a hot rock.” Brian laughed at your odd simile. You cracked a smile too. “Please? We hardly get to just sit and enjoy time without having to be anywhere, anymore.”

“If you insist, love.” He moved to return to his designated chair, but before he could sit down, you patted down on the cushion next to you. He acted nonchalant, taking his time before joining you.

“So, when are we going out on the town tomorrow?” You tossed your legs over Brian’s lap, and leaned back to lay on one of the throw pillows you had picked out years before.

“I know Fred will want to be up and at ’em early, but the rest of us probably aren’t planning to get out of bed until at least eleven.”

You were content with that. “I can do eleven.”

“Fortunately for us, he can’t drive. So he can’t just show up unannounced.”

“Unless he gets Roger to do his bidding,” you said dryly. You couldn’t forget the time Freddie had walked in on your floury wrestling match not long ago.

“I don’t think anyone could get Rog rallied and presentable before ten,” Brian joked, the thought going over his head.

“Then let’s hope for that. Nothing before ten.”

_______________

September 28

The morning came all too quickly. However, you and Brian were ready to go before you even got a call from the others, telling you to hurry yourselves. Out of the lot of them, Brian was notorious for sleeping in. However, Freddie was the one who was consistently arriving late. Unless he was the one organizing the outing.

You were sitting on the couch, flipping through a magazine while waiting for Brian to locate his trainers.

“Did you look under the mound of laundry?” You shouted out to him. You could hear a grunt of umbrage, causing you to wrinkle your nose in response. “Well?”

Brian appeared through the entry, looking triumphant with a black pair of dirty Converse hanging by their laces from his fingers.

“And where were they?” You returned your focus on the images in front of you.

Brian sighed. “Under the laundry,” he mumbled. He kneeled to lace up the shoes.

“Interesting.” You tossed the magazine onto the coffee table and set your feet on the ground. He stood at the same time. “Ready, m’lady?” You offered the crook of your arm to Brian. He scrunched his face in confusion. “Guinevere,” you elaborated. His mouth formed an O with remembrance, bobbing his head lazily.

“Did you call by Roger’s place, letting ’im know we’re on our way?”

“Yes, a couple minutes ago. Fred thought you should forget about those old things,” you sneered as you pointed to Brian’s feet, “but I told him to forget about that awful peacock hat of his, and it shut him up nicely.”

“Fred was there?”

“And John was too. I figure they spent the night.”

Brian brought his shoulders up slightly. “Convenient for us, that means we only have to make one stop.” He grabbed the keys from the counter. “Suppose we better go.”

You beat him to the door and swung it open, moving into the hall. Brian slammed it behind him, dropping his keys simultaneously. You both bent down to grab them, and again, you beat him to it. But his hand engulfed yours anyway, not fully thinking nor looking. You breathed softly, bringing your sights up to his eyes.

Hazel.

You smiled.

I always forget.

He returned the smile, his own breath hitching in his throat.

The stillness was interrupted by someone stomping up the stairs. It was the neighbor whose flat was across from yours. You never could recall his name. He looked down at the pair of you and blew air through his nose, humor crinkling around his eyes.

“How many people does it take to grab keys off the floor?”

“Two, apparently,” you sassed, still locked in your crouching position with Brian. You didn’t look at him, but you could feel that his gaze never left your face.

The humor faded and your neighbor scowled as he pushed his own door open, going inside and closing it without another look. With a sigh of satisfaction, you got up from the ground, bringing Brian with you.

“Lonely sot,” you murmured to Brian, who tossed his head back with silent laughter.

* * *

“Look who’s here,” Freddie chirped, widening the door to Roger’s flat for you and Brian to enter through. Brian spoke a quiet greeting, but Fred ignored him and wrapped himself around you. He pressed a kiss on your forehead. “How are you, darling?”

You sunk further into his grasp. “I’m alright, Fred. Missed you.”

He pulled out of the embrace to grab your shoulders, looking you square in the eye. “You can’t leave us alone again for that long, Y/N. We nearly strangled each other every chance we got.”

“Yeah, a medical professional would be helpful if one of us actually went through with it,” Roger chimed in, moving Freddie out of the way to get to you. He winked at you before pulling you into his arms. “Glad to see you.”

You giggled. “You’re all talking like I dropped off the face of the planet, or something. I was busy with work, you know that.” You pressed your palm into one of Roger’s shoulders, playing. You hadn’t said anything to him or Freddie about what they missed on John’s birthday, and highly doubted Brian or Deaky himself would bring it up. Work was your excuse, and they didn’t question it.

You swiveled your head around to find John standing alone, halfway across the room. He gave a small wave before slowly making his way over to the rest of you. “Hi, Y/N.” John looked down at his feet. You noticed he wasn’t wearing any shoes.

Is he not coming?

With timidity, Deaky pecked your cheek quickly, but not quick enough for Brian to miss it.

He clenched his jaw.

“You boys ready to go?” You tore your focus from John to address the others.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been ready to give Brian a new wardrobe since the day I met him.”

Brian looked exasperated by Freddie’s remark, but you and Roger couldn’t hold back your chuckles.

“No Mary?” You asked Fred.

“She won’t be joining us. Has work to do, or some other nonsense,” he joked. You smirked.

In the brief moments of your reunion with Roger, John, and Freddie, you already felt more emotionally fulfilled. Brian saw the content on your face.

You turned back to John. “Where are your shoes?” He looked dumbfounded. You looked at Brian. “Maybe they’re under your dirty clothes, too.” He rolled his eyes, but all in good fun.

Freddie gasped dramatically. “Is it really that bad?” You gave an overexaggerated nod.

“It is not!”

“Ah, shut up, Bri.” Roger batted a hand at the taller man.

“You’ve got room to talk,” Brian said sarcastically, motioning his arms to the entirety of Roger’s flat. “At least I’m just messy and not dirty.”

“Is there even a fucking difference?”

“There is a very important distinction!”

“And what exactly would that be?”

“One involves messes and the other involves dirt!”

You and Freddie exchanged looks, amused by the childish tiff. He glanced at the clock on the table and cleared his throat.

“Dears?” Freddie spoke calmly and politely. Brian and Roger stepped back from each other and looked at him. “We should be going.” You were dazzled by his sunny behavior. The other two grumbled as they started for the door. Freddie put an arm around both of their shoulders, saying things you didn’t care to listen to.

You walked closer to John.

“Hi,” you whispered kindly.

“Hello.” He spoke with a far away look in his eyes.

“How’re you?”

Deaky looked back down to his feet. You were discouraged, seeing him appear uncomfortable even after a month of evasion.

“I’m sorry.” He wouldn’t look at you.

Your heart broke a little for him. You reached for one of the limp hands hanging to his side, keeping it firmly in your own.

“It’s alright, sunshine,” you muttered. “I know you didn’t mean it.” Those words caused him to meet your gaze. John opened his mouth to object, but didn’t say anything when he saw the compassion in your eyes.

He knew you were lying.

You knew he had told the truth.

The door closed. You both turned to see what happened. Only Freddie remained in the flat with you. He had his arms crossed and a sly look scrawled across his face.

“I managed to get TweedleDee and TweedleDum out to bring the car around.” He sighed. “They even argued about whose car we were using.”

John looked horrified.

“Don’t worry, Deaky, I didn’t hear a thing.”

Neither of you could tell if he was being sincere or not.

A lull filled the space. You weren’t sure what to do, or say.

“Who are TweedleDee and TweedleDum?”

“Love, haven’t you seen that Disney film?” You both shook your heads. Freddie grinned.

“It’s a fantastic trip.”

* * *

The ride into town was long.

You resented being squished in the back between Roger and Deaky. Brian had won the argument over who would get to drive, and Freddie insisted on riding up front next to him, claiming it was his “birthright as the oldest”. You relented, knowing you wouldn’t be able to go up against him.

John mumbled to himself, “Still think we should’ve taken the train.” You mentally agreed with him, but sat in silence.

Periodically, Roger would ask you something about the hospital, reminding you that he once was a biology student, studying to be a practitioner of dentistry. You were happy to engage in conversation, enjoying the chance to talk about it with someone you didn’t work with. Brian was a brilliant man, and understood the concepts you mentioned, but sometimes you felt as though he thought too much when you spoke to him about medicine; he would often respond with a tidbit about physics.

Brian glanced in the rear view mirror to see the back seat, and saw Roger’s arm resting on his leg, his hand cradling his chin. You talked with excitement in your voice and eyes, causing Roger to hang onto every word you said. John was staring out the window, unresponsive. Brian was so distracted by the scene behind him, he forgot about the world in front of him. Freddie tapped him on the shoulder, making him snap out of it, and pointed to the road ahead, full of traffic. Brian slammed on the brakes, causing Beatrix to lurch and let out a concerning noise. Roger, not paying attention, hit his head on the back of Freddie’s seat.

“Ow!” He rubbed his forehead. “I thought you were supposed to be a good driver, May.”

“Still better than you, Taylor,” Brian huffed.

“Oh, stop it, you two.” Freddie sounded playful, but you all could tell he was growing tired of the bickering.

“So,” you spoke up, more cheerful than your company. “Where exactly are you bringing us, Fred?”

“Excellent question, Y/N! None of these simpletons even bothered to ask.” He glared into the mirror, pointedly at Roger, then to John. “There’s this lovely little shop where my friend Minnie works. She said she could get us good deals on the merchandise.”

“That’s great!”

No one else said a thing. Brian reached for the knob to turn up the radio, but Freddie slapped his hand away.

“I was also thinking we could go for lunch, but only if I see some spirits rise.”

“Eh, if they want to mope, maybe just you and I will go.” You patted Freddie’s shoulder.

John lifted his head from the window and sat up straight, the height difference between the two of you suddenly very prominent. “I think that sounds nice.” He hadn’t said much during the drive, except the occasional sassy comment made under his breath that only you were able to hear. You smiled at his change in demeanor.

* * *

There were velvet trousers in every hue. Satin shirts with zany patterns. Jewelry of varying designs. It was sort of what you imagined Freddie’s paradise to be like.

You dragged Brian by the hand to go through some tops you thought he’d be fond of. He was never hesitant about more feminine styles. He loved lacy things. You held up a black shirt with large sleeves up against your body, trying to get him to imagine what it would look like on a body. Brian had a moment of deja vu.

--October 25, 1961--

“Which one do you like better?” Brian asked you, holding up a flowy purple dress, followed by a longer blue one, then switching back and forth between them.

In your hands, you held a delicate white frock. The fabric glistened in the sunlight from the window behind you. You watched Brian twirl the garments around for your benefit, insisting it would help you “envision the silhouette” better. You giggled when he lifted the hanger of the purple one over his head, setting it around his neck.

“Well, I think that one suits you nicely.”

“Ya think so?” He craned his neck downward to get a better look at it from his angle. “Think it works with my womanly figure?” Brian shimmied for you, letting the dress swing around in front of his gangly frame. You put the white one back on its rack and gave him a cheer, accompanied by an enthusiastic round of applause.

The other patrons of the shop glared at the two rowdy teenagers disrupting the quiet atmosphere. Neither of you cared, wrapped up in the fun you were having. Brian only stopped dancing when he noticed a young man, who appeared to be several years older than himself, smiling at him. He was with his girlfriend, at least Brian thought it was his girlfriend, who was sifting through a section of evening wear. She would hold up a glittering gown to see his reaction, and if he seemed to like it, she’d drape it over her forearm with the others he approved of. Everytime he said something kind, the young woman would gaze up at him with pure adoration. Brian hoped others thought you looked at him like that.

“I just don’t know if I could pull it off.”

Brian came out of his trance to focus on you. He hung the blue dress back where he found it. “What do you mean?”

You bit your cheek.

“It’s certainly beautiful, but I don’t think it would look as nice on me as is does on the hanger.” You lowered your eyes, feeling vulnerable.

Being in a place full of gorgeous women with attire to match made you feel self-conscious. You thought that puberty hadn’t been kind to you, you felt like a stranger in your own skin. In fact, you only worked up the nerve to go in when Brian said he would try on dresses with you.

For once, Brian felt like he wasn’t the frightened one.

“Oh, don’t be so fucking ridiculous.”

Your mouth was agape, you were shocked by the words that escaped his lips. He scrambled to find the words he meant to say, realizing that wasn’t a great start.

“A hanger’s only an object. Nothing can look beautiful on a hanger.” He shifted his weight into his right hip. “At least, not in comparison to the beauty it can reflect when it’s on someone.” He coughed, then lowered his voice. “On you.”

At this point, Brian knew he felt something for you. A little more than friendship. Or a lot more. He came to terms with the emotions some months ago, but he had hoped it would have subsided by now.

A schoolboy crush on his best friend shouldn’t last longer than a few months, right?

Teary eyed, you reached up your arms to loop them around the nape of his neck. Brian ducked down a bit for you to get a better hold, letting you pull him closer to you.

“I love you, Bri,” you whispered.

He melted where he stood. Could it be?

“You’re the best friend I could ever imagine.”

Oh.

“God, what did I do to deserve you?”

The words rang through his ears.

“You came into my life,” Brian whispered back. “That’s all.”

--1973--

“And I think this would go nicely with that pair of velvets you own.” You could see that Brian was in a daze. “Well?”

He blinked slowly, bringing his drooping eyelids up halfway to look at you. “Hmm?”

“What do you think?”

He was brought back into the present.

“Oh, I think it’s great.” He wasn’t even sure what “it” was.

You beamed. “Good! Now, Roger’s trying some stuff on. You should go join him in the back.” You unloaded the items from your arms and transferred them to Brian. Then you pointed his shoulders in the right direction.

Brian marched to the fitting rooms, finding a half naked Roger flexing in a mirror. Brian stopped in his tracks, but Roger was unfazed.

“Whaddya think?” He posed, showing off the obnoxious pants he was wearing, paired with nothing but a fringed vest.

Brian raised an eyebrow. “Did Fred pick that out for you?”

“No,” Roger continued staring at his reflection. “This is all me.”

“Ah. Makes sense.” Brian scoffed as he pushed past the blond and drew the curtain to the dressing area. Roger came in behind him, not caring that it was meant to be a personal space.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Well, for starters, you’re in my fitting room.” Brian frowned.

“Oh, don’t start that with me.” Roger pointed a finger at Brian. “You’ve been moody all day.”

Brian snorted at the remark. “I could say the same about you!”

Roger stared at his friend with dispassion. Then something dawned on him. “Brian?”

The guitarist fell silent.

“Did you and Y/N get in a fight or somethin’?”

“No. We didn’t fight.”

Roger had a thought, but dismissed it with laughter. Brian’s scowl hardened, making Roger feel required to say it aloud. “Sorry, mate, I was just thinkin’ you were too angry to have fucked.” Brian’s nose twitched. Roger stopped laughing. “Did you and Y/N fuck?” His voice was at a much lower pitch.

“No,” Brian growled through gritted teeth. “It’s not like that between us. You know that.”

Roger had a gleam in his eye. “But do you want it to be?” Brian’s expression softened, giving him all the confirmation he needed.

“Not exactly.” Brian confided, shifting uncomfortably in the small stall made for one person.

“Then what exactly?”

Brian’s heart was pounding. In twelve years, he had only told one person what he was about to tell Roger.

* * *

Roger stood silent for a moment, taking in what he just heard.

“Twelve years?”

Brian blushed, bashful from the level of vulnerability he had reached with his bandmate.

“Twelve bloody years? Why haven’t you ever made a move?”

“I never seemed right. We were too young. Then she was with somebody. Then she moved away for five years. When would I have done anything?”

Roger was frustrated by his friend’s stupidity. “You’ve wasted a monumental about of time failing to do anything.”

Brian sighed. “I’ve never had the courage. And then I find out you’ve kissed her. Doesn’t she mean something to you, too?” He didn’t even want to think about John.

“Of course Y/N does. She means a great deal to me, but not like that. It was one moment. You’ve had a lifetime of moments.” Roger paused. “You love her, yeah?”

“Irretrievably.”

“Then do something about it.”

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myforeverforlife · 5 years ago

Text

unfinished jongdae fic.

I won't be writing for jongdae anymore, but I had this draft sitting around for like a year and I could never finish it. it's like half finished?? but I wanted to still share what I had, especially since I shared a small bit of it in an ask game before. so here's half of "close enough to touch", a fic I had based on the song "she's dreaming". I still love the general plot of this, but I don’t think I’d rewrite it for another member.

You never remember his name when you wake up. In fact, you never even remember what he looks like. All you know is that someone comes to visit you every so often in your dreams. Only in your dreams do you remember the soft touches, the warm hold that surrounds you.

But Jongdae remembers you. As one of the current Spirits of the Moon, he’s been around for at least a couple of centuries. He’s seen people take their first breaths, and their very last ones. He still remembers when you were born, an infant seemingly like every other one that he had seen so far.

It isn’t until you get older that he notices something strange, something different in you. You’ve been raised by your parents well, always being polite and courteous to those around you. However, your generosity stands out from the rest.

Your friends say you are too giving, too patient with others. And you agree, telling them that you’ll make sure to set aside more time for yourself even though you all know that it'll take some time before you do. You’re too kind to turn down anyone in need, whether they come to you for help or you end up searching them out.

Jongdae admires you, admires the way you greet others with a sweet smile. He swears that you can’t be human, you must be made of some sort of ethereal material. Sunlight, or possibly even stardust. He told you that once, a couple of dreams ago. You had laughed, shrugging it off with a bashful smile and he had felt like his nonexistent heart would burst.

But of course, you didn’t remember that once you woke up.

As a Spirit of the Moon, Jongdae is tasked with watching over the humans from up high in the Lunar Temple, making sure to intervene only if imminent danger of the world is close by. Otherwise, he isn’t allowed to have any contact at all.

He lamented about this once to another Spirit, a friend by the name of Yixing. Yixing had been a Spirit for a couple centuries longer than Jongdae, and had also once longed to interact with those on Earth.

“Someday, you’ll come to see that it’s better like this,” he had said with a somber smile.

“How can you possibly be okay with this? Aren’t you curious? Don’t you get tired of only being able to watch, but to never truly be among them?” Jongdae yelled out in frustration.

At this, Yixing’s eyes hardened, eyes glazing over in a calm fury. “Jongdae. I’ve been in your position. Wanted desperately to talk to them, to be like them. But we’re not. We’re not meant to live as humans. It’s better that you hear this now, before you make a mistake.”

“Did you make a mistake? Have you gone down to meet them?”

Yixing’s lack of an answer prompted Jongdae further, bringing the spirit closer until he was face to face with the elder.

“What happened?” he asked, voice hushed as Yixing avoided his gaze.

“Enough, Jongdae. I’m not speaking about this again.” The elder brushed him off, pushing past and walking away. The clicking of the elder’s shoes on the marble floor of the temple echoed in Jongdae’s ears, and he let out a groan of anger.

(yixing had fallen for a human before jongdae was even a spirit, but he didn't just visit her in her dreams. he would go down to earth to be with her, and even married her in secret. he'd only leave to watch over the other humans under his care, but one day while he was gone, his wife was caught in an accident and passed away. he was always suspicious about how sudden it all was, and how no one ever directly confronted him about going down to earth until after she passed.)

Fine. If Yixing wouldn’t tell him why, then he would have to go find out himself.

That was the first night he came to visit you.

You had just fallen asleep, already deep in slumber when Jongdae decided to observe you from inside your dream. That night, your dream had been mundane: you were simply walking down the street on your way to the train station.

Jongdae watched you from afar, a figure resting atop an apartment building as your figure weaved among the crowds, desperate to get to your destination. But like most dreams, nothing seemed to go as expected.

You couldn’t make it out of the crowd; if anything, it seemed that with every passing step, you bumped into more people along the way. Jongdae winced from where he stood, noticing how your face twisted in annoyance at your dilemma.

You couldn’t even remember why you were trying to go to the train station in your dream, you just knew that it was of the utmost importance that you get there on time. This unknown pull brought you deeper and deeper into the crowd, until it seemed as if every available space was taken up by some part of a stranger. You began to feel claustrophobic, your hands up in front of you to try and prevent people from getting too close to you, to try and save some space for yourself.

A sudden push from behind had you falling forwards, and the crowd suddenly parted, revealing the speckled sidewalk as you braced yourself for the impact. Your eyes scrunched closed as you felt your body drop, your hands covering your head while you waited with bated breath for the imminent pain that was sure to come.

But nothing came.

Your eyes shot open, only to see the crowd around you continue to walk past you, although now they seemed to be giving you a wide berth. From your spot on the floor, you quickly examined yourself, awed to find no injuries, not even the slightest twinge of pain. “What the hell,” you whispered to yourself, pushing yourself up when a sudden hand appeared out of the corner of your eye.

“Can I help you up?”

You followed the line of the person’s hand up, your breath catching in your throat once you saw the face that it belonged to. The man looked down at you kindly, as if he had known you for quite a while. Despite knowing that you had no recollection of ever meeting him before, you felt oddly comfortable in his presence. Something about him seemed more tangible when compared to the countless amount of people that you had been walking past for what seemed like ages.

Tentatively, you took his hand, letting him pull you up until you were standing beside him. “Thank you,” you said cautiously, head tipped slightly to the side as you tried to figure out who he was. “Have we met before?”

The stranger’s smile grew wider, his lips curling at the tips charmingly, as if inviting you to stay and find out.

“I’m Jongdae.”

After that, Jongdae came to visit you in your dreams every night. Although you didn’t always remember when you saw him in your dreams, it never took long for you to trust him once again. Jongdae was your nighttime confidante, the only one with whom you shared everything that was on your mind.

“Does everyone have a guardian angel that visits them in their dreams?” you asked him once, your legs swinging over the edge of a cliff as the two of you sat watching over the sunset. Your dream that night had taken you both to the hilla close to your hometown, and you had introduced Jongdae to the thrills of leisurely hiking as you two made your way to the top.

“I’m not a guardian angel, I’m a Spirit of the Moon,” Jongdae corrected you easily, leaning back on his hands from where he sat beside you.

“Have I asked you this before?”

He struggled to hide a grin, chewing down on his bottom lip briefly before he answered. “Only every night.”

“Oh gosh, I’m sorry.” An apologetic flush came over your cheeks, and Jongdae had to fight the urge to pull you close into his arms, to hug you until you felt better. “You know, it would be great if I could just remember you after I woke up. Why can’t I?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “Technically, I’m not even supposed to be here in your dreams.”

“You’re not?” You turned to him, panic settling in as you realized what this meant. “But if you’ve been visiting me for so long, don’t you get in trouble for it? Is there some punishment for talking to humans?”

“Not punishment, necessarily. It’s explicitly stated that we’re not supposed to interfere with humans’ lives. Doing anything to set their lives on a different track than what’s meant to be automatically results in having your title as a Spirit removed, and then being sent to the Abyss.”

“The Abyss?”

Jongdae nodded, looking off into the the distance as he continued. “Where disgraced Spirits are sent to live the rest of their lives in shame. There’s no real explanation as to what goes on there, probably to scare the hell out of all of us. But I’ll be okay. All I’m doing is talking to you in your dreams, and you can’t even remember me when you wake up. How can I be interfering in your life if you can’t even remember me?”

“Jongdae." You scooted closer, placing your hand in top of his and waiting until he met your gaze. “I’m sorry that I don’t remember you, I wish I would - "

“Wait, you don’t need to apologize. This isn’t your fault,” he shot back, straightening up and pulling his hand out from under yours only to let it rest on your shoulder. “I shouldn’t have said any of that, I got carried away in my own thoughts and...” He sighed, a sudden weariness settling onto his face as wrinkles between his eyebrows, a darkness in his eyes as he watched you with a look that you couldn’t decipher.

“It’s out of our control, isn’t it?” you stated dryly, more of a fact than a question. “We can’t help what happens to us.”

“No, we can’t,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop visiting you. I mean, only if you want me to,” he quickly backtracked.

“I do! I like having you here with me. I may not be able to remember you, but I think I remember what it feels like to be around you.”

Jongdae cocked an eyebrow at this, a puzzled frown forming on his lips and you almost giggled at the mere image of it. “What do you mean?”

“I thought I was just imagining things, but after talking to you tonight, I think my mind already knows that I’m missing you when I’m awake. I’ll be at work, or at home and sometimes I get the urge to want to talk to someone, but I can never remember who. I even looked through my contacts on my phone one time, trying to see if maybe, it would help me remember the name of the person I was looking for.”

(I didn't finish this part, but we can assume Jongdae's over the moon to hear that y/n still sort of remembers him when she's awake)

Your boyfriend, this Jongin, had no serious flaws that Jongdae could even begin to complain about. From what he’s seen, Jongin was a kind, loving, vivacious person, an adventurer who encouraged you to take the leap with him as well.

Jongdae saw how your front door opened, how you and Jongin tumbled in together, lips locked and bodies pressed tightly together as you struggled to get your shoes off. Without even knowing, Jongdae’s hands curled up into fists, resting by his sides as he pleaded with himself to turn away, to rid himself of this self-inflicted torture.

It’s only when he saw you pull Jongin’s shirt up and over his head that he finally turned away.

Jongdae was surprised by how opposed he was to your boyfriend, the sting of his jealousy. It made him feel startlingly human, but then again, everything about you made him feel that way.

But Jongdae had the ability, the power to change all of this if he wanted to. The only things holding him back was his alleigance to the other Spirits, and his love for you. Jongdae knew that you would never be able to be together, that your interactions would never go beyond the realm of dreams.

So, Jongdae pushed down this foreign, human feeling in him and convinced himself to move on. He only wished for your happiness.

Even if it isn’t with him.

Jongdae didn’t visit you that night, and when you fell asleep deeply enough to begin dreaming, you were taken aback by the sudden loss you felt. You awoke in the darkness of early morning, sitting on the floor with your lover still asleep as you reminded yourself to take deep breaths. You tried to figure out why you felt so lost, so abandoned.

Why you felt cold, empty, heartless.

(there was never gonna be anything explicit, so this part picks up in the morning as jongin and y/n wake up)

The blanket pooled around your waist as you sat, staring out the window and trying to think of what you had forgotten. Jongin pulled himself up onto to latch onto you from behind.

Jongin leaned his head on your back, arms snaking around you to hold him close to him. His legs moved against the blankets, the sound of fabrics rustling being the only one in the room.

“What are you thinking about?” he mumbled into your skin.

“I had a dream last night, but I don’t remember what it was about. I feel like I never do,” you muse aloud.

You can feel Jongin’s smile against your skin before he places a kiss there, drawing shivers down your spine. “At least you remember that you dreamed at all.

“You don’t remember your dreams?”

“The only thing I’m aware of is falling asleep, and then waking up in the morning. I never have any memory of what happened during the time in between. Is it frustrating? Not being able to remember your dream?”

You shake your head, fingers moving to rest over Jongin’s, playing with the skin of his hands. “Not really. It's more of feeling like there's something important that I planned on doing, but I can't remember what it is. The only thing that I ever seem to remember is that in my dreams, there’s a man. It always feels like it’s the same one.”

“Ah, so in your dreams you leave me for this mystery man?” Jongin giggled as you reached behind yourself to tickle his belly. His body flexed backwards in an attempt to escape, but he still held on despite your attack, unwilling to let go.

“Who knows, maybe you’re the guy in my dreams all the time?”

“I hope so.” Jongin pressed his lips to your neck, right behind your ear in the spot that he knew drove you crazy. When you sighed in delight, he tightened his hold on you. Without any warning, he fell back onto the bed, bringing you along with him as you fell atop his chest.

“Jongin, what are you doing?” you asked between giggles, trying to twist around in his arms so that you could see him.

“Can we sleep a little longer?” he whined, his lips ghosting down your neck as you shivered.

(I was probably gonna indulge them and just let them sleep in or insert some domestic scenes lol)

eventually, others at the lunar temple catch on that jongdae's been doing stuff that he shouldn't be doing, and threaten to send him to the abyss where he'll be stuck for the rest of eternity. I never got around to figuring out what the hell disgraced spirits do in the abyss LOL so it’s all open to whatever you wanna imagine.

yixing tells jongdae about what happened to him in the past, and warns him that he doesn’t want the same thing to happen again. the most they can hope for is for the ones they loved to be happy and healthy. jongdae goes to visit y/n one last time and tells her that he loves her. y/n doesn’t really understand why this visit is so different from the rest, but is still overcome with more emotion than usual. y/n wakes up crying in bed and can’t even explain why as jongin comforts her.

years pass, jongin and y/n get married, adopt a few dogs LOL, have some kids, live out their years together all while jongdae watches from afar. oddly enough, you become the luckiest human jongdae’s ever watched over in the history of all the humans he’s protected.

at the end, y/n’s ill and everyone knows that it’ll be her time to move on soon. jongdae watches as her family visits her in the hospital, surrounded by people like jongin, kids, and grandkids. most of them leave to give her time to sleep, but promise to visit again in a few days. jongin stays with her a little longer before he tells her he’ll be back, one of their kids is driving him home to get a change of clothes. after he leaves, jongdae appears in the room. y/n can’t remember exactly who he is, but to her surprise, tears up. jongdae explains who he is, but doesn’t tell y/n everything about how they loved each other, how much he still loves her.

y/n thanks him for looking over her, and asks him to take care of jongin after she’s gone. jongdae tearfully agrees, and when y/n asks for a hug, he’s so shocked by how frail she is now. y/n tells him not to be sad when she leaves, and that even though she’s old and doesn’t remember him, she can tell that she was always happy to be around him. jongdae kisses her on the forehead before he leaves, finally feeling at peace after getting some closure. y/n thinks back through her life, and the fic ends with her smiling in her bed.

#writings #chen scenario #jongdae scenario

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creativeashproductions · 6 years ago

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Seasons of Love // Noah Centineo

Summary: Summer is officially coming to an end and with that comes another ending just needed for a new journey to begin. Change comes with both bittersweet sadness and happiness. Doesn’t help your daydreaming of brown eyes all the time either and confused on who they belong to.

Characters: Ethan Dolan x Reader, Noah Centineo x Reader, Grayson Dolan, Bryant Eslava, and Emma Chamberlain (mentioned)

Words: 1.4k

Disclaimer: Obviously I don’t know the Dolan Twins or Noah but I can own plots in stories I make for them. Do not post our work on other sites without our explicit consent.

Warnings: Possible swearing, Emma Chamberlain is mentioned, angst, and fluff.

A/N: I think this was kind of my way of breaking away from being a diehard Dolan Twins fan to simply being a fan. While I’m obsessed over Noah’s movies and shows and I honestly don’t know why I am. Enjoy and request for more!

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It was odd how you can go from being someone's number one fan to slowly becoming acquaintances barely sharing a relationship that was slowly growing cold. The relationship with Ethan was almost identical to the four seasons. There were the days your skin was kissed by the warmth of summer and slowly the days were becoming more and more like the colder season, not winter yet heading in that direction. He was the first boy you had been serious with ever, together for over two beautiful years from the moment you met him at his and Grayson's sixteenth birthday.

It was no one's fault honestly that you had grown apart, but it did suck because you were close to his family and he was to yours. You were hanging on to the remnants of a relationship that was stability and familiarity but how long can you pretend to be in love? When you were falling in love with the brown eyes from the farmers market that sold the best organic smoothies each second Friday of the months? With the boy with a gorgeous smile only adjacent with a faded scar that was years old.

When Ethan brought you to Bryant's birthday party weeks ago, you had bumped into the same guy. He was steadily growing more popular in the film industry with a large following, and he had such as personality you couldn't help but fall for him somewhat. Those little talks at the farmers market from June had steadily grown more important to you with book recommendations and words of wisdom.

Noah was merely a guy who knew exactly what he wanted in life and had a past that helped create the guy he was. He had similar traits to Ethan, but that wasn't what drew you to him. He knew you were in a relationship and didn't cross over the line other than meaningless flirting. He could see how you and Ethan weren't the same as you had been on your social media once he found it back in June.

"Hey!" You grinned at the ridiculously tall man. He gave you a smile that melted your heart while also making you feel guilty.

"Hey." He spoke eyes flitting behind you to the group of guys talking. No doubt about upcoming shoots being planned, "How are you doing?"

"Amazing. I've started my last chapter for my manuscript."

"I meant with the rumours."

The rumours had been long ago shadowed by the rumours of Ethan and Emma from the 'meaningful looks' to the jetski photo. It annoyed you with the comments surrounding it, but you knew that Ethan wouldn't cheat just like he knew you wouldn't. He, however, was watching you interact with Noah and had seen the photos by paparazzi looking for Noah. It saddens him your guys' relationship wasn't what it used to be, and he knew it was time to let you go.

"I feel like it's starting to dwindle down now that Emma was spotted with someone else. I think it was her way of putting some of the talks to sleep without vocally addressing it." You spoke with a small shrug barely meeting Noah's breathtaking eyes.

"Hey man," Noah spoke as a familiar body settled beside you just close enough to show you were together. Noah was flooded with jealously but also the acknowledgement of you being taken, "I'm going to go talk to Bryant. See you guys later."

Ethan and you both watched him join the conversation with Bryant and Gray, "He's a good guy. I'm happy you found him."

"What do you mean E?" You asked confused.

"I can't think of anyone else that would fit beside you. I want you to be happy."

"I am." You sputtered.

"When we got together I was completely in love with you. Over the last few months, we aren't the same." Ethan sighed shoving his hands in his pockets whereas you rested them on the railing of the balcony.

"What happened E? How did we go from being kids in love to this?" You questioned staring out into the fading sunset.

"We grew up. We grew together, and we went separate ways." Ethan replied with a quiet sigh of sadness, "I didn't want to break up because what if it's just a-"

"Season of our love." You interrupted with the smallest tear racing down your cheek.

"But it wasn't."

"It's the end of times for us huh?"

"Not necessarily." Ethan shrugged, "We can be friends. We've been friends almost longer than we've dated. I guess it was a good thing we decided against living together."

"Gray would have hated that." You snorted.

"I'm going to miss your cold ass feet at night." Ethan bumped his hip into yours while you leaned your head against his shoulder.

"This is the most undramatic Ethan I've ever known." You teased as he rolled his eyes at your comment, "I mean wow you're such as an old adult."

"Oh shut up." Ethan laughed loudly, "I guess we just broke up."

"So anti-climatic. Should we stage a fight?"

"Nah. I think you should go talk to him."

"Isn't that awkward though? We just broke up E." You mumbled leaning your head onto your resting arms.

"We emotionally ended things long ago. We just couldn't speak it into existence." Ethan sighed once more as he straightened up, "I'm not joking. You guys are perfect, you have more love and spark then we ever had. I think we were just meant to be fleeting lover-"

"Fleeting? We were together for two years Ethan, that's not fleeting." You piped up unapologetically.

"Way to ruin my mature moment of wisdom."

"My apologies. Please continue." You grinned despite the tinge of sadness coating the atmosphere around each other.

"As I was saying: We were placed in each other's lives to be fleeting lovers to teach each other what a real relationship should be. We taught each other how to balance time together with jobs and projects."

"We had to teach each other how to be adults. What real love is compared to angst-ridden teenage flings."

"I'll always love you."

"Same here E." You breathlessly spoke as it settled in, "Now Emma doesn't have to avoid me."

"There's nothing there."

"That was true when you were in a relationship. We're single Ethan." You ended with a retaliated hip check.

"Gonna miss you," Ethan spoke wrapping his arms around you. It was as if you two had just broken out of your cacoons turning into butterflies. You leaned up to press a lingering kiss on his cheek bathed in a language of goodbye.

With that, you stepped back from the boy that had once held your heart, genuinely until you unknowingly traded each other's hearts back. Only to give them away without realising to other people.

"I'm gonna go." You spoke walking backwards until you were met with the warmth of inside. Ethan stayed silent with a small smile watching as the sun finally set.

You scanned the room speckled with people speaking to each other along with Grayson watching you concerned as you walked away from Ethan. It often made you marvel at how connected they were in emotional. Gray knew what happened even if he didn't know if it was mutual or riddled with pain. Noah watched as you came over to him and Bryant.

"Happy Birthday Bryant." You spoke hugging him close, "I'm gonna head out."

"Is everything okay?" He questioned.

"It's perfect." You smiled staring at Noah. Breaking the gaze you collected your things to leave the place. You were taking in the fresh air outside only tinged with the slight smell summer. A new summer as he walked out behind you.

"Ethan told me to find you. Are you okay? What happened?" Noah asked.

"We broke up." You merely spoke slipping into your jacket while Noah remained silent.

"I'm so sorry. Was it because of us?" Noah questioned concerned. No matter how much he liked you, he couldn't live his life knowing he had broken a couple up.

"No. We've been done for months. We just couldn't end it. You know?" You spoke placing your hand beside his own hand. Pinkies brushing you couldn't help yourself from speaking more, "We fell out of love silently and poetically, and we love other people."

"Oh." Noah hid his grin even if you could feel the happiness radiating off him, "Who's this guy?"

Your hands intertwined, "It all started when I thought I felt winter coming. It all started in a Farmer's Market on a warm summer day."

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#noah centineo imagines #noah centineo #ethan dolan imagines #ethan dolan #grayson dolan #to all the boys ive loved before movie #fluff #angst #agentsofsupernaturalmarvel #caitsy and ash productions

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stickyspeckledlight · 24 days ago

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“Sunday, I’m thinking of leaving Penacony. Of course I’ll be back one day! It’s just… both you and Robin have become so incredible, and it seems I’m the only one who hasn’t changed… I want to do more too, it doesn’t seem fair that I’m always relying on you.”

Doves are happier in cages. If not, then merely make it a matter of time.

(Speckled's End of Year Interaction Prompts, 12/2/24 ~ 1/1/25)

Unlike you, trembling despite the courage you built up, Sunday remains poised and perfect, perched on the couch across the coffee table. Legs crossed, hands folded, smiling patiently and caringly before a spread of tea and snacks: it's an insignificant image, one that will last for barely a moment, but emblematic of everything you aren't.

When you sit, it is nothing more than a mere imitation of Sunday's. Your forms may match, but your demeanor? What is there to even say about your pitiful demeanor, timid, shy thing you are? Your heart always hammers with fearful anticipation that you will do something wrong; what exactly that is doesn't matter, only that you sense and fear its inevitability. Your hands clam and fidget, despite your best efforts. In fact, aside from attempting to imitate Sunday, you got gloves so you wouldn't be able to sand your nails down. Your legs clutch together tightly, afraid that if you stop tensing for even a moment, a knife will be lodged in your back. Afraid that whoever sits in front of you will find fault in you, so execute a plan because surely, surely they will outwit you no matter your efforts.

Although you've greatly improved from when you first met Sunday---you were barely able to even handle playing with other children for more than a few moments---you still aren't where you want to be. You still aren't sure if you'll be able to reach that point, at this rate.

Sunday and Robin are wonderful, wonderful people. You love them wholeheartedly, for staying by your side for so long. For being your crutch when times got hard, when people got to be...too much.

But you aren't a child anymore. You're an adult. If anything, it's a bit pathetic how little you've changed from that child, especially considering you're the siblings seniors by a decent few years. You're supposed to be the one nurturing them---not the other way around.

You're truly thankful for everything that they've done for you---but it's time for you to spread your wings, and learn and grow on your own. It's time to grasp independence and become the crutch for these two whom you are so indebted to.

And that means leaving Penacony.

You're still nervous, and hell, you still kind of want to cancel everything, but you knew that you'd have these feelings, so you've made sure to bury yourself in too deep to leave the situation you've created for yourself. You've applied for a job permit to work on the Xianzhou Luofu; and you're starting in a week or two and, for all intents and purposes, completely locked into living there for a good number of years. You've made the deposits, filled the paperwork---even if you wanted to, there is no backing out. If you remain perched here, all that will accomplish is disappointment filling your heart at how you got so far, yet at the end tapped out. You refuse to do that to yourself---for your sake.

And surely, Sunday will understand.

But he doesn't respond in the way you were anticipating---or, maybe, in the way you were hoping.

Kind, wonderful person he is, Sunday frowns apologetically, expression a perfect embodiment of regret, "How long have you felt that way? That you're a burden on me and my sister."

You bite your cheek, unsure of how to respond, but you decide that, if you're already this far in telling a truth you've hidden from him for so long, that you'll keep telling the truth. You've known him for so long, so it's not truly a big deal that you're here, doing this. "A...a long, long time. I guess they call it a guilt complex? It's just that---that," you temper yourself, reducing the heaving breath you wish to take into a somewhat measured inhale, "I don't want to live like this anymore. You and Robin have always had my back, and...I want to start doing that too. I want you two to know I'll have you back in the way you've had mine."

"Dear," Sunday so sweetly says, "you do have our backs. Neither of us have ever doubted that."

"How though?" you struggle, "I'm just...I can still barely talk to people, and I've never even been that smart. I can't even clean right!"

"And?" Sunday raises an eyebrow---going from apologetic to assertive. Not a cruel assertiveness---a kind one, meant to comfort you, meant to make you feel better about yourself, "There is no price for love. It is given, and me and Robin have never expected anything from you---never will. There is no need for repayment, when there was never any transaction being made in the first place. You can stay here, in Penacony."

You suck in a sharp breath. "No. I'm not. I---I don't care whether you think this is repayment for not, Sunday," your heart hammers, threatening to crush your ribs to dust, but you'll take it---you'll take it over another day spent here, feeling useless and hating yourself for the guilt of inaction, "If not for you, then this is for me. I can't live like this anymore, Sunday. I don't want to. I know you two care for me! And I care for you too." You swallow, "You said love has no price, right? Well, this is something I want to do because I love you both. Let me love you two as someone who's grown---" you shakily smile, "---as someone who can hold a decent conversation for long than fifteen minutes, at least," you joke, hoping that it will lighten the mood just a little.

There is no shift in Sunday's demeanor. "What of your methods? What will you do when you leave Penacony?"

"I got a work permit and everything set up at the Luofu," you answer, "I've already applied for a job even, and I start soon."

Sunday frowns, "But why do all that on your own? Need I remind you of how easily overwhelmed you are?" He smiles sympathetically, "You have made great strides with yourself, [Name], and there is nothing I have but admiration for you: for taking this step forward, and for seeking betterment with yourself. But you need to be honest with yourself, [Name]: this is no step, but a leap right into a mawing chasm." Those words merely vocalize your own fears, and make you falter just ever so slightly, "That's the point. And besides, I...I think I trust myself, that I'll be able to rise to whatever troubles that meet me on the Luofu?"

He eyes you with a near incredulous emotion, "Earlier today, you excused yourself from the desk an hour into your shift, and spent three in the bathroom, did you not?"

"W-well---"

"Yesterday, you burned yourself cooking an egg. You added too much oil, and if not for the servant's quick action, you would've poured water on that flaming pan instead of covering it with a lid and removing it from heat," he bluntly informs, "The day before that, you mixed up the appointment times of a high ranking official and the janitor. If not for my own intervention, Old Oti would've been knocking right on our doors, and there would be a great delay in the implementation of the economic policies set to be ready by the end of the year. Policies which, many other policies that are being implementation are designed around."

"I, I---"

"[Name]. Do you truly think you can do this?" Sunday firmly asks, not kind, not cruel, but painfully honest, "Do you think you can manage living on your own, when you're hardly able to operate with what meager tasks I've assigned you?"

It's a bit pathetic, but being faced with the brunt of your inadequacies and incompetence makes your eyes tear up. It makes what confidence you were able to muster crumble. It makes you want to sob and apologize for not being enough---again.

Sunday grasps your hand, pulling you from the edge of a vortex, "I admire your desire to be better today than you were yesterday. But let's have you take baby steps," he softly whispers, drawing himself closer to you---practically kneeling before you, "Stay here, on Penacony. Where I'll always be here, having your back. Where you and I can spend the most time together---love each other."

Your will cracks, and you feel it shatter when he brings his forehead to yours, and beckons you to close your eyes. It's something you've done with each other ever since you were children.

"You might think you are not enough," he whispers, breath warmly feathering against your nose. It smells like tea and strawberry cake. "And you are flawed. So, so, so deeply flawed, like anyone else." You feel a knife twist into your heart at the truth he gives, and pathetically, your mouth wobbles. He shushes you, caressing your cheek in comfort. "Me and Robin love you despite that. We always will. If we didn't, we wouldn't have stuck by you for as long and unceasingly as we have."

You feel so, so sorry for doubting them. So sorry for how you're so incompetent that you were ready to jump into a gaping maw---hell, you probably hurt Sunday too with that, by making him think he wasn't enough---that him and Robin combined weren't, and that realization twists so deeply into your that tears finally fall from your eyes. "I'm sorry," your voice cracks, and highly pitched with sorrow, "I'm so sorry, Sunday." And once you start, you can barely stop your chest from heaving, "I'm sorry, Aeons I'm sorry---"

Sunday immediately puts your head into the crook of his neck; and you only sob harder, knowing how much effort he puts into his appearance, yet so readily letting you ruin it in an instant if it meant comforting you out of the love in his heart. "Shhhh, don't be, dear. Never be."

A tender kiss presses to your temple, "All you have to do, dove, is live with us. With me."

And as his hand rubs soothing circles against your back, you feel a door shut---feel your back ache, even where there were never really wings in the first place---and lock you into a cage you never had any chance of escaping.

#speckled end of year interaction prompts 2024 #yandere hsr #yandere honkai star rail #yandere sunday #yandere sunday x reader #yandere sunday hsr #yandere sunday hsr x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you

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peony-pearl · 7 years ago

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Gettin some Bequest bios written, getting the feel back for writing; this layout is hardcore old school bc I’ve been on the internet too long lol

Thaddeus ‘Tad’ Graham Irving:

birthdate: July 9th, 1956

hair color: reddish-chestnut brown; wavy, almost curly, kept slicked back

eye color: bright blue

occupation: actor, screenwriter

heritage: unknown on mother’s side (grandfather, Kallistos, had an accent many said sounded ‘Greek’, never knew maternal grandmother) father was 1/2 Scottish, 1/4 Spanish, 1/4 Italian

After years of trying for children, Tad was born to his parents, mother Filippa and father Gabriel. He was raised in a lower-middle class family, but his young parents were stalwart and optimistic, despite their starting hand and over the years their lot improved. When Tad was six, he learned something about himself that no one could understand; he discovered he had been dealt unnatural strength, which he used to fend off armed muggers when they attacked him and his grandfather at the park. His grandfather seemingly held the clues of why this had happened, and promised Tad answers when he was older, but never relented. This caused a rift in their relationship, which wasn’t new as his grandfather had already despised Gabriel for ‘stealing’ Filippa from the family. Tad, however, was on good terms with his step-grandmother, Abigail, and his mother’s half-siblings and their children. He was close with his cousins, who would eventually encourage his dreams of acting after he realized he could no longer play football with his strength after sending a childhood friend to the hospital. He often fears making relationships due to this reason, and to focus on his acting, but upon meeting his future wife, Eileen, and creating a friendship that reminded him of his parents’ interactions, he realized how much he wanted to have that feeling in his life, to have someone who could ground him, and someone he felt gravitated to lift and love. Tad is good at working towards goals, but can forget important things around him; his tunnel-vision causes his distant, flakey demeanor, but underneath he’s patient, supportive and tender. His laughter is infectious, which he uses to his advantage to keep those around him happy.

Eileen Ingrid Irving (nee Walsh)

birthdate: December 17th (adoption date; unknown year of birth, presumed to be around 1957) (deceased July 8th, 2011)

hair color: deep brown, thick, slightly wavy

eye color: hazel

Occupation: Professional violinist, violin teacher

heritage: Irish, uncertain geneology

Eileen was adopted as a young child, and her life before that was a blur. Neglected and left on her own, she was fostered (and later adopted) by Wallace and Ernestine Walsh, who already had two sons. Eileen didn’t remember much of her life before finding her family, and she had no medical records in existence, which lead to doctors having to guesstimate her age, and her birthday was simply celebrated on the anniversary of her adoption. Eileen was raised in a warm, and loving environment, surrounded by music. She clung to it after her parents noticed she had a bit of an obsessive tendency, but to what they weren’t sure; she repeated words, and paced the same hallways. With treatment and music, she became a budding violin prodigy, and finally started opening up to her family. Her personality started shining through as a warm, adventurous, loyal young woman, and she found a love in traveling that rivaled her violin. Something was out there for her; and she became convinced she’d found it when she met her husband, Tad, an American actor, whom she became acquainted with twice; once on a movie set, and again by chance a year later when she wanted to become a musician in the US; she felt drawn to him, and when love blossomed, she felt at home. With Tad, their children, and her violin, Eileen finally had the life she’d yearned for; but her sudden death years later caused a fissure in her family that no one expected.

Isaac Calvin Irving

birthdate: February 1st, 1986

hair color: deep brown, curly

eye color: deep green

occupation: Teacher at school for blind and deaf

heritage: known Scottish, Italian, and Spanish heritage from father, Irish from mother

Isaac is the first child of Tad and Eileen Irving. Often seen as stoic and rigid, Isaac is good at feigning his true emotions as, when prompted, he can be the loudest and rowdiest of any group, he simply enjoys the surprise in people when they learn his true nature. When he was three years old, Isaac discovered he has slight manipulations over electronics (he was holding a lightbulb and got spooked by something loud and the bulb in his hand shorted out and shattered, to this day he has tiny speckled scars on his lower chin and lip; he can also turn on small game systems or music players without hooking them up or needing batteries with a touch but he has to keep his hand on them at all times for them to continue working). Isaac is also fiercely dedicated and compassionate; when his best friend lost his hearing at the age of 10, Isaac studied ASL for hours on end, becoming proficient by the time he entered high school. He and his family knew he wouldn’t follow in his parents’ footsteps to be on the screen or stage, and instead he took his sign language knowledge to heart and became a certified instructor for special needs children. Isaac is close with his younger sister, Moira, and even after a car crash causes her to relearn everything, he is often right by her side. With their connection, and Isaac’s knowledge and patience, he’s often able to decipher her needs even when she can’t talk. However, the loss of his mother causes a noticeable rift between him and his father.

Moira Nell Irving

Birthday: April 28th 1989

hair color: rich chestnut brown, thick, wavy

eye color: Bright blue

Occupation: Theater actress, singer

Heritage: known Scottish, Italian, and Spanish heritage from father, Irish from mother

Moira was born around the height of Tad’s acting career, and many joke that’s what caused her very forward, theatric nature. By four she was regularly attending singing lessons (she would sing almost non stop and her parents simply wanted her to have an outlet) and kept a spot in choir through her school career; in middle school she decided to begin dabbling in theater, following her father’s footsteps. She found her niche in plays and musicals, and the event that solidified her love for theater was when she and her father shared the stage in a play at the theater he had grown up performing in. Moira is bubbly and curious, but quick to dismiss something that doesn’t go in her favor. She’s often the source of both her brother’s ire and laughter, and she’s often seen with her best friend, Camille, the daughter of Tad’s manager. She likes to see people in good spirits, and will do whatever she can to lighten atmospheres using her talents. The day before her father’s birthday in 2011, she was driving her parents to meet with her brother and Camille when their car is T-boned and forced against a semi driving next to them. The force of the crash and the semi’s inability to stop in time takes Eileen’s life; Moira lives long enough for paramedics to predict she won’t make it, and she dies in Tad’s arms; but, after twenty minutes, she begins to breathe again, and she’s whisked away to a hospital. Several surgeries later, she wakes from a coma within 3 weeks, but must now start her life over from scratch.

#Bequest #Tad #Eileen #Isaac #Moira #character bios

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synntaxe · 7 years ago

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Hi hi hi! Ive just read your fics on ao3 &I I am especially excited by your new blog!! Id really want to know how you would approach this prompt? : "I’ve tried to move on, to think about someone else, but you’re always on my mind.”

Hello!! Great to hear that you’ve enjoyed my writing so far adfjkalsdfh. You’re my first ask on this blog as well so much thanks~

As for the prompt, what about some good ol’ high school pining with Sabo and Ace?

VALENTINES VALOR

Pairings: SaboAceGenre: FluffWord Count: 1916

Valentines day was, by far, the worst day of the year.

Sabo didn’t have the same problem with it that other people might. He got plenty of chocolate and messages, some stuffed into his locker and other hand given, every confession brushed aside as politely, but firmly as he could. It was a bit rude, perhaps, but the attention was more annoying than anything else, even if the sweets themselves were appreciated.

None of that particularly frustrated him though. Sure, it was a bit of a hassle and the constant interaction with strangers was a bit of a headache, but it wasn’t their interaction with him that made Sabo hate the holiday so much.

It was seeing the same flood of people around Ace.

When they were back in middle school it hadn’t been this bad. Sure, there were always some people every year, especially girls, but things were different now. Ace was different.

In the last year he had shot up another three inches, almost rivaling Sabo in height now, but he had also filled out a lot more, no longer the gangly, awkward mess he had been as a freshman.

Sabo was tall and thin, lean but not overly defined, pale hair and paler skin. He wouldn’t consider himself unattractive by any means, happy with the way he looked and he felt in his own body. But Ace… Ace was handsome. The kind of handsome that had people turn heads when he walked by, turning words into a useless jumble on would-be-admirer’s lips. And for good reason. Practically harassed by a number of sport teams, it was easy to pick up on his physique, all strength and golden, star speckled skin. His eyes were just as sharp as they had been when they were kids, but something had softened in them all the same, making him easier to approach, easier to talk to. Sabo wasn’t the only one that had noticed either, and he hated it.

Envy coiled dark and green in his chest, thorny vines stretched out in his veins and wrapped around his chest in constricting force. When Ace turned towards him again, leaving his latest heartbreak in his shadow, Sabo felt momentarily breathless.

By the time he reached their table again, he could breathe again and the ache of his heart eased enough to allow him to speak.

“You don’t have to accept everything.” Ace took a seat with yet another damned box in hand, brightly colored and neatly wrapped and Sabo had to force back the sneer that nearly overcame his expression at the sight of the heart stickers that had been used in place of tape.

“I don’t.” Ace sighed, moving the box to the side where his bag was. “When I just straight up tell them no some of them start crying. I suck at dealin’ with those kinda situations.” He leaned in over the table, elbow used to prop up his arm and chin in his hand.

Weariness dragged at his friends shoulders, dimming those normally bright eyes and thinning Ace’s lips into a small, displeased line. It only pissed Sabo off more.

Leaning in himself, he huffed. “They’re just going to start using that against you, you know. Like sharks—they sense weakness.” Under the table he nudged one of Ace’s feet with his own and the other looked up from the table, meeting his eyes. “You could always lie and say you have a girlfriend already.”

Ace made a face, rolling his eyes. He kicked Sabo back under the table and it was a little harsher than the initial nudge. Sabo only laughed. “As if. There’s no way anyone would believe that, and even if they did by some miracle, you know they’d only ask for details I can’t give them.” His elbow slipped and Ace’s head dipped further.

Sabo snorted at the small pout on his lips.

“Throw them a curve ball then. Something they won’t expect.”

“Like?”

He hesitated a moment, biting into his bottom lip when Ace’s gaze bore into his own, molten silver alive with curiosity. Sabo felt, for a moment, as if those eyes were daring him to speak his mind, to voice the words he held back. They dropped a moment later to focus onto the table instead, but Sabo could still feel the lingering intensity, a current in the air. The vines around his heart tightened in reminder, constricting around him and devouring the air in his lungs. When he sighed out his breath it was heavy with trepidation.

“Say you have a boyfriend instead. If they press, tell them that it’s me.”

Ace’s eyes were brilliant fire, catching the sun and claiming it as his own when his head shot up once more. He was in shock, obviously, the force of Sabo’s words evident in his expression, in the widening of his eyes and parted lips.

Silent, the space between words stretched out forever between them, growing tense and awkward.

Miraculously, Sabo could still breathe, but there was no oxygen making its way to his brain, nerve ending firing off blanks and the jumbled tangle of his thoughts stretching out to wrap around his throat. Fuck, he thought to himself. Fuck, I messed up. Why did he say that? No, he understood the why, but he still shouldn’t have. Not now. Not without actually planning any of this out first.

There was a flush on his cheeks, staining pale features red when Sabo jerked back suddenly, putting just that fraction more of space between them. Fumbling hands dropped to his lap, curling sweaty palms into his pants, digging nails into the cloth. Eyes wide with frantic panic, the first thing he could think to do was defend himself.

“It doesn’t—I doesn’t have to mean… anything. If you don’t - ahh, want it to?” Fuck. That wasn’t any better. “What I mean is… It’d be easy to believe… right?” He wet his lips, nervous. “We already spend most of our time together anyway, and I can—we can, uhh, hold hands? Stuff like that, if we need to?”

If Ace wanted to.

He was still just staring at him and it was becoming harder and harder for Sabo to meet his eyes, dropping instead to his nose, to his cheek, his lips—No, that was a dangerous place to look. Instead he settled on Ace’s jaw, watching as it shifted eventually, slackening further before suddenly tightening. When a sigh shifted through the air, heavy and terse, Sabo stiffened and his eyes dropped to the worn surface of the table.

“Sabo…”

He winced. He couldn’t help it. Just the heavy sound of his name on Ace’s lips was enough to bring back that fear full force and it barreled into his chest, stripping the thorned vines away to replace them with ice.

“I’m sorry,” he cut in sharply, before Ace had a chance to speak again. “Forget I said anything.”

The words felt bitter on his tongue, jealousy a wave of icy chill that sank into the marrow of his bones when he thought of how easily so many had thrown their feelings at Ace today, wrapped in bright paper thin falsity. He wasn’t any different right now, just another desperate plea for reciprocated feelings shoved into the other’s face. It was Valentine’s Day and unlike those brave enough to stand before Ace and announce their feelings, Sabo couldn’t even meet his gaze, much less force past the growing lump in his throat to speak at all.

After what felt like minutes stretched out between them, Ace shifted again. Sabo felt a light pressure of one of the male’s feet pressed against the side of his own and it was a cruel mimicry of their earlier playful contact. Even still, it was enough to draw the blond’s attention, cautious gaze finding Ace’s jaw once more, a brief spark of courage all it took to have Sabo’s eyes dart up to the other’s expression in full.

It was only for a second, a fraction of a second, but Ace was… Well, he wasn’t wearing an expression Sabo would have expected. There was color on his face, freckles standing out in the way flecks of paint did against a canvas, dark stars against a scarlet sky. The eye contact, brief as it was, had sparks light up along the line of his spine and heat wash over his own features in a rush. Just as quickly he looked away, but it was enough to break the silence between them, at least.

“I never said no,” Ace spoke after another moment, voice soft, hesitant. A voice used when speaking to a frightened child, but effective, all the same.

A warmth spread outwards from the inside of Sabo’s chest and he had to hold his breath to prevent it from leaving him all at once. He didn’t dare glance up at Ace’s expression again, or acknowledge the hope that hung at his center, a bright flower ready to bloom. Or wither and die.

He wet his lips again, biting down on his bottom lip until it turned from pink to red. “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he repeated again, voice a whisper. Ace’s foot was still pressed against his own and it was enough to calm him down, even if just a little. Enough to draw back that earlier flash of courage and hold on this time. He looked up and met Ace’s argent gaze, and this time he didn’t look away.

There were a million things he wanted to say, wanted to finally admit, but even with his intrepidity, the right words never came. Sure, they hovered in the blank space of his mind, voiceless phantoms of his intentions, but nothing more. Empty yet still so full of meaning.

I love you, they spoke. I wish you knew how much you meant to me. Really meant to me. I’ve tried to move on, to think about someone else, but you’re always on my mind. You’re the only one on my mind. I’ve tried, but—I’m scared.

Scared that his feelings wouldn’t be reciprocated, that he’d be denied, abandoned. That he’d ruin what they had now, pushed further than they were meant to go by desperate greedy hands. Left to heartache and heartbreak just like the countless other girls on this same day.

The courage to meet his gaze, but not enough to tell the truth. Not when he might fail.

Sabo’s lips quirked into a smile, shaky with nerves and not quite bright enough to meet his eyes, but lopsided in the way he adapted when making a joke. “I didn’t bring any chocolate. Kinda shitty to suggest such a thing when I haven’t even done that, huh?”

Ace’s eyes were unwavering, that fire from earlier ever present, emblazoned beneath his skin. If Sabo grew too close, Icarus he would become, burned by the very thing he loved. Somehow, he still felt as if it might be worth the pyre.

He waited on bated breath for a reply, for the other’s mask to break, for him to accept Sabo’s pitiful attempt at humor and allow them both to move past it all. Instead Ace only hummed after another moment, the tension he hadn’t even noticed before easing out of his shoulders, smile soft on the male’s lips. Reaching towards his cooled lunch, he pulled it closer to him, eyes no longer holding Sabo captive when he spoke, “Well, I guess you’ll just have to owe me then.”

#;;synwrites #saboace #acesabo #sabo #ace #one piece #honestly i love the pining trope #especially with these two in a modern setting #and there's no time worse for dealing with emotions and crushes than high school #i don't even care that valentines day was AGES ago lol #it was the first thing that came to mind #THANKS FOR THE PROMPT #UHHHH TITLES #UHM #FUCK #fic;;valentines valor #AU;;HS

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brilliantorinsane · 7 years ago

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The Speckled Band on Stage: Yep, Still Gay

Note: I tagged those who reblogged the first part of this series. Please let me know if you would prefer not to be tagged in future posts.

This is the second installment in my series on obscure Sherlock Holmes film adaptations and their depiction of Holmes and Watson both individually and in relation to each other. (For a discussion of the 1921-23 silent films starring Eille Norwood, which appears to have been Doyle’s favorite adaptation, see here.)

I really didn’t mean to write a post about this one, seeing as it doesn’t strictly fit the theme of this series. It is a play, not a film, and it is only sort of an adaptation—although a retelling of The Speckled Band, it is written by Doyle himself. But while researching a very gay and very terrible 1931 film, I discovered that it was loosely adapted from this play. Naturally I read it as part of my research, telling myself that I wouldn’t get sidetracked writing a post about it. The failure of my self-control now lays before you.

In my defense, this play really is … well it really is Something. All sorts of wonderful and all sorts of tragic. If you’d prefer to read it for yourself before encountering the spoilers in this post, hop on over here and scroll to the second half of the webpage. And if you’ve got your subtext glasses so much as perched lightly on the end of your nose, be ready to be sent reeling by what you find.

(Spoilers below the cut)

Production and Reception

Doyle’s decision to adapt The Speckled Band for the stage was rather spur-of-the-moment. He had leased a theater for six months in order to showcase The House of Temperley, an adaptation of his novel Rodney Stone, but the play was largely unsuccessful (x, x). Threatened with considerable financial loss, Doyle set to work and within a week had written The Speckled Band. Despite its rushed composition the play was decidedly successful, and Doyle seems to have been quite pleased with it (x).

The play alters the original short story considerably. Some changes are so inconsequential as to be puzzling—the villain’s name is changed from Roylott to Rylott, the names of the stepdaughters are switched, etc—but other alterations are structural and make a significant difference. In particular, instead of following Watson’s pov, the audience’s perspective revolves primarily around the Rylott house. The scenes introducing Holmes and Watson are also considerably altered and expanded for potentially unfamiliar audiences, and a good deal more shouting and action is introduced throughout.

Oh, and Watson is engaged to Mary Morstan. Yeah. More on that later.

I have two complaints: First there is an uncomfortable dash of orientalism (i.e., western depictions of the east which cast it as mysterious, dangerous, and Other, and which played a largely unintentional but nonetheless significant role in justifying British imperialism), which is present in the original story but rather more prevalent in the stage play. Second, the female protagonist, although commendably brave, loses what little agency she had in the original story. But aside from these elements, I loved this play. The pacing is good and kept me engaged even when neither Sherlock or Watson are present, Dr. Rylott is genuinely frightening and I was really rather tense at times despite knowing the ending, and the occasional humor is on point—I actually laughed aloud once or twice. Further, ACD’s allegiance with the oppressed is out in full force, and there’s some genuinely touching commentary on the debilitating effects of abuse. And then, of course, there is Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson …

Sherlock Holmes on Stage

Guys. This is, pure and undiluted, Sherlock Holmes at his best. If you ever start to fear that Sherlock really might be the cold and detached reasoning machine some folk have fixated on, just read the way Arthur Conan Doyle writes him in this play. You will never doubt again that he is anything besides a snarky ahead-of-his-time genius with a heart of literal gay gold. We’ll get to the ‘gay’ part in later section, so we’ll set aside his interactions with Watson for the moment. There is plenty else to discuss.

You see, this Holmes does spout a variation of that much abused line from A Scandal in Belgravia, saying: “[love] would disturb my reason, unbalance my faculties. Love is like a flaw in the crystal, sand in the clockwork, iron near the magnet.” I understand that the statement, here and in Scandle, refers specifically to romantic love. Yet I cannot think it’s an accident that nearly the very next moment Holmes is flatly refusing to find the wife of a clearly abusive husband, asking only enough questions to ensure that she has found a safe refuge, even though the law is on the husband’s side and the man offers a whopping fee of 500 pounds. As if Doyle wants to drive home that Holmes accepts cases purely on the basis of empathy for the downtrodden and not finances, Holmes then remarks: “I’m afraid I shall never be a rich man, Watson.” Added to this, the manner in which he listens to, comforts, and puts himself in danger for Roylott’s step-daughter Enid is genuinely touching. As many of us have asserted for years, Sherlock Holmes is the champion of justice, ally of the oppressed, and altogether a beautiful smol man. ‘Love is a flaw in the crystal,’ indeed.

There is also a pleasing dash of Holmes the psychologist. It appears most obviously in an early analysis of Dr. Roylott, but most touchingly toward Rylott’s mercilessly abused servant Rodgers. The man is essentially good-hearted but entirely incapacitated by fear of his master, and this leads to his betraying Enid’s attempts to contact Sherlock. It was obviously a shitty move, but Holmes, who earlier expressed understanding of the thoroughgoing damage caused by the man’s long, forced dependence on a maniac for his basic needs, responds compassionately: “He is not to be blamed. His master controls him.”

Added to this we have Holmes in disguises, bamf!Holmes, Holmes calling people idiots and taking far too much delight in dancing circles around them, and of course utterly brilliant Holmes (though that’s a given), so it seems almost an embarrassment of riches that we also get peak sassy Holmes. He makes a number of delightful appearances, although my favorite is the following, which occurs after he has agreed to protect Enid from Rylott:

RYLOTT: What I ask you to do — what I order you to do is to leave my affairs alone. Alone, sir — do you hear me? HOLMES: You are perfectly audible.

As utterly delightful as all of this is, Holmes’s darker side is not entirely absent, at least in his personal habits—the cocaine does make its appearance. But more on that later.

John Watson on Stage

To be honest, I found myself rather anxious about how Doyle would depict Watson. We fans have been in the habit of discovering Watson between the lines of the cannon stories—as the man is far more interested in talking about Holmes than himself, it takes a bit of digging to discover Watson’s outstanding qualities. But what if the Watson we love so dearly is our own invention, and Doyle himself was simply uninterested in the man except as a conduit to portraying Holmes?

I really shouldn’t have worried.

It is true that Watson rather disappears into the background once Holmes is working. But that is not to say he becomes at all useless. In fact, the Watson in this play is quite simply our Watson—kind, steady, intelligent, dangerous, and with something of a temper hidden beneath the steady veneer.

In the play, Watson is the doctor who examines the body of the first murdered sister (who is here called Violet) two years before Holmes becomes involved in protecting the remaining sister, Enid. Watson, bright fellow that he is, clearly suspects that something is off. Ultimately there is nothing he can do at the time, but his involvement allows for one my favorite moments: Watson employing Holmes’s deductive skills. True, it is for a single, relatively inconsequential matter; but he does it and he’s right and he impresses the whole room and guys! Watson! is! an! intelligent! man! I mean, we’ve all known that for forever, but its rather nice to get such a clear nod of agreement from Dyole.

In addition to his intelligence, Watson exhibits a empathy and compassion that in this story will be matched (not surpassed) only by that of Holmes. As an old friend of Rylott’s now-dead wife, Watson acts as comforter to the surviving girl. We are told that he came immediately and probably well in opposition to his own convenience when first he heard of the tragedy, and his treatment of Enid is gentle without being patronizing. Unsettled by the Rylott household and clearly wishing he could do more, he also repeatedly urges Enid to contact him if she has any suspicion of danger. All of this prompts Enid to declare: “Your kindness has been the one gleam of light in these dark days.” It is a lovely description of the man who has been a light in the dark for at least one other—the sort of testament we would have been unlikely to hear of if this story were reported through Watson’s own narration.

Again, I’ll leave the majority of his interactions with Holmes for the next section, but it is worth mentioning that there is no objection from him when Holmes turns down an easy 500 pounds. Watson is intelligent and he is good—he saw the signs of abuse and he would not have his friend benefit on those terms. These scenes also provide a wonderful dose of protective Watson. And while Holmes is of course at the head of the investigation, he and Watson are wonderfully in sync, and Watson proves his worth.

When it comes down to it, the Holmes and Watson in this play are transparently the two deeply compatible men we seek to dig out of cannon: mutually sharp and compassionate, courageous and quick to protect, with Holmes giving Watson stimulation and purpose and the means to aid others, and Watson providing Holmes with a firm right hand and a ready ear and a steadiness that counteracts the extremities that drive Holmes to cocaine. Watson and Holmes as Doyle portrayed them—as no other adaptation would portray them for far too many years—are just kinda perfect for each other.

But Watson is engaged.

So … What About Johnlock?

*buries head in hands* *giggles* *sobs* … Yeah. Yeah, it’s here. Yeah.

I really wasn’t sure what to expect from this play. I thought that perhaps the stage would strike Doyle as too exposed and vulnerable, or that perhaps he wouldn’t trust the actors, or that he would feel unsafe without the veneer of Watson’s narration—that, one way or another, he’d be persuaded to leave the gay subtext out of this one. But, um, Doyle? Buddy? Don’t get me wrong, I’m absolutely chuffed that you managed to avoid allegations a la Oscar Wilde. But also … how?

Honestly, I’ve always wondered whether Doyle was aware that he was writing a love story or whether that’s what wound up on paper regardless of his intent. This play just might be my answer.

a.) Sherlock Holmes: The Work as a disguise

The most blaring subtext is concentrated in Act II Scene II, where Holmes first enters the stage and his primary interactions with Watson occur. This play takes place during one of the dark times when Watson isn’t living at Baker Street, and when he visits Holmes to present him with Enid’s case, Holmes comes out disguised as a workman. (Before this Watson comments with dismay on the evidence of Holmes’s continued cocaine habits—this will be significant later). The disguised Holmes pokes fun at Watson, who doesn’t recognize him, accusing him of being responsible for Holmes’s untidy habits. There may be a rather tragic subtextual undertone to the whole conversation, but there’s too much else to discuss. So I’ll leave that aside and instead highlight the exchange that occurs when Holmes drops his disguise:

WATSON: Good Heavens Holmes! I should never have recognized you. HOLMES: My dear Watson, when you begin to recognize me it will indeed be the beginning of the end. When your eagle eye penetrates my disguise I shall retire to an eligible poultry farm.

Now, this could be innocent enough—just a fun way to introduce the clever detective. But if one is at all alert to the mere possibility of subtext, alarum bells should be ringing full force at the fact that the first on-stage interaction between these two characters consists of Holme demonstrating his ability to hide his true identity from Watson, and then saying that if he was unable to deceive Watson it would literally be the end of his life as he knows it. And it’s worth taking note of his phrasing: not “when you begin to recognize my disguises,” but rather “when you begin to recognize me.” Is this just a matter of professional pride, or is there something deeper that Holmes is afraid of having discovered?

But you know, maybe I’m just reading into this. This is a story about preventing Enid’s murder, its got nothing to do with romance or love, that would be thematically inconsistent and out of place—

HOLMES: Well, Watson, what is your news? WATSON: Well, Holmes, I came here to tell you what I’m sure will please you. HOLMES: Engaged, Watson, engaged! … The successful suitor shines from you all over.

Oh. Okay then.

Now, it is important to understand that Watson’s marriage has literally nothing to do with the Rylott plot. The engagement in no way affects Watson’s movements, and Mary never appears on stage. No; the first half of this scene is devoted entirely to introducing us to Holmes—the few clients he sees in this section are clearly selected to give us a sense of his character, methods, and values. That means that for some reason Doyle thought that a proper understanding of Holmes requires a discussion of love and marriage—specifically, Watson’s marriage.

Watson, being an imbecile as well as an intelligent man, thinks Holmes will be pleased with his news. Holmes rises to the occasion as best he can, calling the news “better and better” when he discovers Mary Morstan is the woman Watson has chosen, but not before he lets slip the sentence: “What I had heard of you, or perhaps what I had not heard of you, had already excited my worst suspicions.” Worst suspicions, Holmes? I thought this was supposed to be giving you pleasure? Well, perhaps he’s merely being facetious.

But next moment he slips again, saying, “You lucky fellow! I envy you.” When Watson suggests that Holmes might find a woman of his own one day, Holmes cryptically replies: “No marriage without love, Watson.” This might have been the first line that really floored me—the bare fact of Holmes’s conviction that he will never love a woman (‘woman,’ of course, being implied in the concept of marriage at the time). But when Watson asks why, Holmes falls back on the “[love] would disturb my reason” nonsense.

Now to be clear, I understand that Holmes is specifically discussing romantic love here, and that there is no connection between a lack of romantic attachment and a lack of sentiment and care for others generally. But here’s the thing: Holmes’s self descriptor doesn’t depict him as aromantic—i.e., ‘I just don’t feel romantic stuff.’ It depicts him as a reasoning machine—‘strong emotions disrupt my process.’ And in context of literally every friggin thing he does in this entire play, that’s nonsense. It is abundantly clear that reason is his tool, but compassion and sentiment are his motives.

One might argue that this is slightly sloppy writing (it was composed in a hurry, after all), or that Holmes simply doesn’t have the words to describe his aromanticism. Yet just moments before he said he envied Watson’s relationship, and moments before that revealed himself to be a consummate actor whose very existence as he knows it depends on disguise …

The already unwieldy length of this analysis requires that I speed a bit through the goldmine that follows: through Holmes punting aside requests from a royal family and the actual Pope because Watson has a case in which he has a personal interest—and I can’t resist pointing out that Holmes says he will of course take the case if Watson has “any personal interest in it.” It’s not ‘I’ll make time in my busy schedule if this is really very important to you,’ it’s ‘oh, you have a thing that you at least kinda sorta care about? The Pope can wait.’ I must gloss over Holmes transparently wanting to get as much of Watson’s company as he can, declaring that he has always seen Watson as his partner, and wishing for a plaque with his and Watson’s names on it, despite heavy implications that Watson has been almost entirely absent from Holmes’s work for some time. I’ll just mention in passing the truly remarkable number of “my dear fellows” and “my dear Watsons" Holmes manages to drop in a brief space of time, his clear desire to protect Watson from the dangers of the case despite later informing Enid that he is “a useful companion on such an occasion,” and his cry of “No, Watson, no!” when his friend leaps up to protect him from the poker Rylott is threatening him with.

I will not, however, pass over what occurs when Watson leaves Holmes, intending to meet him at the train station later that day. Watson’s final words on his way out are: “Good bye—I’ll see you at the station,” to which Holmes replies, “Perhaps you will,” adding to himself: “Perhaps you will! Perhaps you won’t!” Ah, what’s that? On about disguising yourself from your best friend again, eh Holmes? But then, within the play this refers to the fact that Holmes intends to actually disguise himself at the train station, so it has a literal meaning and not a metaphorical one, it has nothing to do with a deeper hiddeness, certainly nothing to do with love—

HOLMES: Ever been in love Billy? BILLY: Not of late years, sir. HOLMES: Too busy, eh? BILLY: Yes, Mr. Holmes. HOLMES: Same here. Got my bag there, Billy? BILLY: Yes, sir. HOLMES: Put in that revolver. BILLY: Yes, sir. HOLMES: And the pipe and pouch. BILLY: Yes, sir. HOLMES: The lens and the tape? BILLY: Yes, sir. HOLMES: Plaster of Paris, for prints? BILLY: Yes, sir. HOLMES: Oh, and the cocaine.

Oh … oh. Shit.

Please understand that this exchange—consisting of Holmes again raising the topic of love immediately after returning to the subject of his disguise, both of which he addresses as soon as Watson has left, as if he could not discuss them in front of his friend—comes apropos of nothing except Watson’s announcement of his engagement far back at the beginning of the scene. And I don’t see how the way he raises the subject and dismisses it can be seen as anything but the covering of some deep emotion—there is longing in the way he immediately brings it up, showing that it has stuck in his mind the whole while, and something tragic in the way he next-moment dismisses the clear preoccupation with the claim of being ‘too busy,’ clearly echoing the ‘I envy you … love is not for me’ progression of his earlier exchange with Watson.

And I get that in theory this longing for but dismissal of love could be read in a number of ways besides a socially forbidden love for his recently engaged partner. One might argue, for example, that he is aromantic but lonely and longing for the consistency of attachment others find in romantic love, or that he’s bursting with all sorts of hetero affections that he has chosen to sacrifice for the sake of The Work.

I would simply ask any inclined towards those arguments to consider the framing of this scene. I would ask them to question why ACD chose to introduce and conclude the scene which functions as an introduction to Holmes with the detective’s ability and need to disguise himself from Watson specifically, immediately juxtaposed with discussions of romantic love and Holmes’s desire for it which is clearly present but immediately veiled—disguised?—by his commitment to the work, with the cocaine hovering ominously behind. Then consider that between these mirrored book-ends we watch Holmes allow the man from whom he must disguise himself to disrupt the flow of the work which he claimed was supreme, making clear his wish that Watson be drawn into that work—a desire counteracted only by the transparent fact that he would prefer to risk his own bodily injury rather than put his friend in harm’s way. Add to all of this that Doyle works in a mention of the Milverton case and thus allows Holmes to comment on how his ruse to undermine Milverton involves courting and being courted by a woman and how distasteful he finds the experience and—well, you much reach your own conclusions. I have reached mine.

b.) Watson: Substitutionary desire

I began by speaking of Holmes because the subtext is monumentally more apparent on his part, and unlike Holmes it would be easy and even (though I cringe to say it) reasonable to read Watson as a comfortable heterosexual in this play. Does this mean that Doyle wrote one of those dreadful adaptations in which Holmes is pining away with an unrequited love for a Watson who is incapable of returning his romantic affections?

Not necessarily. As far as I can tell, without the clear implication of Sherlock’s affections one would be on shaky ground arguing that Watson was intended as anything besides a Hetero Bro. However, the clear coding of Holmes as in love with Watson causes one to wonder whether the affection might not be returned, and the results of investigation are inconclusive but intriguing.

Although he doesn’t make an appearance until the second act, Holme is mentioned by Watson in the first scene. Assuring Enid that she can turn to him if she is in any need, he admits that there is little he can do on his own. But he then adds: “I have a singular friend—a man with strange powers and a very masterful personality. We used to live together, and I came to know him well. Holmes is his name—Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It is to him I should turn if things looked black for you. If any man in England could help it is he.”

To be fair, it is not unusual in stories for someone to describe the hero in grandiose terms before he is seen directly by the reader/audience. Still, that’s quite a way to describe one’s friend. I find myself particularly fixating on “strange powers and a very masterful personality.” You do realize that you could have just said he’s smart, right Watson? I mean, maybe things were different back then, but if I described my friend as having a ‘masterful personality’ and then tried to claim they were my platonic bestie, I’m pretty sure I’d get my fair share of dubious glances.

Watson mentions his friend once more when his application of Holmes’s methods to clear up a detail of the investigation prompts an impressed exclamation from the coroner, to which Watson responds: “I have a friend, sir, who trained me in such matters.”

So at the very least, we have a Watson who idolizes, respects, relies on, and emulates his friend—all of which makes the fact that he is no longer living with Holmes something of a puzzle.

You see, the play never gives us a reason for Watson having moved out. The comment to Enid in which he mentions that they “used to live together” occurs two years before Sherlock becomes involved with the case and Watson becomes engaged to Mary, so it clearly has nothing to do with her. Yet not only has he moved out, his involvement in the cases is implied to have dwindled significantly or even stopped altogether—in one of the saddest lines of the play, Holmes comments that of course Watson wouldn’t remember Milverton because: “it was after your time.”

But why these degrees of separation? At no point are there signs of any ill-will between the friends. The danger certainly wasn’t an issue for Watson: when Rylott threatens Holmes Watson literally “jumps” to protect him, and he insists on sharing the danger of the Rylott house. Nor does it seem viable to speculate that Baker Street’s location became inconvenient for Watson—the speed with which Rylott makes his way to Watson’s home and from there to Baker Street demonstrates that they still live quite close. One might more plausibly theorize that Watson was becoming more invested in his medical practice and involvement in Holmes’s work was interfering, but why would ACD make an alteration so irrelevant to the story and then not even explain it? After all, the friends were still living together in the short story from which this is adapted. What could be the point of such a change?

Well, the fact is, while their bond is undeniable and remarkably strong, there are hints of something … off between the friends. Despite claiming to see Watson as his equal partner, Holmes fails to communicate with him about how they will be involved in the Rylott case, telling Watson to come on the 11:15pm train but neglecting to mention that he will be going to the house in disguise some hours earlier. The motive behind this omission is unclear—he previously tried to dissuade Watson from joining the case on account of the danger, so perhaps Holmes intends for Watson to give up and stay away when Holmes does’t appear. (Watson, of course, comes anyhow). Or perhaps Holmes wished to be apart from Watson for a time in the wake of hearing of his engagement (Holmes calling for the cocaine comes unsettlingly to mind here) but knew Watson wouldn’t allow him to go to Rylott’s alone. But whatever Holmes’s motive, Watson knows only that he has been excluded and cut out. Similarly, if in the past he has sensed that Holmes was on some level disguising himself from him would he would not have been likely to imagine a flattering cause. One cannot help but wonder whether it is these exclusions that cause Watson, despite inserting himself determinately when Holmes’s safety is at stake, to feel that he must offer to remove himself from the room when Holmes calls in clients. Certainly Watson has no inkling that Holmes might be in love with him—no kind friend who suspected as much would introduce his engagement by saying: “I came here to tell you what I am sure will please you.”

This then, is what we have: two men who deeply admire each other, long for one another’s company, and would clearly die for one another, and yet one of them is hiding and the other running first from the house and then into marriage. We have good reason to believe the one is hiding because he fears revealing his love; is it unreasonable to suppose the other is running for the same reason? Is it strange to think that Watson, feeling unable to trust to his powers of disguise in the way Holmes can, feeling the continual sting of Holmes hiding from him and cutting him off and unable to interpret those actions as anything besides distrust or indifference, would have sought safety in distance and ultimately comfort in binding himself to another?

A final note: we know nothing about Mary in this play. Despite having come in part to announce his engagement, Watson has no rhapsodies to offer on behalf of his fiancee—he seems far more interested in Holmes’s propensity for love, and, failing that, in Holmes’s work. Although Holmes’s (admittedly not impartial) deductions imply that Watson is genuinely pleased with his engagement, we learn precisely two details about Mary, both from Holmes: first that she has red hair, and second that Watson chose a woman who Holmes “met and admired.” Despite their seemingly limited contact over the past two years, Watson still seems unable to be married without at least some reference to Sherlock Holmes.

c.) Sorry … have some petty ACD as recompense

I feel I owe you an apology. I am aware that if you had the patience to read my ridiculously long ramble and are convinced by my interpretation of the Holmes and Watson’s relationship in the play, your ‘reward’ is having a dark but ultimately triumphant detective story transformed into a fucking tragedy that ends with two broken hearts. All I can offer is the comfort of knowing that for 130 years neither marriage nor death nor the near erasure of Watson from the first forty years of stage and film adaptations have been able to keep these two apart. They will find their way back to one another.

Oh, and you also might enjoy hearing that this play is totally ACD’s revenge on heteronormativity.

Okay, I can’t prove that. But it really looks like it. You may be aware of the 1988 play Sherlock Holmes, written by Doyle and William Gillette. If you’re like me a week ago, you may not know that Doyle wrote the original script himself, and Gillette became involved only when Doyle’s script was rejected and the producer urged him to bring Gillette on to rewrite it. I like to imagine that the rejection letter went something like: “Look, buddy, you can’t have Holmes staring forlornly after Watson while instigating a wistful conversation about love with Billy. You just can’t,” but realistically we don’t know why the first draft was rejected. But we do know that Doyle specifically requested that Gillette not give Holmes a (female) love interest, and that Gillette sent Holmes off into the sunset with a woman anyway (x).

Then, eleven years later with a failing theater on his hands, Doyle locks himself away in a room and says, “Fuck it. Imma write a Holmes play, and when I introduce him the first thing everyone is going to know is that he’ll never marry a woman, and the last thing the introduction will tell them is that he’ll never marry a woman and—you know what, I’ll take that Milverton story where Holmes groans about needing to date a woman and throw that in the middle.” And that’s true of the play even if you don’t buy the queer reading. But also, its super gay.

And frankly I just love that not only did Doyle refuse to give in to society’s attempt to fit his story into their heteronormative mold, it actually worked and Doyle made up all the money he was poised to lose and more by shoving a gay love story into his audience’s face.

Well done, ACD, well done.

Conclusion: Should You Read It?

I mean, I think my answer is fairly obvious by now. If you’re interested and have the time, it is 100% worth it. And I hope it doesn’t feel like I’ve spoiled all the good parts. There are reams of gems I didn’t even allude to—and that’s not counting everything I doubtless missed.

I just have one request: if you do read the play and end up posting about it on tumblr, would you tag me in your comments? Hearing someone else’s thoughts on this hidden treasure would be a delight.

@thespiritualmultinerd @a-candle-for-sherlock @missallainyus @steadymentalityengineer @iant0jones @devoursjohnlock @disregardedletters

#ACD cannon #Holmes adaptations #the adventure of the speckled band #the speckled band play #Arthur conan doyle #stage adaptation #johnlock #meta #sherlock holmes #John watson

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catxtopia · 7 years ago

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“Relapse” - Ryers drabble

I haven’t written anything in 2 years, this could suck who knows?? Maybe send me prompts if you want I guess? Kinda thinking about writing more v(o-o)v

I was inspired by the sentence prompt: “Can you please come and get me?” Takes place probably a few months before s2. Richie has been in town a while already, and ryers is already happily established ;3

With shaky fingers Will plucked several coins from his coat pocket, depositing them atop a small ledge attached to the payphone he currently huddled in. The silver bits clattered in all directions, each twirling and landing with a resound clink against the table. Will shoved the change left and right until he had the amount he needed, and then began feeding them into the coin slot. It took several tries before he had them all slipped inside the machine. Once he was granted access, the young Byers yanked the receiver off the clip and started steadily pushing an order of numbers he’d engraved into his mind over the years.

The line rang once, twice, before a cheery voice greeted him. “’ello! Tozier residence.”

A small, uneasy smile tugged at Will’s lips as he listened to his boyfriends distorted British accent. He clutched the receiver with both hands, pressing his face closer to the speaker. “R-Richie?” He breathed more so out of relief than needing actual verification that it was indeed Richie speaking.

There was a pause on the other end, than a confused: “Will?”

“Y-yeah it’s me.”

“Hey, what’s up? What’s wrong? Are you ok?” Richie spit off in rapid fire. The concern in his voice was practically dripping through the phone.

Will looked up at the cracked glass above his head, blinking back tears. Those were some fully loaded questions. He took a sharp breath in, held it for a moment, then let it out in the most pathetic excuse for a calming exhale he’d ever heard. His lung quivered under the rush of air. “I don’t know where I am.” He whispered through his uneven breathing. “R-Richie I don’t know- it’s happening again and I don’t know how to get home.”

“Will. Will, listen to me.” Richie said in probably the most serious voice Will had ever heard him use. “Everything is going to be ok, I am going to come get you. You just need to tell me what you remember. What were you doing before? Who were you with, where were you?”

Will sniffed and tore his eyes away from the dark sky littered with red lighting, peeking down at him from the skylight above. He closed his eyes, feeling the moisture of unshed tears speckle his cheeks. What had he been doing? He’d been… “Playing Dig Dug.”

“Okay, good. That’s good, love. So you were at the arcade?” There was slight shuffling from the other end, followed by the sound of keys jingling.

“I- yeah I think so. I was with the guys but they left early and I- I thought I’d be fine on my own.” A loud rumble of thunder shook the small phone booth. Will tensed, his shoulders as tight as a metal rode. He kept his eyes closed, brows furrowed, and head crouched in towards the phone. Towards Richie’s calm voice.

It’d been so long since he had one of these episodes. He’d been doing so good. Two months with not a single sign of the Upside Down had Will assured that it was over. That he’d finally be able to live a normal life without any residual after effects still clinging to him. Guess that thought could be pitched now.

The first time Will realized he could get in touch with the right side of the world, it had been on a whim. He was so frustrated and scared that when he saw a phone lying perfectly in tacked on a store counter, he just dove for it. Habit had him dialing a number and before he even realized what he was doing - that there was no way this would work - the other end of the line had picked up.

Lucas speculated it had to do with the fact Will wasn’t actually leaving the physical plane at all. He was still present, moving in the real world and interacting with real things. Phones worked only because Will’s body was using the phone in the real world while his mind imagined a different surrounding.

After discovering this, Will would always try finding the nearest means of communication in hopes a friend could find him and wake him from his episode.

“Willow Tree- my love, I am going to come get you.” Richie’s voice brought Will back in a snap. He nodded despite Richie not being able to see him. “I gotta hang up now, but I’ll be there in just a minute. Hang on just a little longer, you’ll be wrapped in my arms before you even know it, I promise.”

“Okay, Rich.” Will hated this part but he knew hanging up had to happen eventually. He scrubbed his wet cheeks and willed himself to calm down. Richie would be there soon. “I’ll see you soon. I-I love you.”

“I love you too, beautiful.” Richie hummed in his sweetest tone. “Be there soon.”

And with that the line went dead.

#I really wanted to name this 'Hello from the other side'#but I'll be classier than that #ryers #richie x will #will x richie #fic #my writing #long post #*nervously posts*

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7fics · 8 years ago

Note

prompt: "even strangers can smile at me but why can't you" (to be honest with you guys my friend actually said this and i was like what a prompt)

Warnings: Honestly none except that it might be a bit hard to follow logically? Also open endings and non-plot!plot but I hope it doesn’t confuse anyone?Author: SallyWord Count: 2.6KA/N: First prompt here! It’s probably way off from what you expected, I didn’t even expect it to write out like this….I’m so sorry omg… But hopefully you like it??? I hope I didn’t ruin the prompt QAQ | Unbeta-ed

It’s half past three when Jaebum stumbles into the classroom, wooden door sliding open noisily. The white bordered clock hangs above the blackboard, second hand ticking amongst the silence. He doesn’t expect anyone, stopping midstep when a figure enters his vision. The setting sun showers the room a golden hue, basking the two of them in a field of light. For a moment he doesn’t make out who it is, sunlight blinding him as he attempts to step into the shadows. It’s only a short while before his eyes adjust, and Jaebum finally registers who was in front of him. He debates upon what exactly to say, a hand reaching to tug at the ends of his hair. “I forgot something in my desk.” He gestures towards the back, making his way to his desk.

The younger male only nods before returning his attention to the mop in his hands. “You’re in charge of classroom duty this week?” Jaebum asks the obvious as he rummages through his desk. The younger male nods again in response, letting out a small affirmative hum when he realizes that Jaebum isn’t able to see his actions. There’s no more attempts at conversation as Jaebum finally finds what he needs, stuffing the papers into his backpack. He gives the brunette haired male a curt look before stumbling out the classroom in the same manner just a few minutes ago. The wooden door shuts with a small thud, coinciding with the small ‘tick’ of the classroom clock. Jinyoung looks up at the closed door then down at the grey footprints upon the tiled floors. The corners of his lips tug downwards in the slightest way, brows knitting together as he frowns.

It’s three thirty-six as Jaebum walks down the empty corridor, footsteps rebounding off the cement walls. It’s three thirty-six as Jinyoung takes a short inhale, mopping away the traces Jaebum had left behind.

There’s something about their brief encounter that strikes Jaebum as memorable—although he isn’t sure whether it is the way the sunlight seemed to wrap around the younger male in a glow. Or whether it was the way that even amidst the warmth of the sunlight, the other’s gaze had still seemed so tepid—so stagnant. Or maybe it was because it had been one of the few times that it was just the two of them in a solitary space. He tries to recall the years before, tries to remember whether the other male had always been so collected.

It’s late night neuroticism—moonlight diffused by the sheer curtains and his rationality diffused by emotions he can’t quite place his finger on. Jaebum doesn’t deem himself to be someone that really paid attention to those around him. It hasn’t been once or twice that others have commented on his indifference to the constant change external to his microcosm. He’s almost always lived with a motto of letting things go as they be, choosing to approach from the world-in and not the other way around. Yet, an unsettling feeling finds its way under his skin as he wonders why he’s so insistent on placing a conclusive label on someone who should only be a bypasser in his teenage years.

There really isn’t anything unique nor worth remembering about today’s interaction. Nor any of their past conversations that only went a few sentences beyond greetings and courteous small talk. So why? What about it—about him—leaves him so unsettled? What is it about the doe eyed youth that seems to suffocate Jaebum with unspoken words every time? Where he’s always left not knowing what to say, yet wanting to say something—anything at all. Jaebum doesn’t quite know; nor does he know why he wants to know. The white curtains flutter slightly as night wind travels through the window, in a way that reminds Jaebum of both butterflies as well as fire. “I must be going insane,” he mutters. It’s late night neuroticism—stars lost in the night sky; thoughts lost within his mind.

Jaebum concludes his own ponderings mid-sentence, closing the unfinished file and tossing it to the back of his head. This isn’t a subject he should be lingering upon and he knows well enough that such a question would never have a logical answer. He’s navigating on emotions and intuitions—trying to find factual evidence to justify his own impressions. For what? He wonders.

For nothing, he determines.

And he continues on just as the day before—pretending the tangential nine hours of aberrant contemplation seemingly nonexistent. There’s more than enough to worry about in his third year of high school; whether it be about future paths or the fleetingness of his teen aged years. Life should be about himself—his stars shifting into introspection. Jaebum shakes his head, clearing his thoughts before looking up at the blackboard. He gives his pen a spin, rerouting his mind and jotting down the notes on the board.

He ponders upon the extent that such postulates and theorems are actually applicable to his everyday life. Looking at the numbers and formulas scribbled messily on the sheet in front of him, Jaebum gives a small sigh. There’s a fixation with logic and probability—with stability—that fuels the human soul. They’re always attempting to calculate each and every thing in prevention of disaster (of chaos); yet, when has the human heart ever succumbed to natural laws?

“Don’t think about this,” he tells himself.

“Focus,” he tells himself.

“Stop,” he tells himself.

It doesn’t.

Jinyoung sits four seats besides him, one row back. And it isn’t until Jaebum slightly turns his head to the left that he’s able to catch a glimpse of the brown eyed male in his peripheral vision. There’s always beauty in fleetingness, the uncertain—the hidden. And so he watches through unfocused lenses as the wind flows through the opened window slightly displace the other’s fringe. The other boy remains undisturbed, eyes focused on his notes.

Brief moments, Jaebum thinks, it’s brief moments like such that seem to burn into his memories. There’s a mesmerizing pull that the other boy seems to exude, something that seemingly conjures from nowhere and yet overwhelms him nonetheless. The thought of Jinyoung seems to be like that of a loose thread. It isn’t until you finally notice its presence that it seems so evident, and when he tugs at the strand he finds it all unravels at once without end. He puts down his pen, resting his head on his arm instead. His hair falls softly with his motion, interrupting his line of vision with a curtain of noir. There’s a surge of rightfulness that overcomes him, seeps under his veins and travels to his heart. Maybe it’s courage, maybe he’s delirious—who knows? But when Jinyoung finally looks up to meet his eye, Jaebum doesn’t turn away. The brunette male is first to break their gaze, eyes shifting to the side as he looks on.

Why? Jaebum wonders as he finally closes his eyes, vision blearing into black. The wind billows softly, fallen leaves traveling midair as the world continues. Jaebum feels as if they’re all falling within the quicksand of time.

It’s a Thursday afternoon, raindrops hitting the glass panes of the windows in arrhythmic ways. The smell of petrichor floats lightly in the air, settling down upon their shoulders. Jaebum feels as though the air sits above his chest, where he’s overly conscious of the energy it takes to simply inhale—exhale. And something in his mind clicks into place; epiphany reaching him in the strangest moments.

“He never smiles at me.” He realizes with a mutter.

“What are you talking about?” Mark throws him a sideways glance, messily finishing the self study assignment.

“I never make him smile.” Jaebum whispers.

“Who?” Mark finally looks up from his work, cocking his head to the side.

“Jinyoung.” He states obviously.

“What?”

“I—nevermind,” he stops mid-sentence, closing his mouth when he catches their teacher’s glance. The rain continues in the background, static noise filling the quiet classroom. And his thoughts continue as well, watered by the rain as it settles in his mind and starts to bud.

There’s something particularly “human” in the way that thoughts and emotions often run off course. And no matter how much Jaebum tells himself to focus, he finds that an appeal to logic fails miserably to that to one’s emotions. The fatal flaw of humankind, he thinks. The beauty of humankind, he reckons.

Was he seeking recognition? Approval? Why did it bother him so how the other would perceive him? Hadn’t he always been indifferent to other’s voices? Why was it that with every confrontation he’s always calculating everything to say yet leaving with it all unsaid? What was it that Jinyoung signified? Jaebum isn’t sure; neither is he sure whether or not there was any substantial meaning behind his actions and thoughts.

Was this youth? The momentaneous burst of desire and motivation with no particular meaning? Or perhaps it will only start to make sense when the lines have settled into his expression and the noir of his hair fades to speckled grey. But whether youth meant reckless actions or regrets in afterthought still remains a puzzle unsolved.

What’s there to lose? He contemplates.

What’s the point? He sighs.

The world seems to open up upside down—or maybe it’s simply because Jaebum realizes that right-side up has always been upside down. The sudden epiphany becomes all too clear, unable to erase itself from the centre of his mind. As if frost has slowly formed on the lenses, iced haze blurring his vision except for one spot in the very centre. So that when he looks up, the only image that enters his vision is Jinyoung.

It gnaws slowly at the back of his mind, at the speed akin to collecting water from a leaky faucet. Slow but rhythmic and accumulative, similar to the water clocks of the ancient past. But also similar to the water torture of ages long ago. He finds both analogies suitable; it’s time slowly passing, it’s torment that slowly drives him insane.

“Are we friends?” Jaebum finally asks after repeating such a phrase within his mind countless times. He’s moving past boundaries, trying to turn something lukewarm into vapours.

“Aren’t we?” Jinyoung repeats, slightly taken back from his words. There’s a flash of astonishment that glazes over the other’s eyes, dissolving within his irises.

“I mean…,” Jaebum starts, “we’re…friends?” He watches as the younger male nods slowly in agreement. “And?” Jinyoung inquires.

And?

Had there been a second part to his question? There was, but what had it been? Jaebum doesn’t quite remember and neither is he quite sure what he wanted to inquire about.

“And?” He repeats, thoughts covered within a veil of haze. Jaebum observes as Jinyoung’s expression turns from one of confusion to one of slight dismay. The glimmer in the other’s eyes fades dully, brows knitting together. It’s that look again, he thinks.

“You never smile at me.”

“Huh?”

“Even strangers can smile at me, why can’t you?” He’s pondering aloud, mind lost within reality and daydreams. “But we’re not strangers,” he reassures himself. The room around him spins in ways that seem hallucinatory, as if time was both frozen and fastwording at the same time. Jaebum wonders if this was only another dream, so that when he does wake up in the end, he’ll be able to forget everything by the time the day ends. (So that Dream-Jinyoung can also forget all that he says.)

He closes his eyes tightly before reopening them, in an effort to focus his thoughts. The room stops spinning this time, though the feeling of instability still stays within him.

Jinyoung still has the same expression when Jaebum recollects his thoughts. Though this time he isn’t sure whether it’s an expression of confusion or one of disapproval. A part of his consciousness wonders if Jinyoung’s figure would dissolve into ripples when he reaches out.

“I’m catching the moon in the pond,” he says aloud. It’s half trepidation and also half anticipation that overwhelms him as he shifts between states of hyposensitivity and hypersensitivity. A if all his senses were registering reality and the imagined all at once.

“You’re not making sense,” Jinyoung tells him.

“I’ve never seen you smile because of me,” he comments in disregard.

Jaebum can’t tell whether the constant drumming he hears is from the rain upon the windows, the second hand of the clock, or whether it’s his own heartbeat. Maybe it’s all of it at once, each running off in its own tempo—a cacophonious song that reminds him of battle hymns. He looks up intently at the male in front of him, leaning slightly forward—

“If I smile at you, would you smile at me?” He wants to ask.

“Are you dream-Jinyoung or reality-Jinyoung?” He wants to ask.

“I’m not making sense,” he says in the end.

“I know.”

“You don’t make sense,” he stammers. “To me—you don’t make sense to me.”

“There’s an aura you hold,” he says. “Something that makes you seem like the moon in the city sky.” Jaebum searches for the right words, phrases only coming to him in fragmented pieces. “Distant but bright. Solitary.”

Jinyoung doesn’t give him an answer, setting his book down on his desk and looking up at him instead.

“I’m catching the moon in the pond. One more step and I’ll fall within the waters, look up and find that I’ve caught nothing at all.” Jaebum sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not making any sense to myself either.” He mutters with an attempt at a casual smile, though he feels it looks more like a grimace.

“There’s no moon to catch,” is what Jinyoung finally says when Jaebum finds his expression faltering. He catches the younger male’s gaze, looking within the obsidian irises of the other boy. “I’m not a question waiting to be solved, Jaebum.” Jinyoung continues with a small sigh that only further unsettles Jaebum’s thoughts. It’s in afterthought that he regrets never suppressing spontaneous momentum, wishing that he had never opened up this conversation at all.

It’s not that Jaebum doesn’t understand the foolishness of his thoughts—he does. In fact, Jaebum is more than well aware that such a foolishness stems from him not understanding his own thoughts. He knows that he’s asking Jinyoung for something—but what it was that he’s asking for, he can’t pinpoint yet.

“You’re the one in question,” Jinyoung tells him. “You’ve always been.” Such a reply fazes Jaebum, as he tries to register all the words left in between the lines. As if he’s had all the pieces of an unsolved puzzle all along; yet, never putting them in the rightful places. Something in his chest seems to lock into place, blurred lenses slowly clearing up.

And when he finally reaches out, Jaebum finds that all doesn’t fade into ripples. He watches slowly as his fingertips brush against other’s fringe, soft locks sweeping back with his actions.

“There’s no moon to catch,” Jaebum tells himself.

The rain continues to water the grounds below, as the seed of his thoughts finally begin to sprout underneath seemingly barren soil. Jaebum wonders vaguely if it’ll sooner or later bud into a touch-me-not; hiding within from the external world. Or whether it’d bud into roses armed with thorns. But as he looks into Jinyoung’s gaze, he figures that such ponderings can only be left up to the future.

Jaebum loses count of how long passes until he fully comprehends all that’s lost in days of youth and flowers. Though it’s after many spring and autumns until he realizes that the moon of the skies (nor the waters) was never meant to be caught. Yet, still existent whether or not he’s standing on dry land or not.

“You’re the one in question,” Jinyoung tells him.

“I’m the answer.” Jinyoung doesn’t say.

#got7 #jjproject #jj project #character:jb #character:jinyoung #author:sally #genre:romance

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