#still not my best work considering i only wrote it en route to different places

[thenickelportrust]

Morgan Sharp

The fact that it's five in the afternoon does little to quell the general air of discomfort that permeated the four faded white-blue walls of the room. Normally, by this time, Eleanor would be packing her computer into her bag- an overstuffed, dingy black thing with a broken zipper, frayed edges, and a tiny rooster keychain she brought back from a trip to some resort in the Caribbean. Similarly, the smells of coffee would fill the cramped quarters of Nickelport’s Easter Bay Police HQ, the familiar bitter scent of Mikel preparing for the evening shift, and the rest of the office clustering around the origin of the scent like a cloud of hungry blue-clad pigeons. The thing that brought me the most joy, and what keeps five in the afternoon near to my heart, however, was the fact that five in the afternoon was when I left. Normally.

Cristina McDonall, as she introduced herself in rapid, muddled words, was a forty year old woman with the energy, and paranoia, of a fresh college graduate. She had dark rings, purple bag dangling from lidded brown eyes, and deep wrinkles made more prominent by the deep-seated frown plastered on her face by a recent cruel turn of fate. Her button-nose is red and as swollen as her dilated eyes. Bow-knuckled hands wave about her face, tucking back a stray strand of starch-colored hair here, patting away rebellious tears there, wiping mucus leaks everywhere. She wears a flower-print dress with distractingly bright blooms, and a cheerful bird pin holds her hair away from her face while tiny, dangling faux-diamond earrings clink joyously against her neck as it bobs visible while she swallows and chokes on her words.

“Are you listening, sir?” My eyes able back to hers- searching my face in jolted, flickering motions.

“Yes.” I speak through interlaced hands, my nose resting against my knuckles. She remains silent.

Slowly, my shoulders rise with a deep breath. Exhaling over my hands, I release their grip on one another and slide the photo away from the underside of the manilla folder, more such pictures spilling out from its belly, the tape that held it neatly together ripped open like a wound. Along with the photos come the case file reports, family testimonies, and the two eye-witness records. I flip the lamented square onto its white back, the black-and red, boiled, peeling face of a fourteen year old boy stares back at me. Through the door I hear the office fan splutter and die, followed by the dull thud of a foot connecting with machinery, and Mikel’s agitated cursing. I slide the photo back into the folder.

“As of right now, Mrs. McDonall-”

“Ms.”

“What?”

“Ms… Ms. McDonall,” She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, making loud, grating squeaks against the floor. “My husband and I split two years ago- Daniel carries his name, legally.”

My hands fold in on themselves one more, squeezing together against the cool of the fold-up table, a small ache pools in my back. “Which does he go by?” Ms. McDonall looks sheepish.

“Mine, usually.”

I sit back in the chair, forcing my fingers apart and drumming them against the top arrhythmically. The fan starts up again, purring loudly. Mikel whoops, victorious.

“Well, Ms. McDonall,” I push forward once more, “As of right now, we have no new information on the whereabouts of your son-”

“Nothing?”

“- But we’ll be sure to contact you once we hear something more substantial-”

“I don’t want substance-”

“- Until then I’m obligated to reiterate that popping into our office without a precursory office call-”

“-I want Daniel back, officer-”

“- Will only hinder our investigation-”

“-I want to know where he is-”

“- And makes it-”

“- I want to know what happen to my son-”

“- More difficult for us to find him.”

“I want him back!”

Silence cakes the space between us. Water pools in her eyes and leaks down her cheeks, reflecting the fluorescent lights above. Her lips move, but I can barely catch the words as they leave her mouth. “Please find my son.”

“If you have any more information on what happened, Ms. McDonall, you can call our offices.”

---------

Sunlight streamed through the gap between the flimsy white curtains. Pale orange, the last life sapped from winter’s weakened yellow eye. I run my hands once more over the manilla envelope, eight photos, four angles- front, side, side, back- two for each boy. There are also four large white papers shoved neatly inside- the official report, the Pestia family testimony on their son, the little email printed out with their refusal to meet in person glaringly obvious at the top, and, finally, two “witness” accounts that differ so greatly I’m not entirely sure that one is for another murder that the Nickelport East Bay Police Department has yet to find out about. I reread over one of these reports, the one that seems to match the photos, once more.

A fisherman, gave his name as Illal Monk, reported feeling a blast of hot air and hearing a loud boom, like an explosion, coming from the area near where the construction site for a new warehouse building at around six in the afternoon. He originally brushed it off as construction work and went back to gutting tuna in his rented-out shack by the water, but Illal Monk noticed something strange. Silence. No clanging metal beams or shouting workers in neon yellow hardhats, no beeping machinery or whirring engines. Silence. Thinking something had gone wrong at the site, Illal Monk headed over at about six thirty in the afternoon. The orange vests were hung up beyond the chain link fence, the machines towered in silent sentry, the transportable storage closets were shacked up and closed, and none of the dirty, heavy burning-oil scent was to overpower the salty sea-breeze. Illal Monk at this point considered turning around and heading back when he noticed a different smell. A smell that could never be washed away or buried, the kind that sticks to your skin and will cling to your clothes twenty years later. The smell of burning human flesh.

Illal Monk called the N.E.B.P.D at six forty-five in the afternoon.

“Knock knock,” Mikel popps his tan head into the quarter-open doorway, a bright and unconcerned grin on his face. “Staying in all the way today, Cap’n?” He shoulders it open the rest of the way, toting two white coffee cups in his hands.

“Regrettably,” I shuffle Illal Monk and the boys back into their manilla folder.

Mikel places the cups down with a happy plunk, “Got caught trying to sneak out of the house, eh Morgan?” His knowing, self-assured smirk is a relaxing ripple of normalcy in today’s otherwise eerie still…

“I’m allowed to take a lunch break, Mikel.” Calming, infuriating normalcy.

“Yeah.. but at five?” Mikel’s white-toothed grin is hidden behind a frown, his floppy, sweeping black hair bobs above his brows as she shakes his head, “And you drag poor Ellie out with you everytime… When do you eat dinner, anyway? Eleven? One in the morning?”

“When Eleanor eats is her decision.” My eyes flitter up to Mikel’s, which are quirked in that lopsided, sharply curious way. “And I don’t eat dinner.”

-----

Jay Pestia was the second oldest of the four at fifteen. He had sandy blonde hair, baby-peach skin, and a crooked smile filled with bright silver braces. The braces apparently melted to his gums somewhere in the midst of the attack. He wore size thirteen shoes but his toes would still often back black and blue from being pressed against the sneaker-tops. He’d been at school, Three-Stands Preparatory High School, playing viola in the third-floor jazz band room. He sat in the back.

He sat in the back because he had a track record at the principal’s office. He sat in the back because the teacher would always yell at him for not paying attention and would scream at him for missing his cues. He sat in the back because stage fright made his fingers stiff and numb. He sat in the back because the window was there. He at in the back because his music notebook was always filled with doodles of the bird in the nest outside the window. He sat in the back because he named them. He sat in the back because he could talk to them.

Jay Pestia had cloudy blue eyes and thick-rimmed glasses and freckles splattered across his nose. Jay Pestia left school at four in the afternoon to meet his three best friends after school, like every other day. Jay Pestia’s body was thrown over the chain-link fence and caught three feet up on one of the exposed beams, his left arm was found five feet away from the rest of him.

Jay Pestia was left handed.

----

It took all of two seconds after she was let in for Eleanor to lock onto the coffee cups, one of which had been drained during the reading of the Pestia family’s email.

“When Mikel walked in here with two cups I assumed one of them was for himself.” Eleanor’s hazel eyes fill with an unspoken question.

“I’m fine.”

“For now,” Eleanor folded her long, slender arms across her chest. She has a ballerina’s face, pinch-pot prim and expressionless. “When was the last time you ate something?”

“I just had coffee.”

“Ate, not drank, ate.” Eleanor’s thin eyebrow drifts up her forehead, sending wrinkles through the pale-pink canvas of skin. “Sharp?” Slowly, the other eyebrow rises to join its sister, simultaneously pushing away the corners of Eleanor’s lips. “Morgan?”

“Did you ever get in contact with the Laurens on their statements, Eleanor?” Her head hangs, auburn braid drifting lethargically over her shoulder.

“No, sir, but I can call them again?” I nod, gratefully mumbling a thank you as I bring the second cup of coffee up to my lips.

“Get some lunch afterwards,” I add on as the door slowly creaks closed, then open, as Eleanor’s defiant, disbelieving exterior makes an appearance once more.

“Fine,” She raises her pointed chin, “But I’m bring you back some food, too. And you will eat it, Sharp. Even if I need to get Mikel’s help, I swear, we will make you eat something.” Eleanor Pike slams the door closed.

----

Dominic Kim Laurens never went by his full name. But, that lack of a full name was more than covered for by a plethora of nicknames. His friends called him “Dom”, his teammates “The Dom”, his girlfriend June either called him “Nicci”, “Domi”, or “Baby”, and his parents most often called him “Dominic Kim”, which while included his full name was not as much, by virtue of being more than just plain-old “Dominc”.

His room was messy with photos taken by others of him. Dom by the sea, with his swimming trousers still stuck to his thighs, black hair damp and drying in wild, messy clumps sticking up and down and this way and that. The Dom scoring the winning shot at the homecoming basketball game, his just-ever-so-slight, fading summer tan on his otherwise pale-ish beige skin shining with a fresh sheen of sweat, already dark, close-set rounded eyes made black by focus on the net. Domi and Junebug, celebrating their second anniversary with a homemade candlelit dinner, insisted upon by June’s mother, where he sits with a smile as big and bright as the moon and rivaled only by June’s own. Then, tucked away in the back corner of the room, atop a desk next to splayed writing materials, a closed laptop, and a haphazard stack of old textbooks were two instances of Dominic Kim. A baby with his mother’s lips pressed to his cheek, crinkled in the midst of joyous, uncaring laughter, and a young man celebrating his fourteenth birthday, face rounded in a soft smile and dimly lit by the orange glow of candlelight.

Two days later Dominic Kim Laurens had four more photos taken as he lay approximately four feet from the murder site on the wharf's concrete floor, one of the front, one from the back, and two from either side. None of these were to ever be present in his room.

-----

Once Mrs. Laurens finishes her abbreviated rendition of Dominic’s life pre-mortem, of which I find myself having to fill in for her more weeping-filled gaps, she turns to the box of tissues placed out between her husband and herself, the former of whom had wordlessly stood up and left the room, one hand covering his mouth and eyes snapped shut just minutes into her telling.

“Mrs. Laurens,” I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees as I wait for her to finish wiping the tears from her eyes, “We’d like to ask you a few questions about the night of the murder, and take a look around Dominic’s room, if that’s alright.”

“Yes,” Her voice cracks, throat bobbing with the effort to speak anymore. I nod to Mikel, who had remained still and silent for the duration of her talk.

“What was Dominic doing the day of the attack?” As Mikel’s gentle voice begins the interrogation, I stand and move inside the victim’s room, keeping one ear out for her response as I shift the door covered with different stickers depicting basketballs, hoops, and players alike.

“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Laurens breathes in sharply, gathering herself, “Dominic always went to his friend’s house after he finished practice…” She pauses for a moment, the door reveals a room much like she described- littered with photos and all of himself, “I… He didn’t say if anything was different that day��”

“What was his friend’s name?” Mikel’s voice is small, barely a soft whisper floating around the corner. Is she crying again? No, her voice didn’t break, but she must be losing her composure. Mrs. Laurens isn’t responding. “Take your time, Ma’am.”

I find the photos Mrs. Laurens described, all in their specified places, and examine them for myself. The beach photo is blurry, taken with an unsteady hand, with grains of sand stuck to the lense as if the camera’d been dropped or abandoned in the sand until time to pose for the picture.

“Daniel,” Mrs. Laurens’ tenor quivers, “Daniel Rivera, legally, but he goes by McDonall.”

The basketball shot is even more blurred by motion, tilted at an awkward angle with any focus in his eyes diminished by the bright light obscuring his face, glaring angrily at the camera from the stadium’s ceiling. “And how did he know Daniel McDonall?”

The most accurate to its description is the depiction of “Domi” and “Junebug”. Both kids smile in the uncomfortable, controlled manner that comes when appeasing a pestering parent with a camera. They’re seated at a dining room table, bodies awkwardly turned to face the lens, hands stiffly interlocked.

“Elementary,” Mrs. Laurens speaks with a surprisingly controlled voice, schooling herself into a state of numbness for the sake of answering Mikel’s inquiries. “Daniel, Jay, Luca… Dominic went to middle school with all of them… But he met Daniel in elementary school. They were such good boys… they were all…” Her voice begins to waver again. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, Ma’am.” Mikel quietly reassures her.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re helping us greatly, Ma’am. You don’t have to be sorry.”

Silence.

“Thank you, Officer…”

“Mikel Bosque- but Mikel is fine, Mrs. Laurens.”

“Officer Bosque… Mikel, thank you… Are there any other questions? I’ll… do whatever I can.”

I proceed to the desk in the corner, a small schedule stapled above a thick golden physics book with papers shoved between the pages. My eyes trace the dates down to the day of the murder. ‘Dock 7, 5:00’ is written in embolden black letters. The location of the bodies.

“The photos… can be a little overwhelming.” I turn sharply, Mr. Laurens stands in the doorway, one hand idly tracing up and down a chipped section of the wood, “He did this on accident, we used to keep a vase on a table set outside his door- to look nice… Told Dom not to practice indoors but, well, he never listened to this old man anyway.” His chuckle is dry and cracking and followed by a weak sniff, his nose and eyes are lined with red.

“Did your son tell you why he was heading to Dock 7 at five on December 5th?”

Mr. Laurens shakes his head, stepping into the room, he looks around, and though he seems still and peaceable, I catch the shaking of his hands as he nervously rubs them together, the unsettled eyes as they flicker to one photo- before immediately looking away, only to catch on another that appears to hold some particular memory to him.

“Did your son mention Dock 7 at any particular time? Was it a common meeting place for him and his friends?”

“I don’t…” He chokes on his words, “I don’t know. No. No. It couldn’t have been. He hated the wharf. Couldn’t swim- Scared of the water… I wanted to teach him. This summer. That was the plan. He was too old to not know how to swim. If something had ever happened, I wanted him to be prepared. He was scared. His friends- I… I don’t… I don’t know…” The man in front of me cracks and crumbles, stumbling against the wall, he slides down, slowly, until he sits on the floor, laminated papers crumpling beneath him. Mr. Laurens hangs his head between his knees, and begins to weep. I clear my throat, glancing towards the doorway to check if Mikel is done with his part yet, but I can’t see him and Mrs. Laurens from around the corner.

“If you have any information about Dock 7, you can call our office.”

------

Daniel Rivera Jr. started introducing himself as Daniel McDonall after his brother Luca showed up at their house, sleeping in the arms of a social security worker with a note written to the senior Daniel Rivera, his father, notifying him of the death of an Abigail Spellmeyer. He was ten years old, Luca Spellmeyer was seven.

“And?” I speak into the pause on the other end of the phone line, originally having thought that perhaps Ms. McDonall needed to gather herself to get into the grittier details of Daniel and Luca’s childhoods, but when that pause has since lapsed into a sizeable silence.

“And?” Ms. McDonall’s echo comes out as a static hiss, “You wanted to know why Daniel went by McDonall instead of Rivera, this is why!”

“Ms. McDonall, Daniel was sixteen-”

“Is sixteen- just because you haven’t found him, Morgan Sharp-” She spits out the words with a serpentine venom, “- Does not mean my son is dead!”

“- Yet you stated that Luca… arrived… when Daniel was ten. What happened for those six years between?”

“Ask my husband.” Ms. McDonall drawls sarcastically.

“Ms. McDonall, it would be easiest if you-” The connection dies abruptly. I let the phone scream loud dial-tones in my ear for a moment before eventually, slowly, setting it down on the receiver. Almost immediately a sharp knock resounds at the door. “Come in.”

Eleanor slowly, purposefully pushes the door open, “I hope you’ll forgive me, but I couldn’t help but listen in.”

“Your desk is right outside my office, Eleanor, I don’t think you would’ve been able to avoid hearing that if you tried.”

She considers my words with a pursed expression, before nodding in agreement. “Well, anyway, I did some digging as to why it was Mrs- er- Ms. McDonall was still showing up as Mrs. Rivera in our system.”

Folding my hands on my desk, I watch as Eleanor steps aside, allowing Mikel, who had apparently been waiting behind her, strides confidently into the room, waving a small collection of papers in his hand. “Would’ja believe it, Cap’n, that it wasn’t just the system screwing up again? But just some more family dirt dug up in this beautiful little case of ours.” He slaps the papers atop my desk, lips peeling back from his teeth triumphantly.

I look to Eleanor for a more direct answer, she steps around Mikel, spreading the papers out in a neat row, “Daniel Rivera Sr. and Cristina McDonall never filed for a divorce.” She taps the fifth and last paper neatly, “Until Ms. McDonall tried to- about one month ago.”

I turn the paper to face me, “November 28...”

“Just a bit curious how that’s only a week before the murder… and the kidnapping- of his own two sons, if I might add.” Mikel fills the room with that cloudy thought hanging over everyone’s head.

“But it’s not enough to prove he’s guilty.” Eleanor cautions him.

Mikel holds out his hands, “I’m not saying that the guy is!” He pulls up one of the two chairs by the desk, flipping it around so that he can sit on it and slin his arms over the back, “What I am saying, though, is that either we need to give Mr. Rivera a li’l visit, or he’s gonna have to visit us.”

“Mikel!” Eleanor snaps, her jaw hangs open, eyes glimmering with slight exasberation, “We’re not on some crime television show…! We can’t just- just barge into his house unannounced. We need a search warrant, or an arrest warrant if we really think he… might play some part in what happened.”

“We don’t have the time.” Both of them turn to face me when I speak up. “If there’s even the slightest possibility that Daniel Rivera Sr. killed those two boys and kidnapped Luca and Daniel Jr. then we can’t waste any time in making sure that they’re safe.” I pick up the phone again, standing as I do so when a sudden wave of antsy energy rushes through me. Eleanor opens her mouth to protest. “There won’t be any more kid’s corpses on these docks.”

She holds my gaze, staring me down, but her jaw slowly shuts. “You still can’t do anything in the system without a warrant.”

“Oh, Ellie, Ellie” Mikel laughs, “There’s always a way around the system.”

“Do you have a suggestion?”

Mikel rocks back in his chair ever so slightly, “Of course I do!” He turns to face me, and despite that impish smile there’s a stern, serious glint to his eyes, “Call him to make a testimony at his house. We three go and then you do what you did with the Laurens and say that the two of you,” He points to Eleanor and then myself, “Are going to take a look at Daniel and Luca’s rooms, respectively. The fact that you just so happened to end up looking elsewhere in the house becomes little more than a small feat of getting lost.”

“So lost that we end up thoroughly searching every room in the house for incriminating evidence of arson, murder, and kidnapping?” Eleanor shakes her head.

“You underestimate just how lost one can get. Come to the city with me sometime, you’ll see.”

“Mikel, how long do you think you’d be able to distract him?” Mikel faces me once more, sobering up a considerable amount as he mulls over the question.

“Depends,” Mikel shrugs, “I haven’t met the guy yet and I’d need to get a good read on him to figure out whether or not he’s the chatty type. Not to mention I’d have to do this all under the guise of an actual interview, and there’s only so many questions I can ask before any sane person gets suspicious. But if he really is guilty of all this then we might not have to worry about that last part.”

“So you want us to search the house of a man who is either completely innocent, or managed to sneak a bomb of some kind into a populated wharf and then blow up two boys? Without a solid sense of how long we’ll have to do so?” Eleanor speaks slowly.

“Well, most of those details are irrelevant to the search itself, Ellie. Just think of it as find and go seek, count to one-hundred if you don’t trust me, then shout olly-olly-oxenfree and come back if you really want. Otherwise, I’ll let you know when he’s getting antsy.”

“How?”

“However seems natural at the time.”

“We have to try it.” I stare at the papers on the desk, the manilla folder still out from the last time I poured through its sparse contents. “We have to.”

“If it doesn’t work,” Mikel starts to stand, pushing the chair back into place, “We’re at least supposed to interview him, anyway.”

-----

Daniel Rivera Sr. lives nearby the wharf… a fact that certainly made Eleanor’s calm facade break momentarily into an expression of surprise. The house is small with vanilla paint over red brick and a tiled roof, it’s squished, townhouse-style, between two near identical buildings, with the most distinctive aspect of Mr. Rivera’s abode being the bundles of fake flowers pushed into a real flower pot that hangs outside his window, bright pink and red against the otherwise barren urban winter. I step up to the door, with Mikel right behind me and Eleanor lagging back a bit as she surveys the surrounding area. The doorbell chimes with a long, melodic tune that echoes around, muffled by the door. The man who opens the door has a square jaw and tired brown eyes, a sad smile lighting his face when he sees Mikel and Eleanor’s uniforms behind me. He’d expected us… considering we called him to set up the appointment.

“Come on in, no reason to freeze outside.” He stands astride the door, waving the three of us into his house hurriedly. “Would you like to hang your coats? There’s a fire already warming the living room- sit, rest, you three must be freezing.”

“No, thank you.” Eleanor politely refuses, “We won’t take much of your time, sir.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Rivera has deep lines by his nose and mouth, the kind that make for a bright grin like Mikel’s, but now seem only to be used for a melancholy ghost of such. “You’re here so I can help you find my sons, correct? If that is so… then take as long as you need and I’ll… I’ll do whatever I can.”

“Officer Bosque will be handling that,” I shrug towards Mikel, who extends his hand in greeting, “Officer Pike and I were hoping it’d be alright to take a look at the boys rooms while Officer Bosque interviews you?”

Mr. Rivera nods slowly, “Of course, but first, sit and have some tea. I insist,” He adds when he catches Eleanor’s hesitant glance towards me, “It’s too cold to do anything else, and I have all day free for you to snoop into my private laugh.” The joke is coupled with a weak laugh, Mikel does his best to match it with a soft chuckle of his own, but Eleanor’s face remains cold as steel, I remain silent.

“Alright,” I acquiesce, Eleanor’s eyes slide over and catch my own, but I keep staring towards Mr. Rivera, “Tea it is, then.”

“Fantastic! You can wait in the living room,” Mr. Rivera points through a doorway, towards a crackling fire, “I’ll be right back.”

Once we go through our doorway, and Mr. Rivera disappears around the corner, Eleanor tugs me closer to herself and Mikel, “Sharp, what are you doing?”

“You wanted a time limit,” I whisper, “This is Mikel’s chance to get us one, get a read on him.”

“He seems nice.” Mikel pipes in. “I kinda… feel a little guilty, honestly. It seems like he really misses his sons.”

“You were the one to suggested this!” Eleanor reminds him.

“I know,” Mikel shrugs, his eyes located somewhere distant, “I just… I still think it’s a good idea to look around- don’t get me wrong, but I… well, I won’t be surprised if we don’t find anything, is all I’m saying.”

Eventually he seems to slide back into the present, catching Eleanor’s gaze, “Oh come on, Ellie, you can’t seriously say he doesn’t seem depressed by what’s happened, can you?”

“I’m reserving my judgement. Like I should.”

“Everyone is innocent until proven guilty,” I remind the both of them, “Now stop fighting, and focus.”

A few minutes later, Mr. Rivera comes through the open doorway once more, juggling four cups in his bare hands. Eleanor stands to help him but Mr. Rivera shakes his head, “No, no,” He turns away from her help, “They’re hot, you’ll burn your hands.”

“But what about yo…” Eleanor trails off as her line of sight falls down to Mr. Rivera’s hands, which glow a soft ember orange color as he sets the cups down on the table.

“You have powers.” I comment, half to myself, as Mr. Rivera stands straight once more. He laughs, bashfully, a sudden wave of sheepishness overtaking his features as he rubs his hands together self-consciously.

“Nothing quite so fantastic, I’m afraid.” He squeezes them together, the glow slowly fading, “I can heat my hands up to boil water or cook, which saves quite a bit of money, and I don’t have to worry about being burned in the kitchen, which saves quite a bit of pain…” Another quiet bout of laughter, “But I’m no hero. Far too old to go running around saving the world and all that.” He shakes his head, “Though I appreciate those who are able to do more than I.”

Mr. Rivera takes a seat, clutching his mug between his hands. Mikel sits straighter, and takes a breath to begin the conversation-

“Mr. Rivera, why did you and Ms. McDonall wait until a month ago to file for a divorce?” It’s almost eerie, the way every single head snaps to look at me with a similar perplexed expression once I speak up. Mikel nudges me in the side with his elbow, and once Eleanor registers what it is I’ve said, her expression shifts from emotion to emotion before finally settling on a combination of confusion and annoyance. Mr. Rivera, on the other hand, is frozen in place, or so it seems. The only mobile thing about him comes from the steam curling out of the ceramic mug in his hands.

“What my boss means to say is-” Mikel starts in spluttering tones, but he’s cut off when Mr. Rivera lifts a hand, still staring in my direction.

“It’s… fine, I suppose.” Finally shaking himself from his stupor, Mr. Rivera glances into the tea mug before setting it back down on the table, he runs his hands over his knees, smoothing out his pants. “Though… I thought you wanted to go upstairs and search the boys’ rooms?”

“So did I…” I hear Eleanor mutter from the other side of the couch.

“I have a few questions.” I shrug, glancing Mikel and Eleanor, “I think it’d be best if we ask them now.”

“If… that’s what you want.” Mr. Rivera hesitantly agrees.

“Well, that’s fine with me,” Mikel shrugs and flops back against the couch, slinging one arm over the back, “Whatever you think is best, Cap’n.”

Eleanor searches my face for a moment longer, her gaze lingers silently as she nods and stiffly leans her arm against the armrest.

“So, why now?” I return to Mr. Rivera.

“Well…” Mr. Rivera scratches the back of his head, running a hand through curled dark brown hair, “I guess I should… clarify. Cristina and I- the plan was never to divorce. We wanted-” He stops, swallows heavily, “Well, I wanted, to give the boys a normal childhood. As normal as it could be, considering… The circumstances with which Luca came into our lives. Cristina wanted, reasonably, to leave. I promised that it would just last until they were off into the world on their own. Then we would go our separate ways and she would never, ever have to see me again.”

“Which didn’t go over very well, did it?” I fill in.

“No.” Mr. Rivera shakes his head, then stops, “Well, no… later. At first she seemed to agree- it was the one thing we’d agreed on since Luca arrived. We both wanted the boys to be happy, and we thought two parents would be better than one but…” Mr. Rivera sighs, “It was worse. Much worse. We fought constantly, and she hated me, had reason to- but- I just…” His hands wrap around his knees, “I can’t shake the feeling that this is all my fault. That if we’d split there then none of this would’ve happened, everything would’ve been cleaner and… Luca and Daniel would still-”

“Why?” I cut him off before his train of thought can continue.

“Cristina came to me with the divorce papers to sign, we fought- of course,” A dry, sarcastic, loathing laugh escapes his lips, “Luca overheard, he was eavesdropping- curious boy.” Another chuckle, this one somehow simultaneously happier and more pained, “I think he told Daniel. I think that they… wanted to escape, just for a while. Go somewhere with friends far from home, far from everyone. As far as they could get from Daniel’s mother’s house. So they went to the docks that day- nevermind how dangerous that area is and now… They both acted so distant afterwards I couldn’t help but believe that was why.”

“They got along?” Eleanor’s tone betrays surprise, she sits straighter, perked up at this small detail. Almost immediately she snaps her mouth closed, realizing her words and looking away embarrassedly. “I’m sorry, sir. I assumed, with the circumstances that they might not’ve-”

“It’s fine.” Mr. Rivera shakes his head, “I suppose it does seem strange, especially since, as you probably know, Daniel stopped using my family’s name after Luca came home. But… Daniel is a good boy, I think he resented Luca at first- would barely talk to him, but I believe that Luca grew on him. So, yes, the two got along. They were brothers, full brothers, no matter what the past is.” There’s a glimmer of pride poking through the cloud surrounding Daniel Rivera Sr.’s eyes.

“They left because they found out of the divorce? And that’s why they ended up on Dock 7, to get away, correct?” I repeat.

“Yes. I’m sure.” Mr. Rivera answers.

“And both of them- both of your sons- were upset at this time?”

“Well, yes.” Mr. Rivera’s head tilts in confusion, “Of course they were, we’d been struggling for so long to keep our family together and it just-”

“Everything in their lives fell apart.”

Mr. Rivera nods. I stand up, “I see. Thank you for your time, Mr. Rivera.”

“What?” Mikel is the first one to bolt up, shocked, “Woah, Morgan! What are you doing?”

“You’re leaving?” Mr. Rivera goes wide-eyed. “So soon?”

“Yes. We need to leave.” Mikel is by my side, one hand grasping the back of my arm, Eleanor stands as well, shaking her head at me in disbelief.

“Hang on- Morgan!” Mikel tugs me back, “We’ve barely asked any questions! Let alone, y’know, looked at their rooms?”

“We need to go,” I pull my arm free, “Now.” Mikel and Eleanor share a quick glance, but by the time they start to follow me I already have the front door open, half jogging towards the car we came in.

“Thank you again for your time, Sir!” I hear Mikel shout behind me as he runs towards the car, Eleanor several paces in front of him. “You’ve... uh, really helped us out!” He slams the door behind himself as I start up the engine, Eleanor already buckled in beside me. “I guess?”

“Mind telling us where we’re going?” Eleanor is the first to speak, her hand clenched in a white-knuckled grip on the car door as we speed along the narrow streets near the wharf, sirens blaring.

“Yes, call it in.” I instruct, “Contact the western HQ, tell them to search the Rusty Side for Luca Rivera and Daniel McDonall, then have our office fax them the images on file. Tell them not to open fire, but to use extreme caution.” Eleanor, suspiciously but surely enough, reaches for the radio lodged into the car console.

“The Rusty Side?” Mikel leans forward from the back seat, “That’s on the other side of town!”

“As far away as possible. They won’t leave the city. They can’t.”

Mikel’s eyes stretch until his irises are surrounded by white, “You mean you think you know where they are?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I have an idea.”

Mikel sits back in the seat with a huff, “Lotta pomp for just an ‘idea’.”

“Do you have a better one?” Eleanor turns her head sharply behind her, pausing as the message is relayed to the western N.P.D.’s western headquarters.

Mikel stretches his arms out to the side, “I honestly can say that I have no idea what’s happening. So, no, no I do not.”

-----

Once we’re actually in the Rusty Side of Nickelport I begin to feel a lot of the tension and original adrenaline of my discovery drain away. I loosen my grip on the steering wheel as I pull the car into a side alley, the three of us step out and I pass to the keys to Eleanor. “Drive around, but keep the lights and siren off. If you see anything then contact us immediately.” She nods somberly, before slipping into the driver seat and slowly rolling down the road. Mikel and I watch until the tail lights disappear around the corner.

“We need to find them before dark.” Mikel comments, glancing up at the ever fading sky. I pull back my sleeve and check my watch. Five in the afternoon. “Your favorite time of the day.” Mikel comments with a smile as he takes a peak over my shoulder. “Must be good luck.”

“They’ll be somewhere quiet.” I shove my hands into my pockets, the winter chill crawling through the thin fabric of my coat, “Look in alleyways, abandoned buildings, anywhere uninhabited.”

Mikel’s beam fades away, “Are you sure about this?”

“I have to be.”

“No,” He shakes his head, “I don’t mean where they are, I trust you on that.” That confidence makes a brief return at the comment, “I mean… splitting up- will you be okay? And if you find them…? Maybe you should’ve taken the car…” His eyes start to waver towards the ground.

“Mikel,” I draw them back, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be fine… I have to be.” One more glance at the sky shows me that it’s grown even darker, “Now, get moving. Remember what I told you- it’s just a hunch but… exercise caution.”

He beams at me once more, “Aww, you worried about me now? Come on, Morgan, when am I ever not careful?” He throws his arms out to the side, already backpedaling slowly down the alleyway.

I don’t respond.

Mikel laughs boisterously, “See you on the other side, Cap’n!” He gives a mock salute before turning around and walking off, bouncing on his heels.

-----

Quiet surrounds me. Lights dimly gleam from barred windows, casting broken shadows on the cracked, uneven street. A bag floats by and catches on a lamppost with a shattered bulb, glass scattered dangerously around the sidewalk. I take peak down each alley I find, only to be met with that same sullen silence. I hear jaunty whistling coming from one open door as a woman with her hair tied in two knotted pigtails pushes a ratty couch onto the street, casting me one suspicious outsiders-glare before kicking the couch the rest of the way outside and slamming the door closed. No more whistling. No more anything.

My feet begin to ache by the time that the sun has crested over the squat buildings and the sky’s been bruised purple and blue, just barely enough light that I don’t yet feel the need to flick on my flashlight and expose my presence to this unwavering ghost town. Static crackles on my radio each time I consider contacting Mikel or Eleanor to check in with their progress, but the risk of revealing myself remains too high to try. I spot one abandoned concrete building, like a half-built factory… no, not half built. I realize by the faded sign and rusted up, unused shipping trucks parked in the nearly empty driveway. It’s been destroyed.

The building is wide, taking up three houses space, with a broken down old metal gate in front, the latch missing and one side hanging open at an angle that I squeeze through. The peeling sign talks about some kinda fabric- maybe shirts or pants- the words are too far gone to tell. The left half of the building is fully intact, plain grey concrete with symmetrical rows of blackened windows and two tall steel pipes rising up out of the ground… but the right half has caved in on itself. Exposed rebar pokes out of slabs of concrete that have fallen down and now lean haphazardly against what remains of the left half of the building, deep gashes gore the parking lot, with one truck still wedged vertically between the layers of destruction, its torso crushed beyond recognition, a stain on the asphalt below indicates where oil had leaked and then dried up over time.

This was the site of a hero’s battle.

Who’s, and when this was I have no idea, no matter how long I search my limited knowledge of famous battles no recollection comes up. Considering the fact that it's been left untouched for rebuilding could mean three things. It’s a twisted memorial for whoever important it was that died here- most likely the hero in that case, nobody cared enough because it was in the depths of the Rusty Side of Nickelport, or the ground is still too unstable to touch. My hopes remain in the former two. The fact that it’s a factory does, however, give some insight into when this was, considering most factories were dismantled or moved decades ago when the Rusty Side of Nickelport became more and more populated. If it weren’t for that fact, then the thick swathings of rust and dust would be more than enough clue, only barely broken up by graffiti markings from the more adventurous Rusty Side youth.

Other than that, however, this is a place for ghosts.

And, if I’m right, two very scared teenage boys.

I traverse across the beaten, broken path to the left side of the factory, slipping carefully underneath one precariously balanced horizontal slab of concrete as dust rains down upon my head. Inside the shadows are so dark that I find it finally time to flick on my flashlight to get a good look at what’s around me. The light flicks on and almost immediately I am greeted with a rough, suspicious voice,

“Who’s there?” A young voice.

“My name is Morgan Sharp…” I speak calmly into the darkness, I can’t call for Mikel or Eleanor, not now, not when I’ll be heard if I do. “Are you Luca Rivera?”

Silence.

“Daniel, then? Daniel McDonall?”

“What do you want with me?”

“Your brother isn’t with you?” There’s no response, “Can you come outside first?” I ask, eyeing the broken up ceiling with my flashlight, “This place is dangerous.”

“Not until you tell me who you are and what you want.”

I stifle a sigh, “My name is Morgan Sharp,” I repeat, “I’m a detective and captain of the Nickelport Police Department, I work in the East Bay-”

“So you’re…” Daniel interrupts me, but promptly stops.

“I’m here to talk about Dominic Kim Laurens and Jay Pestia,” I whisper the words, unsure of the reaction, “Yes, that’s right.”

“They were my friends.” Daniel’s voice is equally quiet. “They were…” He chokes on the words.

“Can you come outside?”

I’m not answered verbally, instead, I hear footsteps crunching slowly on debris. Exhaling calmly, I turn around and slip out the way I came in.

Daniel McDonall stands with his arms wrapped around himself, shaking, head hanging, with blood dried on his shirt. The resemblance to his father is uncanny, the same curled brown hair and light brown skin, the same sharp jawline and broad shoulders, you see that he has his mother’s button nose which only adds to the confirmation that, yes, this is Daniel McDonall. And he’s still alive.

“I’m going to call someone, they’ll get you back to the station. When was the last time you ate?” Daniel just shakes his head, “They’ll have food there, just ask. Wait one moment.”

I step away from him, pulling up the radio, first, I wire in my location to the Rusty Side’s HQ so they can send someone. Then, I call Eleanor.

“Eleanor,”

“Sharp! I was getting worried. I haven’t heard from you or Mikel, are you alright?” Her voice pops against the radio static

“Yes, I’m fine. I found Daniel.”

“You did?” She sounds hopeful, “Great, I’ll swing by and pick him up-”

“No, don’t. I already called someone else.”

“What? Why not?”

“Luca isn’t with him.” Eleanor doesn’t respond, waiting, “I’m going to ask why, but call Mikel and let him know what’s happening… Actually- no, scratch that. Find where he is, meet up, then call me and I’ll give you my location. I think we’ll need to reconvene soon.”

“On it.” Static fills the radio, I pocket it once more and walk back to Daniel, who hasn’t budged since I left him.

He glances up at me as I approach, brown eyes voided into blank reflective pits. No fear. No sadness. No emotion. “Can you tell me where your brother is? Where Luca is?”

Daniel stares at the ground once more. “I don’t know.”

I step closer, unsure, “Daniel- I need to know- I need to find him. Your brother-”

“Half-brother.” Daniel spits on the ground.

I pause, grind my jaw, “Luca is in danger, Daniel.”

No response.

“If you have any information at all-”

“I don’t know!” His voice comes out in a high pitched, shrill scream, he turns wildly towards me, eyes bulging like a frightened animal, arms flung out to the sides, “I panicked and I ran! I left them there! Dead! They’re all dead!” His hands dig through his hair, into his skull, his legs start to shake, “They’re all dead! They’re all-!”

I grip his shoulders before he can topple over, Daniel sobs, “They’re all dead- so why aren’t I?” Carefully, Daniel sits down on the ground, I keep hold of his shoulders until he’s no longer in danger of falling over, then, I release him and step back. Daniel hangs his head once more, shoulder heaving in sobs, broken by the occasional hiccup.

“Luca isn’t dead.” I speak in a carefully controlled manner, “He’s still alive, but he’s in danger, Daniel. If you can remember anything, anything at all about where he would go, or even just what direction he ran in… You could help, Daniel. You could save him.”

With this, Daniel finally lifts his head to stare at me, his cheeks are wet with tears and he’s still trembling terribly, but he nods, and through quivering lips, he manages to speak. “Dock 9.”

“Dock 9?”

“We…” He swallows his spit, “We were going to walk there together, the way it’s set up we would…” A shaky smile comes across his face as Daniel sniffs and rubs the bottoms of his eyes harshly, “We used to sneak out there, all four of us, when we were young and play on the beams- like they were monkey bars ‘n shit, the plan was to meet at the construction site and walk there together… we didn’t… we didn’t make it there, did we?” He twists his shirt between his hands.

I opt out of answering, I can already hear the sirens approaching in the distance, “You may have just saved your brother, Daniel. Thank you.”

He nods, and unsteadily stands up, wordlessly walking towards the flickering red and blue lights.

-----

“Where are we going?” Eleanor wastes no time pulling the car out into the street soon as my door is closed. Mikel twists around to face me from the front seat as I pull the belt over my chest.

“Dock 9.”

“Dock 9?” Mikel repeats, “All the way back on the East Bay? What about running as far as they can?”

“Change of plans.”

I stare out the window as the scenery whizzes by, Eleanor already has the lights and siren on, making the outside world look like little more than a red and blue screaming blur. I jump a little when I feel Mikel reach over and pat my leg to draw my attention.

“Hey,” His lips pull back in that pearl white grin, “You handled that well, Morgan. Better than well, actually.”

“Mh,” I make an unassuming noise and turn back to the window, mouth covered by my hand.

“Yeah, well, get ready to do it again.” In my peripheral I see Eleanor’s eyes flicker to me through the rearview mirror. “Because we’re about to save another kid.”

“Mh,”

----

Even with Eleanor’s neck-breaking speed we manage to pull up as the last to a series of N.E.B.P.D. police cars, all with the lights blaring and doors open.

“Captain Sharp, sir,” Officer Moran Dubois comes sprinting up to me, gun drawn and clutched in their hand, “Luca Rivera’s presence inside has been confirmed, sir.”

“What is everyone doing with their guns drawn…?” Mikel observes as he takes a quick glance around the premise. Officer Dubois nervously tucks their gun back into the holster.

“Sir, we-”

“I specifically ordered no firearms,” I frown, “No matter what.”

“But, sir-”

“No firearms.” I repeat, “Unless you want everything to go to hell. Now, Mikel, Eleanor, Officer Dubois, get everyone centered once more. This is a kid we’re dealing with, not a villain.” Moran is the first to sprint off, Eleanor and Mikel hang back a moment. I glance between the two of them, “What?”

“You’re planning on going in there.” Eleanor’s voice is steady, her face remains expressionless.

“Yes.”

“Alone.”

“I can’t scare him.” Eleanor purses her lips, a disapproving silence hangs around her.

“Listen, Morgan,” Mikel steps forward, “Let me do this. Personal interaction is, quite literally, my only use on this team.” He tries a joking smile, but for once it comes across as nervous, “Let me prove that I’m not yet out of date, alright? I’ll go in there and-”

“Absolutely not.”

“Neither of you should go in there alone.” Eleanor interjects.

“I am. And you two are to stay out here and keep watch.” I unhook my gun holster, gun still inside, and pass it off to Eleanor, “And watch this.” She stares at it, registering what I’m saying, before her face contorts into bright red fury.

“Now you’re just insane…” Mikel whispers.

“Are you kidding me, Morgan?” She flings it on the ground, “No! No way! I will not entertain the kind of stupidity that’ll get you killed!” She jabs her finger to my chest, “You are not going in there alone, and you’re sure as hell not going in there unarmed!”

I push her finger away, sternly staring her down. “I’m going. And you’re staying, and keeping my gun. This is a kid, and I can’t scare him.” Neither of them seem willing to back down, “This is an order.”

Eleanor’s face has gone blood red, flushed deep with a rare streak of anger, but she is the first to leave, leaving the gun on the ground where it lay. Mikel looks sick at the thought, staring at the firearm before staring at me. Eventually, slowly, he bends down and picks it up, turning the pistol over in his hands before hooking the holster to his belt. Shakily, he raises a hand in mock salute, his voice quivers when he speaks.

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Mikel slowly sulks away.

I take a deep breath, and turn to Dock 9.

------

The inside is filled with the sound of a creaking metal chorus. Moonlight leaks in through an open window, bouncing off of the bronze beams and exposed piping that criss cross around the entirety of the warehouse. It’s easy to see how a bunch of kids would find this place better than any normal park, with beams to balance on and places to climb galore. The entire thing is just one big steel jungle to explore for them. My footsteps echo around this jungle, announcing my presence long before I would ever want to.

I listen for a similar such sound, hoping that perhaps Luca is moving around, and I’d be able to hear as much. But when I stop walking, so does any sound, and any inkling that this will be easy is simultaneously sapped from from my body. With a weary breath, I move on, cautiously calling his name out into the warehouse.

“Luca?”

A steel door provides entryway into another section of Dock 9’s warehouse, I push it open, the prolonged, unoiled creak stretches and distorts down the hall.

“Luca?”

My voice bounces back at me from between the rebar, off of the walls and up from the floor.

“Luca?”

I’m not entirely sure what I’m expecting to find. Whether he’ll been standing or sitting, crouched in a corner or balancing on one of the beams high above my head. Daniel had the advantage of being tucked away by a layer of shadows, and so was spared from the light, as he was from many things, apparently. Some silly, fantastical part of me expects to first see a flicker of light or flame, some kind of indication of light reflecting off of the many shiny surfaces in this place. What I find instead is another large steel door, twin to the one before it, and as I push it open my nose is blasted with the salty smell of the bay, my ears assaulted by the crash of the water rumbling against the support pillars that dig into the sand beneath the water, and the creak of the wood as I step outside, and beyond that, past the closed door, sitting underneath an outcropping that was at one point perhaps meant to store equipment is a small boy with floppy brown curls stuck to his forehead with surprised, wet round eyes as dark as his brother’s, wearing a hoodie two sizes too big with the hem pulled over his knees and the hood thrown over his head.

“Luca?” I ask, and he nods, his cheeks are wet and his eyes and nose puffy and red. He looks much less like his father than Daniel did, with rounded shoulders and face- features which all must come from Abigail Spellmeyer. But the eyes and hair are distinctly Mr. Rivera’s. I crouch down next to him. “My name is Morgan Sharp, I’m a police officer, Luca.” The boy’s face pales considerably.

“Are you here to arrest me?”

“No.” I fold my arms, letting them rest on my knees, “I’m not here to arrest you.”

“But you know what I did. That’s why you’re here, that’s why you’re all here.” He sniffles, but he doesn’t back away, his hands pull on the sleeves, already too long for him, balling up the fabric between his fingers.

“We’re here to make sure you don’t get hurt.” I speak slowly, quietly, trying hard to imagine what it is Mikel would say if he were here instead of me. But trying to understand his mind is a lot like trying to walk through a maze blindfolded and dead drunk. Luca stares at me for a long while, his eyes wide and searching, judging the truth in my words. His hands slowly relax, he pulls the sleeves away from them, fresh burn marks run up and down his palms, blackened skin peeling away slowly, fading into irritated red boils.

“I did it.” He buries his face in those hands, I hear quiet weeping between his words, “Daniel, Dominic, Jay- I did it… I didn’t mean to! I don’t know what happened! I just- It’s all my fault, everything that happened- everything is my fault!” His composure starts to break, and I watch as flames seem to spark to life around him, even on this wet ground they lick the floors and heat the air around us. I flinch when one comes a bit too close to my side, but I keep myself rooted to the ground. “I watched! I saw it! I didn’t mean to but it just… happened! I couldn’t- I didn’t want- Jay, he tried…”

“Luca.”

“He tried to reach out- he was- I knew he was trying to help- but I panicked!” Luca sobs, the fire picks up around him, wild and uncontrolled, eating away at its own master, gnawing on the back of his hands.

“Luca.” I fight to keep my voice controlled.

“Daniel was right! Everything goes wrong because of me! It’s my fault Mom and Dad are leaving! It’s my fault that Jay and Dom are… are… Oh god.” He covers his mouth, eyes wide and wild with fear and morbid fascination, “I… I killed them. I did.”

If I don’t stop him… I bite my tongue and reach out, hissing when my hand passes through the fire growing around him, and grab onto Luca’s shoulder. “Luca! You need to stop.”

Something in my voice, or maybe the contact, snaps Luca back to reality… But soon as he notices the fire around him, he screams and slaps my hand away, scrambling to his feet he backs away, but it just follows him, biting at his heels and snapping at his hands. I cradle my injured hand, a stinging, burning pain blossoming in the palm as I stand up, slowly proceeding towards him.

“Stay away!” Luca’s voice is little more than a primal, panicked yell molded into modern words, “I don’t want to hurt anybody else! I can’t! I can’t!” He takes another step back, another step towards the dark and murky waters of the bay. The fire seems to ball up at his feet, ready to burst.

Ready to explode.

I never understood Mikel, anyway.

“You can.” I speak, straightening my shoulders. “You can hurt people, Luca, if you don���t calm down and control your powers.” His focus is drawn back to me, away from the flames, “Which is why you need to learn how to. The more you run, the worse this gets, and if it doesn’t kill you first, then it’ll kill somebody else. It’s already taken two lives, your right. But that wasn’t you, it was your power. I can help you prevent it from killing any more than it already has. I can help you prevent it from killing yourself.”

My gaze is steady, my hand pressed against my chest, the fire hisses and crackles by his feet, swallowing his shoes. “Do you want that?”

“I don’t…” Luca takes a half step back, “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“You haven’t. But it has.” I nod to the fire, now up to his ankles and swirling around, “But you can stop it. I can help you stop it.”

Luca nods numbly.

“Good.” I tilt my head slightly, “Now calm down.”

“I… I can’t.” Luca shakes his head, the fire hisses, “I can’t just-”

“You can. Just remember that you can be in control, you just have to focus. Breathe. Take a step forward.” He does. “Good, now another one.” Two steps forward and he’s far enough away from the edge that I begin to relax some, the fire begins to hiss as it dies out, “One more, then do it on your own.”

Luca breathes in time with his steps as he numbly places one foot in front of the other. By the time he stands in front of me, the fire is little more than hissing smoke in the air around us, what lingering heat there was is gone, along with Luca’s shoes, his feet scarred and burned, and as his senses begin to return, he cries out in pain, collapsing to his knees. Tears stream down his face and hit the wooden planks beneath him. “What… happened to me?” He sobs out quietly, “Why am I…?”

“You have powers.” I state, “Powers you need to learn to control so that this never happens again.” I reach into my pocket, pulling out one of the small white cards I always carry around, partially for this specific purpose. I grab a pen from my pocket and write a familiar name and address on the back of the card. “Talk to your parents- especially your father. There’s psychologists for these kinda things, tell them you need this help. And… here,” I hand the card to Luca, who gingerly takes it in his hands, wincing when it hits his palms he shifts to hold it delicately by his few unburned fingertips. “Someone who can help.”

Luca remains silent, pocketing the card numbly and nodding obediently.

“Can you walk?” The question feels obvious even as it leaves my mouth, still, Luca tries to stand, only to fall back to his knees. “Never mind.” I run a hand through my hair, pulling out my radio. “I’m going to call some more people-”

“People who can help?” Luca finally strangles out a couple of words, his voice is raw and he winces when he speaks.

“Yeah,” I nod, “People who can help.”

-----

I tuck the manilla folder away in the steel cabinet, shutting it with my one good hand. The other still rather useless in its bandaged state while it hangs in its sling against my chest. I leave the case files room to come face to face with Eleanor, a brand new manilla folder clutched between her fingertips. Her eyes instinctively flicker down to my hand, a sharp frown pulling at her mouth.

“Came in this morning,” She explains passing it cordially over to me.

“Thanks, Eleanor.” I take the folder from her, expecting her to just leave after that, but Eleanor lingers, a contemplative look on her face. I tilt my head, waiting.

“I know you’re deadset in your ways,” Eleanor starts reluctantly, crossing her arms over her chest, “But promise me that next time you’ll take someone- anyone with you as backup, even if they wait a few feet away while you do your thing, just for safety. Promise me this, and I’ll forgive you.”

I can’t help but feel the edges of a smile creep up on my face. “How about I just take my gun next time instead?”

“No.” Eleanor frowns, “Because you are taking your gun in next time, promise or no promise. Even if I have to throw it at your head in the line of fire I’m not letting you pull that again.”

“Fine. Then I promise.”

Eleanor’s stiff face relaxes into a smile, some of the tiredness by her hazel eyes diminishes as well. “Good,” She sighs, her hands dropping, “Then I forgive you.”

-----

Soon as Mikel sees me, his face lights up in a familiar excited grin. “Hey, Cap’n! You’ll never guess who I just heard from!” He stands from his desk, a knowing spark to his dark eyes.

Knowing he won’t tell me unless I play along, “Who?”

“Well, I’ll give ya a hint- you hated her, she’s chatty, and you got her her son back.”

“Ms. McDonall.” I blink in surprise. Mikel nods.

“Yeah! Believe it or not, she was actually thanking us for once. Danny boy started going to that psychologist you recommended for Luca-”

“You mean Dr. James?” Mikel nods once more.

“Apparently Mr. Rivera passed the word onto her as well, thinking it could help Daniel as well as Luca with all that happened.” In that moment, Mikel’s demeanor shifts to a much more serious tone. He shakes his head. “You know, Morgan… I just… I hope nothing happens to that kid after this. He seemed to take after his father- good kid. Didn’t mean to hurt anybody…”

“Almost none of them do, not at the beginning.” I retort, “When their powers are that unstable… It’s not safe, for them or anyone around. There’s no control- nothing to stop them from going out of control. The situation only exacerbated what was already going to happen.”

“Quite the nihilist, ain’t ya?” Mikel manages a weak smile, “Still, if he does get good control of his powers, then I’m sure that kid could help out a lot.”

“You think he could be a cop?”

“I was going to go with hero.”

I shake my head, “I’ve worked in this business for a long time, Mikel. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that-”

“I know, I know,” Mikel waves his hand dismissively, “I’ve heard it all before, Cap’.”

Mikel’s grin grows as he readjusts his posture into a mock version of what I assume he believes is mine, adjusting his voice in accordance, “The last thing Nickelport needs is more heroes.”

Mikel shakes his head good-naturedly, “Well, Morgan Sharp, maybe one day you’ll be able to put the lot of ‘em outta business.”

[zerobotic]

Well, you asked for it and you can’t say I didn’t warn you :3

First off, the usual disclaimer that I did enjoy DH2. I thought it had some very interesting level design ideas with the clockwork mansion and crack in the slab, the new powers were very cool and fun to use, and it polished some of the rough edges from the first game’s mechanics. It’s just the story and such that disappointed me after how much I loved the first game.

So to start off here’s some of the things I found disappointing or frustrating (and keep in mind these are all just my personal feelings on the games):

“Spoiled rich person learns a lesson from poverty tourism” is a plot that gets on my nerves in general and that’s more or less what happened here with Emily’s story

Like, not to disagree with an anti-rich-people story but the first one did a much more poignant job of highlighting greed and corruption and letting you be the one actually fighting it, rather than putting you in the position of perpetuating it. It felt like the first game showed it, while the second game just preached about it.

Boy this sure did feel out of character for both Corvo and Emily. Emily watched her mother be murdered at ten years old for the sake of political power, and then was held hostage for six months while being told her father was executed for her mother’s death. She got a firsthand view of how much the people of the empire were suffering during this time, and then when she finally got rescued she was immediately kidnapped and used as a pawn again by yet more schemers after her mother’s throne. You cannot tell me that’s a person who would grow up to be spoiled and carefree and complacent with their position, or someone who wouldn’t give a shit about their people. Yes, I know that she was a headstrong, rebellious kid with an adventurous streak, and I’m not trying to claim she wouldn’t probably still prefer, on some level or another, to escape to the rooftops with a sword rather than being stuck in court. I’m just saying that kids grow up and change and whoever wrote the second game seems to be stuck on taking ten-year-old Emily at face value for her adult self’s personality too, instead of considering how the first game’s events might have actually influenced her. She’s got more than enough firsthand experience to know to be wary of scheming nobles. (Also I definitely got the feeling, playing the first game, that at least a bit of how Emily behaved at the Hound Pits was her trying to cope with what was happening.) You also can’t tell me that Corvo, father and royal protector of the current empress, man with the most reason and justification to be paranoid out of everyone in the whole damn empire after everything he’s been through, would be so negligent in paying attention to a coup that the first mission claims pretty much everyone in Dunwall knew was happening. 

Building off of that, in general it felt like the first game wasn’t allowed to have much of an impact. It pays lipservice to Jessamine’s death, and acknowledges Corvo having been a badass back then, but that’s....about it? Like I said in the other post, the first game felt so saturated in grief, both for Jessamine and for everything else going on in Dunwall, that it really influenced the overall tone of the game. The second one kinda feels like the first one never happened, or at least didn’t have any lasting influence on the characters or world, and it’s kind of jarring going from one to the other.

So with all that said, here’s my idea for a different DH2. Still using Karnaca as the setting and Delilah as the primary antagonist, just...different. 

"Delilah wants to use a reality-altering painting to change the world into her vision of it” is still a plot point. Except, instead of the end of the game, it’s the beginning. It’s a logical extension of her actions and powers during the Daud DLC - the plan to use Emily’s painting to take over almost worked til it was stopped, so there’s clearly potential there. She’ll just think bigger, more direct this time.

The game starts on a ship. Emily and Corvo are en route to Karnaca for some sort of diplomatic mission. We get to know them a little bit during this opening trip: Emily isn’t an absent, complacent ruler, she's a young woman who inherited a difficult throne as a child, after a series of traumatic events, and now she's trying hard to live up to her mother's legacy and prove herself worthy to an empire that still seems to only see her as the child she was during the interregnum. She’s doing her best, but she’s insecure about all of that, and spends a lot of time frustrated with the back and forth scheming of the nobles, trying to please everyone instead of putting her foot down and getting things done. Corvo is trying to keep her safe where he failed Jessamine, but court still isn’t his preferred arena either. 

The night before they’re due to arrive in Karnaca, we start getting hints that something is...off. Strange dreams, maybe?

They land in Karnaca and things are different than expected. But they don’t get time to look around, because there's guards there to arrest them, claiming they’re wanted criminals. They’ve got music boxes or something that can strip Corvo of his powers, and only one of them gets away while the other is taken. The one that gets away is stuck alone, disoriented, and hunted in an unfamiliar city - even if you play as Corvo, things are different than he remembers. More different than can be explained by just time. 

They meet Meagan Foster. She takes them to meet a group of ex-whalers (the player character doesn’t know who they are). They’re a group that got back in touch with each other in Karnaca after Daud left and the whalers split, and they still do shady shit, but these days it’s generally more smuggling type stuff and they’ve put down the assassin blades. They’re the equivalent of the loyalist home base in this game. Meagan is still the Samuel stand-in, taking the player places and narrating things as necessary. 

Information is shared and the player finds out that somehow, the world is changed from what they remember. Delilah is the empress, here, come by it what seemed like legitimately at some point in the 15 years between Jessamine’s death and now, and Emily and Corvo are wanted criminals. No one seems aware of the change except for the player and the whalers (who only remember it because of their experience with magic, though the player character doesn’t learn that til much later). 

Clearly it’s Delilah who did something, because she has magic, and she’s the one on the throne now. 

The Outsider shows up in their dreams that first night in the new world, but something is clearly wrong in the void, too, and it seems like he’s barely capable of reaching out and communicating with them. He offers the mark, but disappears before really getting a chance to explain anything. 

The player goes through the game now with the goal of finding out what happened, how it happened, and how it can be fixed. DH2 and DOTO explained a lot more than I felt they should’ve, at times, and I preferred how the first game balanced worldbuilding with mystery. So, let things be explored and figured out along the way. 

Things are real bad in this universe. From Emily's perspective as she goes through the game, we get commentary questioning whether or not she was doing a good job, and comparing it to how things are in Delilah's world. There’s lots of corruption and poverty and people suffering, and the question "is this just Delilah's world? How much of this going on in mine too? In trying to navigate court instead of putting my foot down, was I failing my people in the end after all? Would it have been better if my mother was still the empress?" The difference between this and what DH2 did is that she was trying, there was just a lot hindering her, including her own doubts. In this one, those questions aren’t preaching, they’re a sign that she does care and is pained by the idea of her people suffering like this again, by the mere possibility that it might not be just Delilah’s world. 

Corvo and Emily have distinct perspectives, not just the same lines very slightly altered. 

The bloodfly infestations are either 1) a natural thing that wasnt supposed to turn ugly like this and has been affected by Delilah’s magic, or 2) wholly the product of unnatural magic. None of this "we need them and they’re always like this, just not this bad" stuff. if you're gonna repeat the plague motif, make it actually horrifying, like the rat plague was. In fact, there’s obvious magic influence here and there in general - maybe not quite as thorough as at Brigmore Manor, but it’s present enough to give you the creeping feeling that things aren’t right, here, visual confirmation of Delilah’s influence, that things have been changed and twisted from their normal state of things. Hell, maybe this is where the hollows from DOTO come in, the original world and Delilah’s altered version of it trying to bleed through each other in some spaces. Maybe that’s a different explanation for the crack in the slab mission, even. 

Actually, if you’re gonna repeat the plague motif, lean into the similarities between the rat plague era and now. Have them be reminded here and there by things they see, recount what happened and how terrible it was, compare it to now. Give NPCs lines about the comparison and how some of them left Dunwall only to be stuck living through something like this a second time. Let the first game have happened and had an impact, folks, cmon.

On a similar note, if you’re gonna keep Delilah's backstory the same when we finally learn it, let Emily and Corvo get mad about it. They lived through the first game - what right does Delilah have to talk like she's got a monopoly on suffering and that's why she should have the throne?

Delilah's mistake was assuming Emily was a sheltered child who wouldn’t come for her, rather than someone who's already been through a lot and come out on top. That was almost a satisfying thing about the second game but they messed up the execution of the whole concept and I want it to actually pay off. 

I’m not sure if the targets in this one should be the same or how much should change there. Honestly, except for Breanna, the targets in DH2 felt a lot less relevant to what was going on than the DH1 targets did, like...why are half these people even at this ritual? But for simplicity’s sake let’s keep it as close as we can, while also adjusting for the fact that this reality has been tailor-made for Delilah and her buddies. Perhaps the Duke is only the Duke here because things were rewritten to put one of Delilah’s allies in charge, and it was supposed to still be his father. Hypatia isn’t the crown killer (what even was that plot point honestly), she’s the doctor they found to help Delilah recover after her time in the void, and now they’ve rewritten things to imprison her in the institute to keep her quiet and out of the way, and you get wind of it and go to see what she knows. Etc. Is Sokolov involved in this version of things? I dunno! But speaking of Sokolov I want some sort of explanation for where the other surviving loyalists are, damnit. 

Delilah did something in and to the void, just like in canon, but it actually has a visible impact here (beyond just a total aesthetic redesign of the void between games that never gets commented on). The void is struggling under her influence when you find shrines, and you never know what you're gonna find at one of them, or what the Outsider is gonna be like, if he even shows up. Honestly, I’m not a huge fan of the way DH2 gave him a human backstory, because I liked the mystery there behind what he was and what the void was, but this is open to go either way, either with Delilah finding his death site like in canon, or some other way she found to influence it. I’m not sure how the progression would go of how the void changes over the course of the game, but it would be cool to get to help/save the Outsider in some kinda way. 

Finding Corvo's childhood home should have more impact. Let it be like when you find the saferoom in Dunwall tower, in the first game. A temporary refuge in a dangerous place, full of obvious memory and grief - not so much for the time spent here since that's so long in the past, but for all that's been lost, everything they've been through and are in the middle of going through. Especially if you're playing Emily - this is the home of the father she just lost.

Let the heart be vague and ominous again, and let our interactions with it be sad, especially as Emily! I’m still messed up about the first time I heard "the doom of Pandyssia has come to the city" in DH1, and the lines about the floodwaters and the plague victims, give me stuff like that! Especially in a world that isn’t meant to exist the way it currently is, where things have been twisted almost beyond recognition. And give me lines that remind Emily of the mother she lost and how this is the first time she's heard her voice since she was a child!

Give us more on citizens and how they're suffering in this world, the way the first game showed us plague victims who died in each other's arms, journals from the desperate and dying, living people sent to the flooded district. Let it be a reminder to Emily why it's worth it, why she has to change the world back and what she wants to be fighting for when she gets her throne back. Another reason to question - has she been doing all she can? (Alternatively, a source of righteous fury for high chaos Emily.)

This is a journey of self discovery for Emily, either low or high chaos. It's about realizing she hasn’t been doing all she could, despite her intentions, because she's been trying to please everyone and in the end it still wasn’t good enough. She needs to stop living under her mother's shadow and come into her own (and the heart plays a role in this epiphany, probably. This might actually come to a head when she has to let her mother's spirit go, if we're gonna keep that plot point.)

High chaos Emily is similar but in a more "alright no more nice empress" kinda way whereas low chaos is more about conviction to put her foot down to do what's right.

You meet people during the game who in a good ending become part of her new council. Common people, who are more in touch with what needs to be done. It pisses nobles off but she's determined to do better, after everything. It helps both her and Corvo come to terms with the whole safety thing, because you can't ever make sure you're totally safe but you can try to make sure the empire can keep going should something happen to its ruler.

In fact, part of Corvo's perspective on this game probably would involve him still wanting to keep Emily out of things for safety's sake, and wondering if sheltering her from knowledge of magic and such contributed to this situation.

When it's revealed who the whalers are, it's late in the game after we've already come to like them a lot. They don't betray you like the loyalists did, but it should still feel like a punch to the gut for Emily and Corvo.

They don’t know where Daud is, haven’t seen him since the whalers disbanded .

Billie talks about that whole thing, and it's complicated. She decides maybe she should try to find him, after all. Cue DLC, which is about finding Daud, and helping/saving him, and the two reconciling and Billie finding some kind of...if not redemption, then absolution. A parallel to the first game’s DLC, Billie getting an arc like that in Emily’s game the way Daud got that arc in Corvo’s game. Y’know, instead of DOTO going and undoing all of Daud’s character growth. 

I know I’m kind of handwaving the actual mechanics of who the targets are and how you actually go about uncovering what happened and how you can fix it and take down Delilah in the end, but this is all just. Concepts. If I were to try to write this as a fic or something I’d have to actually sit down and work out all those details, but for now this is something that’s just been living in my head since like an hour after I finished DH2 for the first time a couple years ago.

(I did warn you it was gonna be long lmao)

[eltanin-malfoy]

2019 Draco/Reader Secret Santa Fic Exchange - Secrets and Snowflakes

pairing: draco/slytherin!y/n (gender-neutral)

word count: 2.2k   

warning(s): foreshadowing/general cluelessness, fluff, cursing

prompt: “The reader knows Draco has too much on his mind and offers that they go on an evening walk at Hogsmeade? Snowball fights ensue, snowman building (although Draco thinks it's silly), and maybe some kisses in between making snow angels?”

a/n: MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! so, this is it! I wrote a part with snow angles and snowman building but i cut it out later because i thought it didn’t fit too well with the rest. hopefully, i don’t disappoint :) (also shoutout to thesaurus.com, the real mvp) also ngl i’ve never seen snow, so this is basically my best guess of how it is. hopefully i’m not too off? lmk what you think. ALSO, this was written for @accio-taurus i hope you like it <3

taglist: @acciodracoo @drawlfoy @war-sword @socontagiousimagines @andreasworlsboring101

‘A tall blonde leans back into the emerald-dyed leather of the sofa he is parked on, right opposite the burning embers in the fireplace before him. His face is terrifyingly gaunt, characteristic of a beast who’s been running on empty for long enough, or on the blood of his enemies, rather. He is ridiculously rapt in writing on the parchment he seems to be clutching onto for dear life, the exquisite quill in his hand seeming to rattle off in rapid speed, ink leaving lines that were barely legible.’

Goddammit. This situation was dull even as you tried your best to interpret it interestingly. If only real life was some sort of mystery and Draco was a contract killer, detailing a plan for his next ordered murder. But no, he was too fainthearted to ever get up to something like that. Perhaps it would be more pleasant if this was a tale set in the sixteenth century and he was inditing a letter proclaiming his affection for his beloved. Then again, that wouldn’t be that much fun, considering his beloved was sitting right beside him, mortifyingly bored. 

He was the only one actually engaged in doing something other than people watching (or maybe person watching would fit more, in this context). But what even was it he was so engrossed in writing? What kind of work was he so interested in that he’d even ignore his lovely in the secluded common room for it? You leaned over to peak at it. 

But, eh, Draco was as secretive as ever. He immediately folded the pages in his lap, covering any text which was still visible with those large hands of his. You rolled your eyes at him and he grit his teeth, seemingly in defence, but his expression soon softened. “Some privacy, please.” He uttered, lowering his glance tentatively, then returning to his work.

You huffed and sat upright again, almost wishing the sofa would just swallow you outright. Maybe that would make things a bit more interesting. You wondered whether Draco would even try to save you, or whether he would just sit the way he was, scribbling away about Merlin knows what. Draco certainly wasn’t going to change up the situation on his own accord. So, you began to think it would be wise to switch things up, or at least try to.

“Draco~” You slinked over towards him, bringing your arms underneath his own and coiling them around his waist. He glanced to the side and folded the sheets of paper in his lap again, but slower this time. “Mhm?” He managed out, tucking them into his pocket and in a sudden act of warmth, turning to face you and placing his hands on yours. 

“Why are we just sitting like this?” He narrowed his eyes. “Would you rather we stand?” He drawled out, then let his lips quirk up in the slightest of smiles. “That’s not what I mean…” You leaned over to press a kiss to the side of his mouth. “We’re supposed to be spending time together, and you’re just working. Or, like, whatever you’re doing. I don’t have a clue, it’s not like you’re ready to share it with me.” He sighed and rested his head over yours, shrugging and suddenly making you aware of how tense his body was, even in your grasp. 

“You know I’m busy.”

“Yeah, on something you can’t even tell me about.”

“It’s just… with Father off.. and mum, you know how she is.”

“Yeah, she loves you so much she had you stay at Hogwarts for Christmas.”

“Y/N, no. It’s just... a thing, alright. It’s just not easy to explain.”

“You always say that!”

“Because it’s always true! It’s not like I made you stay here with me. Maybe you sh-” “Calm down. I-I don’t want to have a fight with you on Christmas Eve.”

He nodded and gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing uncertainly. You sat in silence for a few moments, letting your gaze drift down and take him in. What little of his skin you could see in that cable-knit black sweater of his was still that light tone of greige you’d grown used to by this point. He’d blamed it on getting a sunburn in the summer, but now that it had stayed unchanged for so many months, you’d understood that he’d lied. It’s not like you hadn’t asked him why he looked so very... different from how you’d last seen him the year before, but he’d asked you for some space, and for some reason, you’d decided to give him that much. Surely, having your father imprisoned (in Azkaban, that too) meant you’d need that much. Or at least, you thought so.  

“Draco.” “Yes?” “Why do you look like you’re about to attend a funeral?”

He smiled at that. Genuinely. Even the reddened skin beneath his eyes crinkled slightly at it. 

“Shut up.” 

“No, seriously.”

“It’s just… my taste in fashion. What am I supposed to say?” “Your taste in fashion is funeral clothing?”

“You know what? Maybe it is.” 

 His chest heaved slightly and you realised he was laughing. At your awful, awful joke. Such a sweetheart. You kissed his cheek, taking advantage of the lack of other Slytherins around, at least at the moment.

 “Oh, come on. It’s nearly Christmas! You’re supposed to look a little bit merrier than that!”

“Christmas themed clothing isn’t really my forte.” “Fine, but you look like you’re literally en route to a funeral. Scribbling out a eulogy even.”

“I can live with that.”

“Fine!”

You giggled and nuzzled his neck, inhaling deeply. He’d stopped smelling as expensive as he used to and you weren’t exactly sure why. But then again, you could guess. You supposed it didn’t really matter. The Slytherin common room felt a little bit homely like this, with the two of you all alone and in love. You looked at the fire, then back up at him. His eyelids were shut, and he’d only now begun to relax.

“We should do something together. Something festive and romantic.”

“Y/N… I’m not going to lie to you. I’m not exactly in the mood for that at the moment.”

“Ugh, you’re disgusting. That wasn’t what I was implying in the first place, pervert.”

“Then what were you implying?”

“A walk.” “What, when it’s so cold and snowy out?” “Hey. For the sake of romance, alright? And it’s not even that bad. It’s pleasant. It’s so pretty out.”

“Please, for me?”

He opened his eyes and tilted his head to face you the best he could. He bit down on his lower lip, pearly whites almost complementing the pallor of his lips. He shut his eyes again, fair lashes brushing against his cheekbones, before he opened them up again, grey eyes dilated and almost woozy. “Alright, I suppose. Where do you want to walk to?”

“Hogsmeade.”

***

“It’s cold.” “Yeah, no shit.”

 You held his gloved hand as little snowflakes rained down on you. Draco pulled the hood of his brown parka (definitely a gift from his mum) over his head and scrunched his nose, looking up at the sky in concentration. His cheeks, and even his nose, were flushed, a dusty rose thanks to the cold. God, he was so adorable. Even while he looked unhealthily pale.

“The things you do for love, I suppose.” “Uh, yes, of course. Can’t you handle a little chill? ‘S not that bad.” “... I like the warm weather a little more, you know that.”

It was almost ironic coming from him, an extremely pale person who could get sunburnt within seconds. Sometimes you really wondered what he’d gotten up to during his holidays. You knew he’d visited some part of Asia before on vacation, but other than that, did he just loiter around his estate? He’d probably gotten up to a little less mischief this time, though, what with his father-

“You know,”

“No, I don’t.” “You know, it’s not awful.” “Did you think it would be awful? You’d still be out with me, right?” “Eh, only makes it a little bit better.” He smirked but gulped again, the curl of his lips more nervous than anything else. He squeezed your hand but looked away again, his gaze oddly distant. 

“Are you alright?” “‘Course.”

You looked out at the cotton white expanses of land near you, right at the outskirts of Hogsmeade. And very suddenly, a very devious train of thought hit you. You bit your lip and fixed up the beanie over top of your head, pulling it down tightly to cover your ears and whatever other skin it possibly could. You pulled your hand away from his and pulled the hems of your sleeves up to cover what little of the skin of your wrists was exposed. 

“Are you cold?” “No, not really.” “Hm.. alright. We can go for a hot chocolate if you like.”

“No.. I’m more in the mood for some snow.” “Um.. sure, I suppose I don’t mind.”

Draco turned to the side and put his hand in his pocket, taking out the same parchment again. And then you knew, it was definitely appropriate to take action. You knelt to the ground and carefully reached for the ground, balling up some snow in your fist. You were thankful you had gloves on because even with them on, you could already feel them getting damp. The slight breeze and the tiny little snowflakes blowing past you obviously weren’t helping.

You shivered and looked towards the lanky boy who’d come with you, but he was clearly just absorbed with whatever was written on the paper in his hands. “You know, I should’ve made you leave those behind.” He shuffled slightly and swallowed again. “Hm? What?” He kept looking down. You stood up and shook your head. He deserved this, didn’t he?

You threw the ball of snow you’d managed to make forward, but instead of hitting his chest, as you’d wanted to, it hits his arm. In retrospect, this was probably more advisable. Draco jumped where he stood, letting out a squeal. “What the fuck?” He shoved the parchment into his anorak’s pocket haphazardly and looked down at you, eyebrows crinkled and forehead deeply furrowed. He brought his hand up and set it on the now wet part of his coat.

“Oh, come on, Draco. It’s just a bit of fun.”

“This is fun? Are you actually twelve years old?”

“Draco! You can have a snowball fight at any age.” “Yes, and be childish!” “You say that, but I know how competitive you are.” “What? I won’t do something so... immature, though.”

You wiggled your eyebrows at him and he just rolled his eyes. He looked to the side and shrugged his shoulders, stretching out each of his limbs one by one. You then took the liberty to lean down and throw a snowball at his back. He moaned in surprise, stumbling on his feet. “Merlin, you know what!” He turned and faced you, hands on his hips. “It’s on.” He bent over and balled up a handful of snow himself, but of course, you were a step ahead of him. “Protego!” You called out, your wand drawn as the translucent shield manifested itself in front of you. 

“Hey! That’s cheating!” “All’s fair in-” “Shut up. This is unfair! I didn’t even get the chance to do that myself. Come on.” “Dr-” “Be a sport, come on.”

You sighed and put your wand away, the barrier in front of you fading away as Draco aimed for the front of your body. Ouch! Oh, this was war, and you were so ready.

***

Here you were, nearly twenty minutes later, crouching by the ground together. Tears (? or maybe it was just melted snow?) were dripping down your cheeks, your lungs practically about to burst while the two of you were probably laughing harder than you had in ages. The colour on his cheeks really suited him and you couldn’t help but wonder why you hadn’t seen it in so long. You crept closer to him and put your arms around his shoulders.

“You look so happy.” Peck. “I missed this.”

“Spending time together? But we always do that.” “Yeah, but.. you’re always preoccupied. You’re either just working on something else at the same time, or just… thinking about something else.” “I’m sorry, but you know how it is… with my father.” “I know, but, you don’t even talk to me about it.”

“I… I can’t-” “You know you can tell me anything.”

“No, I know, it’s just that... I can’t.”

“Why not? You act as if you’re on some secret mission or something.” “What?!” Blood rushed to his face.

“I-I mean, you’re always so secretive about everything you’re doing. You say it’s just… extra prefect duties but I don’t even see the others doing anything like it.”

“It’s really not-”

He pressed his lips together and just shook his head. That distinct greyish tinge to his skin was even more evident against the snow, you realised. What was up with him?

“Listen, it’s not worth getting into a fight over.. whatever this is. And you know everything I can even tell you. So, just-just remember… that I love you.”

“You can’t just silence me over this, but I suppose it can wait. I love you too.” And you pressed a kiss to his lips, soft and smiling and still stumped. The questions you’d been holding back for a long time were right at the surface now, you were too curious to leave them be. But you thought Christmas cheer was good enough a reason to withhold them.

[theorangedeath]

Some webcomic recs

Webcomics are as underrated as they are varied. I mostly read printed comics now, but there’s no way I’d have gotten there had I not found webcomics before - believe me, I tried, but this damn hobby is super inaccessible to a beginner, not to mention expensive. Webcomics are like fanfics in that regard - hell, some of them are fan comics - in that there’s something for everyone, all within your reach, but in order to find something you like you have to either 1. Get very, VERY lucky, 2. Be prepared to read a lot of bad stuff in order to get to the good stuff, or 3. Hear about them from people you trust. 

I was a 2 - i would read anything, back in the day - and while i’m not as unconditionally enthusiastic as i was, there are still some gems I wish got the same appreciation as some talents in the industry. I’ll spare you the rest of the article (dm me for comic rants though), let’s get to it! 

note: all the comics are numbered as “1″ because tumblr messed up the google docs formatting 

Comics i still follow as they update because either tumblr starts posting about them right away or they’re on tapas

Check Please! 

https://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com/

I’m probably not the one introducing you to Check Please, as it’s one of the most popular webcomics out there, thank god. The parts of the fandom i’m familiar with are cool and wholesome, just like the work itself. It’s about a southern gay kid, Eric Bittle, who joins the hockey team in his college. It’s impossible not to love every single character there, the sports drama elements are great, and the format is like solidarity put into panels. The Samwell Men’s Hockey team’s motto is “we’ve got each other’s backs”, and there isn’t a single part of the comic that doesn’t 100% incorporate that. 

Heartstopper

https://tapas.io/series/Heartstopper

The 2000s so far have been a rough contest for the title of “sweetest ya romance” but guys, we found it, we can stop now. Nick and Charlie are in highschool, Charlie is gay and out (not by will), Nick plays rugby because apparently that’s what british jocks do. Can i make it any more obvious? It took me a while to fall in love with the artstyle but when i did i fell HARD - the creator is re-drawing some of the older chapters, though, so your experience might be different. The story’s captivating right away, and you want everyone there to be happy from pretty much page 1. The creator also writes ya prose, and some of her books are about other characters from the same school. I love all of them, but Radio Silence is my personal favorite. She also has two novellas about Nick and Charlie themselves, available as e-books.��

Charity Case 

https://tapas.io/series/Charity-Case

I rarely start new webcomics anymore, but boy, this one got me FAST. and that was even before I realized it’s a polyam love story, which i love but is surprisingly rare in webcomics - at least the ones i know. Julien, an irresponsible young musician, resorts to sharing an apartment with two roomates who are a couple. I fell for the unique, gorgeous artstyle first, and by the time i realized i’m also super invested in the story and characters, it’s already become one of my favorites. Plus, Julien’s hair looks so soft! 

The Property of Hate 

http://thepropertyofhate.com/TPoH/

THIS is what comics should be. There’s so much passion here, not just for the story but for the storytelling as well - and the two aren’t as separated as you might think. A young girl is recruited by a TV man to be a hero. The world they enter seems nonsensical and arbitrary at first, but as they travel she discovers its logic, stories and secrets. She will also, as her title suggests, need to save it. There’s so much i love about this comic that i don’t know where to start, so i’ll just say this: it’s absolutely inspiring, in every sense of the word. Also, read the creator’s duck comics, they’ll make you feel things. 

Webcomics i occasionally remember to catch up on, get blown away all over again by how good they are, vow to check them regularly for updates then forget. And repeat 

Wilde Life

https://wildelifecomic.com/

I think this is the first ever webcomic i read that had a plot? I got on the wagon at around chapter 1 or 2 and it’s hard to believe it but it only gets better with time, even though it already starts at 100%. Oscar moves to a new town and immediately makes friends with a ghost and a grumpy teen werewolf. It has both monster-of-the-week type problems and overarching plots, and reading it feels nostalgic and brand new at the same time. The fantasy world has this special feel to it, that makes me miss growing up in the american wilderness even though i, well, didn’t. Plus, the creator is cool as hell. I knit her a hat in high school in exchange for a commission. 

Sfeer Theory

https://sfeertheory.com/

This comic got me through a hard time and i’ll forever be grateful for that. Also, it’s really, really good. This is another case of a comic where you fall in love with the art right away and before long you find yourself caring very much about the characters and the story. You might also find yourself growing out your hair to style it like Luca’s. If you’re me it’ll be a lost cause, so, uh, keep that in mind. Luca works as a technician at the prestigious Uitspan university. A mysterious, powerful man is looking to change that. While the comic’s biggest strength is probably the gorgeous, fascinating worldbuilding - and Luca’s hair - the characters are also ridiculously easy to relate to, even if we don’t know anything about them. Even the most meaningless extras are somehow compelling thanks to the dynamic, rich art style. And did i mention the hair? If you like it, you won’t be disappointed by everything else Little Foolery makes. 

How To Be a Werewolf

http://www.howtobeawerewolf.com/

I almost didn’t read this one! My brain has decided i don’t like werewolves and i don’t know how to reverse that. But then i saw Elias’ body language and it was extremely fun and friendly, and so was the rest of the comic, and the rest is history. Malaya knows she’s a werewolf, but seeing as she doesn’t know any other werewolves, dealing with that is hard. That is until Elias discovers her and decides to help, along with the rest of his pack. It’s filled with family and solidarity feelings, some dark mysteries and themes, and the art is beautiful and expressive. 

Monsterkind 

http://monsterkind.enenkay.com/

Another case of read-everything-this-creator-makes-it’s-all-amazing! Wallace, a social worker, moves - or rather, is moved - to District C, which is mostly populated by monsters. His heart’s in the right place, and apparently so is his apartment, because his neighbors are cool as heck and agree, some of them reluctantly, to help him get his bearings. There’s a mystery to uncover, some monsters to help and a dashing tea octopus to woo - for Kip to woo, anyway - and it’s all a delight to read. Every single character brings their own lovable-ness to the table, and even with the darker parts, reading this comic kinda feels like being hugged. 

Comics that no longer update

The Less Than Epic Adventures of TJ and Amal - finished 

http://tjandamal.com/

Guys. guys! I’m pretty sure this is my all time favorite comic, web OR printed. I have the printed version, i still read it online occasionally, a lot of the songs mentioned in it are now saved on my spotify, i had it as my phone background for a good couple of years, the whole package. Amal comes out to his family and it ends with him having to drive to his sister’s graduation in Providence. There’s a guy in his kitchen who just so happens to need a lift there, and he’s willing to pay, and Amal’s too hungover to argue. What follows is the best roadtrip story ever. I’m seriously considering getting my license just to recreate that route. I just really love this story, okay? Oh, and if that wasn’t enough, the creator’s music taste is GOOD. 

Prague Race - to be continued in text 

https://www.praguerace.com/

The fantasy aesthetic to end all fantasy aesthetics. And the characters are good and interesting. And the world is well built and leaves you wanting more. AND there’s a cat. And it looks so good! Leona is irresponsible and spontaneous and gets her friends in some weird shit that leaves them trapped in a strange world, dealing with several curses, trying to survive and make sense of it all. I could spend a lifetime looking at the art and die happy. 

Shoot around - finished 

https://www.webtoons.com/en/drama/shoot-around/list?title_no=399&page=1

A girl’s basketball team and its coach, Jeff, deal with a zombie apocalypse. They make the most of the post apocalyptic world. There’s drama, friendship, found family, love and hope - it’s basically everything a zombie apocalypse narrative should be. And i love how the creator plays with the colors from chapter to chapter! 

Rock and Riot - finished 

https://tapas.io/series/Rock-and-Riot 

It’s cute! It’s fun! It’s a 1950’s queer ensamble cast high school drama! It’s what Grease would’ve been like in a better timeline, except we still got it in this timeline. The artstyle fits perfectly with the story and characters, but if you want to see what’s the creator capable of now, read their newest comic, Project Nought. It’s a cool sci fi story and just like in Rock and Riot, it’s super easy to connect to every character there. 

Alright there’s a lot more but i somehow wrote 4 google docs pages of webcomic recs in one sitting (this is what i’m able to focus on? Really, brain?) and i think that’s enough for now. Like i said, please dm me if you want to talk about anything here, rec some of your own, listen to my rants or tell me i’m a nerd. Or all of the above. I might make a similar post with print comic, but right now i have some dogs to pet. Keep being cool! 

[hollymartinswrites]

Two negatives make a positive - HollyMartins - IT - Stephen King [Archive of Our Own] →

Chapters: 3/? Fandom: IT - Stephen King, IT (Movies - Muschietti) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh Characters: Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier, Ben Hanscom, Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough, Mike Hanlon, Original Child Character(s) Additional Tags: Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Domestic, Light Angst, Family Feels, Childhood Trauma, Adoption, Kid Fic, Adopted Children, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Marriage, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier Are Parents, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier Are Best Friends Summary:

Eddie and Richie embark on the most terrifying experience of all—parenthood.

Or, the author desperately needed a domestic, family fix-it for Richie and Eddie.

Chapter III: Richie and Eddie discover the challenges of increasing their family of three to four.

Eddie walked through the front door, locked it behind him, and shrugged out of his jacket. He could hear Richie’s obnoxious laughter from the living room and music that sounded vaguely familiar. Placing his briefcase down on the ground, he followed the sounds and walked into Richie and Lydia both lounging on the couch. Eddie glanced at the TV.

“Wayne’s World?” he said, raising his eyebrows at Richie.

“Hi, Daddy,” Lydia exclaimed, turning and standing on the couch to give Eddie a hug. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the top of her head.

“It’s a classic, babe,” Richie said. He looked up and pursed his lips in an exaggerated manner. Eddie leaned down to quickly kiss him.

“But it’s not exactly age appropriate, is it?” he asked, motioning towards Lydia who had turned back to the TV.

“It’s on cable, edited,” Richie explained. “You eat anything? We got some leftovers in the fridge.”

“I grabbed a sandwich before I left,” he muttered. He walked around the couch to tiredly collapse beside Lydia. Yawning, he tried to watch the movie but found his mind wandering. He briefly considered heading in for a shower and then bed but resisted. It wasn’t often that he got to watch a movie with his family and he was determined to enjoy it—though he had never quite understood the appeal of Wayne’s World. Maybe it was because he never got into metal but still, it was worth it to just hear Richie’s ridiculous laugh.

Soon enough, Eddie’s eyes grew heavy and he felt himself falling towards sleep when he was jerked awake by a kick to his side. He glanced down; Lydia had stretched out, her feet in his side and her head in Richie’s lap. She was fast asleep.

“Lemme put her to bed,” he murmured.

“Hang on, it’s almost over,” Richie insisted.

“Rich…”

“She’s asleep anyway. There’s only like fifteen minutes left, I’ll help.”

Eddie sighed and remained seated, waiting for the movie (which he suspected Richie had seen a few dozen times) to finish. He closed his eyes and suddenly, he was in his childhood home, trapped in the living room he had so hated, forced to sit still by his mother as she had the TV switched onto whatever she wanted to watch. It was stifling, the air thick with tension that his mother was seemingly oblivious to, and all Eddie wanted was to run out of the house and never look back. But he wasn’t foolish—he had nowhere to go and no one but his mother.

Eddie gasped for breath, his eyes flying open and his heart pumping wildly. He swallowed and looked down, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to gather his daughter into his arms and yet, he resisted for fear of smothering her.

“Eds, you alright?” Richie asked, concerned.

“Yes,” Eddie gasped. “I just...need to shower and clear my mind.”

“Okay,” Richie said slowly. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Eddie insisted and carefully stood to hurry to their bedroom.

He stepped out of the bathroom, steam curling behind him. He ran a hand through his wet hair and straightened, determined to face this as bravely as he could. He looked up at Richie lounging on the bed, his phone in his hand.

“Hey,” Eddie said, clearing his throat, “can we talk?”

Richie looked up at him, eyebrows raised and Eddie inwardly winced. Fuck, he wish he was better with words.

“I don’t want Lydia to be an only child,” he said quickly, the words rushing out of his mouth.

Richie stared at him, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly agape. Then he threw his head back and laughed. Eddie scowled.

“Shut the fuck up,” he said. “You’re gonna wake up Lydia.”

“Jesus, Eddie,” Richie gasped, calming down ever so slightly, “I thought you were about to drop a fucking bombshell. Don’t scare me like that.”

“Sorry,” he muttered before heading towards the bed and sitting down.

“It’s fine,” Richie said, wiping at his eyes and grinning. “But I do think we need to talk about this.”

“Yeah.” Eddie ran a hand through his hair again. “So, um, what do you think?”

Richie raised his eyebrows again and sat up.

“Well, this did kinda come out of nowhere,” he said. “What made you think of this anyway?”

Eddie looked down at his lap, where his hands were clasped tightly. He separated them and stretched his fingers.

“I…” he began, searching for the words. “I just...I don’t want her to be alone.”

“She’s got us, Eds,” Richie said gently.

“It’s not the same,” he insisted, meeting Richie’s eyes. “You had your sisters growing up and I know you didn’t always get along but at least you had someone on your side at home.”

“I guess so.”

“And now you guys have each other for when things get tough,” Eddie continued, his voice growing more and more strained. “I had no one.”

“Eds—”

“I mean, I had you and the rest of the Losers but it’s not the same thing. It fucking sucks going home to an empty house with just an adult waiting for you. And then when she died...fuck, I had to deal with that on my own.”

Eddie started a bit when he felt Richie’s lips against his temple.

“This isn’t just about Lydia, is it?” he whispered along his hair.

Eddie hunched his shoulders and shook his head.

“I know, I know, I’m projecting,” he muttered. “Fuck, I’m just like her.”

“Who?” Richie asked, sharply. When Eddie didn’t respond, he quickly wrapped an arm around Eddie’s shoulder and insisted, “If you’re about to say that you’re like your mom, I swear to God, Eds.”

“It’s true though.”

“It’s not,” Richie said firmly. “Eddie, you’re an incredible father and you love Lydia. And she loves you.”

Eddie took a deep breath and clenched his eyes shut.

“But she’s still alone,” he whispered. “And I want her to have someone. A sibling.”

“Okay,” Richie said after a few moments. “I get it. And I feel the same way for the most part. But having two kids is a hell of a lot different than just one. I mean, we have a lot of figuring out to do.”

“I know,” Eddie said. “It’s a lot. And I don’t expect it to be easy.”

“No, but we’re a solid team.”

Eddie nodded.

“And we have to talk to Lydia,” he said. “She may not want this.”

Richie gathered Eddie into his arms.

“You’re a good dad,” he whispered against his hair. “And we can figure this out. I know we can.”

Eddie leaned into Richie’s embrace, exhaled a shaking breath, and smiled.

Going from one child to two did come with a great deal of changes. For one thing, Richie decided to cut back drastically on his career—he stopped touring, settling on doing shows only in the tristate area, and only on nights when Eddie could stay home all day with the kids.

When the Losers heard this, they were shocked and assumed, among themselves, that Richie wouldn’t last more than a couple months as a house husband. They were sort of right. It was only six weeks before Eddie declared that, in order to preserve the sanity in their house, Richie had to have a creative outlet that went beyond simply trying to make his daughters laugh. So, with the help of his agent, Richie became the very thing he had resented in his career: a comedy writer.

He wrote material for several different comics, a couple of whom were LGBTQ+, and actually, found it kind of enjoyable. Not having to perform it meant there was less pressure and it was even oddly freeing. He could say whatever he wanted and it didn’t matter; no one knew it was him. When the Losers worried that this wouldn’t be enough, Richie waved them off. The draw to performing live just wasn’t there anymore. Besides, he had a much better audience at home (and one that was more in line with his own emotional maturity, Eddie had remarked, which had gotten quite a laugh from everyone).

But Richie cutting back on his career meant someone had to support the family, so Eddie found himself working harder. The long days were difficult but Eddie was good at his job and he took pride in being able to provide for his family. Besides, coming home to Richie and the girls made it all really fucking worth it.

And one of the most unexpected changes in adopting a second child was how suddenly the previous dynamics switched. When they adopted Tess, only three years old and terribly shy, Eddie had assumed that Richie would immediately ingratiate himself with their new daughter and become the favorite. Instead, Tess had taken one look at her fathers and all but latched herself to Eddie.

She followed him around the house, cried hysterically when he went out of her sight, gripped his legs to prevent him from leaving, and only allowed him to read her bedtime stories. It touched his heart, but mostly Eddie just found it amusing—especially when her overt favoritism seemed to really confound Richie.

“I don’t get it,” he complained. “I’m the fun one.”

Mike and Ben laughed while Bev rubbed his back in sympathy. The Losers were in their dining room, picking at a half-eaten cheesecake and drinking copious amounts of coffee and tea. They had stopped at Richie and Eddie’s house en route to New York City to celebrate the launch of Bill’s latest bestseller (and for Ben and Bev to look at some townhouses) but first had to meet the latest Loser.

Lydia had delighted in being the center of attention once again but Tess had immediately reached her arms up to Eddie (who naturally picked her up) and hid her face in his chest, refusing to acknowledge any one other than her Daddy. The Losers weren’t offended.

But now the girls had been put to bed, and it was time for the grown-ups to relax and catch up. Or, simply complain about how unfair it was to no longer be the favorite, in Richie’s case.

“It’s just a phase,” Bev insisted.

“Or maybe she just isn’t a fan of your comedy,” Bill offered.

“I knew she was the smart one of the family,” Eddie replied.

Richie flipped him off and stabbed at the cheesecake with his fork.

“Well, I don’t know why she wants you to do the bedtime stories,” he remarked. “You can’t do the voices.”

“What voices?” Mike asked.

“You know, the different voices for everyone,” Richie explained, waving his hand. “The Lorax has a different voice than the Wild Things and whatnot. Eddie reads bedtime stories like he’s presenting at a fucking business meeting.”

Eddie rolled his eyes as the others laughed.

“Why can’t you just let Eddie have this?” Ben asked, grinning. “What’s the big deal?”

“Because Richie doesn’t want to be just a dad,” Eddie said, shaking his head. “He wants to be a cool dad.”

More laughter, until Ben and Mike had to admit they didn’t get the joke, which immediately launched into Richie explaining the entire plot of Mean Girls in excruciatingly minute detail. Eddie only managed to stop him by shoveling a fork full of cheesecake in his husband’s mouth, much to the Losers’ relief.

When they left for their hotel, each of the Losers congratulated Richie and Eddie on their latest foray into parenthood. Bev embraced both of them and told them how happy she was that they were both so happy. Richie told her to stop being embarrassing and Eddie merely looked away, blinking rapidly.

“I don’t like that you care more about work than your family but we all got our crosses to bear, right?” Richie snapped. “So forgive me for letting off a little steam to someone who actually cares.”

Eddie stared at him, his eyes wide and sinking feeling in chest. Richie looked away, grabbed the first t-shirt he could find in the bureau and put it on.

“I’m gonna go sit with the kids,” he muttered. “Text Bev back for me and tell her everything’s fucking fine.”

Eddie watched him stalk out of the bedroom, too stunned to attempt to stop him. How long he stood there, gaping at nothing, he had no idea. Then the phone in his hand pinged. He blinked and glanced down at it. Another text from Bev. He opened it.

Let me know when he gets home. Now you’ve got me worried.

Eddie sighed and tapped in a reply. He didn’t want to leave Bev hanging.

He’s home now. Thanks.

He threw the phone on the bed and went into the bathroom, determined to shower and clear his mind before he did something he regretted. Later, clean but drained, he walked quietly down the hallway and saw Richie carrying Tess into the kitchen.

“Come on, kiddo, you gotta try to get some medicine down,” he said, his voice tinged with exhaustion.

“No, no, no,” Tess wailed. “I hate it.”

“I know, sweetheart, but if you don’t, you could get sicker and then end up in the hospital or something.”

Eddie hurried into the kitchen and stopped short at the sight of Tess sitting on the table, tears streaming down her face and struggling to breathe through her congestion. The moment her eyes met his, she began to cry in earnest and reached her arms towards him. Richie turned from taking the medicine bottle out of the refrigerator. He said nothing, though Eddie noticed his lips tighten.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Eddie murmured, gathering Tess into his arms. He sat down, arranging her on his lap. “Everything’s okay. I know you’re not feeling good right now but I need you to do me a favor.”

Tess hiccuped and wiped at her eyes before nodding slowly.

“I need you to try to take some of this medicine. I know it’s yucky but you gotta try. I can show you a trick though,” he continued. “If you keep your nose closed, you won’t taste it. I promise.” He turned towards Richie. “Can you get a juicebox out?”

Richie did so, stabbing the straw through the top with a little more force than necessary. He handed it to Eddie, who held it ready.

“Listen, we’re gonna do this quick, okay?” Eddie continued. “You’re gonna take that medicine and then drink this juice down. And you won’t taste it for long.”

“Promise?” Tess asked, her voice thick with tears.

“I promise,” Eddie insisted. “Then you can brush your teeth and go to bed feeling better.”

Richie crouched in front of them, holding the plastic spoon filled with thick, frankly disgusting looking medicine in his hand.

“Close your nose, sweetheart,” Eddie repeated. Tess hesitated briefly before squeezing her nose tightly between two fingers and opened her mouth. Richie quickly fed her the medicine and, before she even had a chance to fully swallow, Eddie brought the straw to her lips. She drank the juice deeply but immediately opened her mouth and began sobbing again.

“Good job, you did it,” Eddie said, tightening his arms around her.

“You did it, kiddo, all done,” Richie said, standing. He ran a hand through her hair and leaned down to kiss her on the forehead. She immediately turned and hid her face in Eddie’s chest, crying. Richie’s eyes briefly met Eddie, before he turned away and dropped the spoon in the sink.

“I’m going to put Lydia to bed,” he said and disappeared.

Eddie sighed before brushing his lips along the top of Tess’s head.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he whispered.

“It was awful!” she wailed.

“I know,” he said, standing up with her in his arms. “Being sick is no fun. Tomorrow I’m going to get you something else to help you feel better that won’t taste so bad, okay? And if you take it, we can relax at home and watch movies.”

Tess wiped at her eyes and running nose. Eddie smiled, and briefly wondered how he had managed to get to this point in his life where the sight of someone else’s mucus didn’t really bother him. Tess smiled, too.

“Okay,” she said before laying her head on his shoulder. “Can we watch Wizard of Oz?”

“We can watch whatever you want,” he promised, carrying her into her bedroom. He passed the open door to Lydia’s room and quickly glanced in. Richie was laying beside her on the bed, quietly reading A Wrinkle in Time aloud. He made no notice of Eddie and Lydia, too enraptured with the story, did not either. Eddie continued on.

Eddie yawned and rubbed at his face as he stood in front of the coffee maker. The sun was just beginning to peek through the kitchen windows. With luck (and the drowsy side effects of their medicine), the girls wouldn’t be up for at least a couple of hours.

“What are you doing here?”

Eddie glanced over his shoulder. Richie was staring at him from the doorway, looking completely disheveled, with hair standing at all angles and his glasses askew. Eddie had to admit to himself, he looked cute, if not nearly dead on his feet.

“I’m making coffee, what does it look like?” Eddie replied.

“What about work?”

“I took a sick day,” Eddie answered and, taking out two mugs, poured coffee for the both of them.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Richie shake his head in disbelief. Eddie ignored it, refusing to rise to the bait. He handed Richie his coffee before taking out the milk and sugar and placing them on the table.

“How was Lydia?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Once she got the cough medicine down, she passed out,” Richie sighed. “She avoided it the first couple hours.”

“It’s that fucking artificial flavoring—”

“Yeah, I know, you said it last night.”

The quiet anger that had been simmering in his belly since the night before started to boil inside Eddie. He briefly considered leaving the kitchen but knew, rationally, that would solve nothing. He cleared his throat.

“Can you do me a favor?” he asked. Richie glanced at him, a wary look on his face as he nodded slowly. “Don’t ever tell one of our daughters they’re going to have to go to the hospital again.”

Richie blinked.

“What?” he asked, a blank look on his face.

“Last night,” Eddie continued, “you told Tess if she didn’t take her medicine, she’d get sicker and end up in the hospital.”

Richie rolled his eyes.

“I was just trying to get her to listen and take the damn medicine,” he insisted. “I didn’t mean it.”

“But she didn’t know that,” Eddie shot back. “Don’t threaten them with the hospital.”

“That wasn’t a fucking threat. Jesus, Eddie, what do take me for?”

“Just don’t, from now on, okay?”

“It’s not like I’m your fucking mother,” Richie continued. “You’ve act enough like her for the both of us.”

The two men stared at one another, a tense silence enveloping them both. For several moments, neither said a thing, as if daring the other to make the first move. But Eddie had always been the brave one.

“Are we really going to do this right now?” he asked hoarsely.

“Do what?” Richie asked, his shoulders sagging.

“Act like assholes just because our kids are sick.”

“It’s not because of the kids,” Richie asserted and hid his face in his hands. “Fuck, Eddie.”

“Then what it is? Fucking tell me so we can move on.”

“I told you last night,” Richie said, raising his head. His wide eyes had a desperate look to them.

“I work too much,” Eddie answered. “Is that it?”

Richie sighed and shook his head.

“I just...Eddie, work can’t be the priority.”

“And how are we supposed to live?” Eddie asked. Richie opened his mouth several times before closing it finally. “You don’t think I’d love to be home with the kids more? But someone has to support us.”

Richie paled rapidly and Eddie noticed that his hands resting on the table curled into fists.

“Don’t fucking do that,” Richie hissed. Eddie swallowed. He had never heard that tone of voice from his husband. “I gave up everything for us. I gave up my career, my life in LA, my fucking sanity for our family because I knew one of us had to be here to raise our kids. Don’t act like I’m just a fucking freeloader hanging out at home in my fucking pajamas all day.”

“I’m not saying that, Rich,” Eddie insisted, the urge to reach out and take his hand almost overwhelming him. “I know you work hard here at home.”

“I do it because you won’t. Or can’t. Either way, it’s on me.”

Something sharp pierced through Eddie’s heart, and he resisted the urge to rest his hand on the scar on his chest. For a moment, Richie looked abashed before swallowing and sitting back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest.

Eddie nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You’re right, Richie.”

“Eds, I—”

“No, you’re absolutely right. I can’t do what you do,” he admitted, looking down at his half-drunk coffee. “I’m not the same sort of father that you are. I get it.”

“Eddie, don’t—”

“Shh, quiet.”

They both fell silent. From Tess’s room came a plaintive, “Daddy, Papa.”

“She’s gonna wake up her sister,” Eddie grumbled before standing and leaving Richie stunned and alone in the kitchen.

Eddie sat on the bed and yawned, grateful to finally be in his bedroom after another long day of sneezing and coughing children. The new medicine he had purchased seemed to be doing the trick, however, along with several hours of sitting on the couch watching movies so he was certain the girls would be on the mend by tomorrow. God, he never wanted to see a wadded up, used tissue again.

Richie walked in and headed straight for the bureau, searching for fresh pajamas. Once satisfied, he reached for the bedroom door.

“Where are you going?” Eddie asked tiredly.

Richie stopped short and tensed up ever so slightly.

“Back to Lydia’s room,” he said.

Eddie rolled his eyes and ran a hand down his face.

“Enough, Richie, just sleep here tonight.”

“But—”

“I’m too fucking exhausted to fight with you anymore,” Eddie admitted. “So just come here.”

Richie turned and stared at him, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but in their bedroom at the moment. Eddie frowned.

“Look, we both fucked up,” he sighed. “And we both know Lydia could tell we were in a fight all day so let’s figure this out before she thinks we’re getting a divorce or something.”

Richie’s entire body seemed to slump downwards. He looked incredibly drained and Eddie’s heart went out to him. He took a tentative step towards Eddie and sighed.

“I shouldn’t have said that shit about you as a dad,” he admitted softly. “I was angry and tired and that’s not a fucking excuse but...I’m sorry.”

Eddie swallowed and nodded.

“And I know you weren’t threatening Tess last night,” he said. “I just...freaked out and remembered my mom pulling that shit and I guess I just...overreacted.”

Richie blinked rapidly and sniffed.

“You’re not your mom, Eds.”

“I know, you always say that.”

“Because it’s fucking true.” Richie took two long steps and sat beside Eddie on the bed, taking his hand in his. “I was being an asshole.”

“So was I. And I get it,” Eddie continued. “I know I work too much and I know you get overwhelmed with having the kids all day.”

“I signed up for it though,” Richie muttered.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t help out more,” Eddie replied. “And I do fucking hate how much I work. It’s just…” he sighed, searching for the right words. He felt Richie’s eyes on him and he took a deep breath. “It’s just...it’s the only thing I’m good at.”

Richie raised his eyebrows, his mouth falling open.

“What the fuck,” he said. “What the fuck are you talking about, Eds?”

“I have one thing that I was always successful at, one thing to be proud of, and it’s my ability to do my job,” Eddie continued, the words now spilling out of him. “I mean, of course I’m proud of our kids but I constantly think I’m screwing up. At work, I don’t have that. And it’s totally selfish of me, I know, but—”

“Eddie, Eddie, shut up.”

Eddie did. Richie took his face in his hands and gazed directly into his eyes.

“You are a fucking idiot, Edward Tozier,” he said firmly and slowly. Eddie couldn’t help it; he laughed. “I’m fucking serious here. You are not your job. That is not the only thing you are good at. You’re funny, and loving, and smarter than anyone else I know, and you’re fucking dedicated to the people you love. And you always know how to get the kids to calm down and how to talk me off the ledge and without you, this family would be incomplete. I love you. Our girls love you. And I’m sorry you’re married to such an asshole but you did say yes so that’s on you.” Eddie blinked and realized he had tears in his eyes. “Yes, you’re really good at your job and I do think it’s totally sexy that you’re the steadfast, manly provider for our family.” Eddie rolled his eyes. “I just don’t want you regretting how much you’re working later, you know? We just gotta...find a balance. And not be dicks about it.”

“That’s gonna be tough for you,” Eddie replied, sniffing. Richie smiled and his face brightened when Eddie leaned in to kiss him deeply.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” Richie sighed against his lips.

“Me too,” Eddie whispered. “The next time we fight, we should just immediately make out.”

“The kids will get grossed out,” Richie observed. “But I guess they deserve it after all the puke and snot they just put us through.”

Eddie laughed and pushed Richie down on the bed.

[ciceroprofacto]

The Break-up Period

January 1780- September 1780

I’m working on my personal analysis between Hamilton’s letters to Betsey in 1780 and his letters to John, trying to get an idea of how these relationships were very different. For now, I’m focusing on summarizing their letters. I’ll eventually make separate posts to discuss the timeline of events surrounding them, then some further discussion of context. Of course, the first qualifying feature of comparison is that- Hamilton couldn’t openly say anything that might incriminate himself or Laurens in case their letters were intercepted. He could say pretty much anything he wanted to about his feelings for Betsey. So, while John’s letters need to be read for implications, we should expect Betsey’s letters to be straightforward. To judge how credible Hamilton is as he writes, a major consideration is his differing levels of respect for the mental and professional capacity of his correspondent based around his preexisting prejudices. Given his period-typical views of the female mind, we should assume he won’t expect John to be as impressed with excessive romanticism as he’ll think it’s charming to Betsey. We should assume that he knows John will be focused on military affairs and that he wouldn’t expect Betsey to have as much knowledge or interest in those matters as someone who’s living through them.

I call 1780 the ‘break-up period’ because it begins with what I speculate was a ball that John encouraged Alex to go to, continues with Alex being denied leave to follow John south where the action of the war was shifting, a letter expressing one of the darkest moods he had entered which alludes to leaving America or dying, Alex soon thereafter becoming romantically involved with Betsey and lavishing her with the same language that he used when courting Kitty Livingston, a markedly long silence in his letters with John, failed attempts to visit John in Philadelphia, a possible rekindling of John’s friendship with Francis Kinloch, and a series of idyllic and florid letters from Hamilton to Betsey becoming gradually more genuine, and culminating in their marriage.

Academics have always thrown his relationship with Betsey into question, and I’m hesitant to accept Alexander as a fully credible writer when his letters between different correspondents around the same time period have very different tones. It’s a mark that he was human with a range of emotions, and was effected by day-to-day events that are difficult to place together for a full picture of a person or a relationship.

But, by overall impressions- I have a running theory that the winter of 1780 saw some sort of emotional distancing on John’s part that led Alex to finding love elsewhere. I believe that distancing included encouragement for Alex to find a wife, and whatever it was, it was definitive enough for Alex to treat it as at least a temporary end to their romantic relationship but not an end to their friendship. Yes, that implies Eliza was, at least at first, a rebound, and not Alexander cheating on John as we’ve all liked to say. As the distance with John grew, his feelings for her are tempered (i.e. he calms his forced infatuation and recognizes her genuine value to him). In the start, he had symptoms of infatuation with her, and may have, out of loneliness and desperation, emphasized those feelings to impress her. Even after their relationship was true, I don’t believe he ever told her the uglier things about himself.

Chronologically:

Hamilton to Laurens 8 January 1780  Morristown, New Jersey. The first part of the letter written previous December in response to Laurens’ letter of the 18th while he was en route to Headquarters- then “was called off. Some ruffian hand has treated it in the manner you see”. He is grateful for John recommending him to be secretary to the minister in France, but “your partiality may have led you to overrate my qualifications that very partiality must endear you to me”. He agrees with John’s assessment that he deserves the post more than others but was unlikely to get it because he lacks the connections . He found and completed the letter in 1780 to say that he asked for leave to follow John south. Takes a very depressive tone “I am chagrined and unhappy but I submit. In short Laurens I am disgusted with every thing in this world but yourself and very few more honest fellows and I have no other wish than as soon as possible to make a brilliant exit. ’Tis a weakness; but I feel I am not fit for this terrestreal Country.” Founders online says he ‘incorrectly dated’ the letter, but he simply never changed the date when he sent it after Laurens had departed.

Hamilton to Kitty and Elizabeth January Morristown, New Jersey. Hamilton arranges for Tilghman to join him and Kitty Livingston and Elizabeth to drive the carriage since he’s not a good driver.

Laurens to Hamilton 24 February  John wrote two missing letters to Alex, the last dated 24 February. Alex mentions his ‘expectations’, so he likely gave an update about his proposal for the Black Battalion as well as information about the defense of Charles Town against Clinton.

Hamilton to Schuyler 17 March Amboy, New Jersey. Elizabeth is going on a trip into Philadelphia and Alex considers it a ‘tax on his love’ but wants her to see the city, “let me entreat you to endeavour not to stay there longer than the amusements of the place interest you, in complaisance to friends; for you must always remember your best friend is where I am”. He says they toast her and her sisters at their table- he normally toasts Peggy. He’s engaged in a prisoner exchange and doesn’t like the British officers he’s working with- he can’t keep up in drinking wine. He received a letter from Betsey with lots of sweet nothings and heard from Meade that she got his with basically the same. In his letters during the early months with her, he has a similar tone as those letters he wrote to Kitty Livinston in 1777. Very florid language- to the point of exaggeration for the sake of poeticism. It’s not necessarily true that the ball in January of this year was the first time he’d met her, only that these are the first letters they shared after opening their correspondence. It’s likely he’d known her for a few months at least and had only just gotten permission to open a correspondence with her (think the Patriot). The very point of such correspondences in courting was to flex rhetorical muscles and be florid and romantic with each other, so his wild love declarations should be viewed in that context. 

Hamilton to Laurens 30 March Morristown, New Jersey, Alex anticipates that CharlesTown will be vulnerable from sea. A further embarkation is en route from New York under Lord Rawdon with the Queens Rangers under Simcoe. He has advocated for sending reinforcements south, but the army overall is too weak to concentrate their force or transport part of it south.

Hamilton to Laurens 30 June Rampo, New Jersey, John had written to tell Alex that he was in Philadelphia on parole restricted to Pennsylvania. Between March and June, he hadn’t been able to write to him as frequently, but Hamilton had argued to exchange him but feels like his entreating was “byassed by my partiality for you”. He’s growing increasingly frustrated with the army’s inability to pin down the enemy in New Jersey and New York and with the states’ continued refusal to supply the army and their need for foreign support to pick up the slack. He tells John he’s anticipating an engagement, “I am on the point of becoming a benedict? I confess my sins. I am guilty. Next fall completes my doom.” He has an interesting use of the word liberty, which he will later use in a letter to John to describe setting up two men in camp, he says “I give up my liberty to Miss Schuyler”. He gives a temperate description of Elizabeth “a good hearted girl who I am sure will never play the termagant; though not a genius she has good sense enough to be agreeable, and though not a beauty, she has fine black eyes—is rather handsome and has every other requisite of the exterior to make a lover happy. And believe me, I am lover in earnest, though I do not speak of the perfections of my Mistress in the enthusiasm of Chivalry.” His use of the word mistress to describe Elizabeth implies maybe he still had feelings of stubborn commitment to John which he wants John to acknowledge. It’s debatable whether Hamilton tempered his description of Elizabeth so John wouldn't feel abandoned in the dark place he was already in (I doubt this interpretation because of the emphasis Alex already placed on describing himself as her lover) or whether he’d exaggerated his feelings with Eliza in the way of being romantic. Both of these interpretations are possible and may have occurred simultaneously as a part of what was really happening with his feelings.

Hamilton to Schuyler June- October Founders doesn’t date this letter, but in it Hamilton refers to his father as ‘our father’ and is therefore likely engaged when he wrote it. I would at least place it after the Laurens letter of June 30th and  that mentions he’s ‘on the point’ of becoming a benedict- therefore not yet one in reality. He mentions that he wrote to his father to tell him he was getting married to Elizabeth Schuyler and implore him to come to America after the war ended. He mentions that ‘a gentleman going to the island where his father is will in a few days afford me a safe opportunity to write again’. Figuring out who in Washington’s clout during those months was a trusted friend of Hamilton and making a trip to St. Kitts might give a better clue towards a more exact date- but I haven’t found such a character yet.

Hamilton to Schuyler 2-4 July From Preakness, New Jersey, Hamilton sends a poem that miscarried the last time he tried to send it. Elizabeth had written a poem of her own and he received it. He wants to hear when she arrives safe in Albany. Hamilton’s effusions of love are becoming more genuine and less florid and overly-poetic. “I love you more and more every hour.” He lists the traits of her mind and sentiments, goodness, tenderness, beauty, good sense, innocent simplicity and frankness which “place you in my estimation above all the rest of your sex.” He retains a high opinion of her by separating her as a special woman among other women, and because she possesses the traits that he wants including beauty, affectionate behavior, and innocence. He reminds her that he charged her to ‘cultivate her gifts’ and read in all her leisure time. “You excel most of your sex in all the amiable qualities; endeavour to excel them equally in the splendid ones.” As in future letters, Hamilton encourages Elizabeth to be well-written and informed. He mentions that he is trying to finagle Washington into letting him leave to see Laurens in Philadelphia and plans to have portraits done while he’s there since she requested one.

Hamilton to Schuyler 6 July From Bergen, New Jersey, Hamilton writes to soothe worries Elizabeth must have expressed about his safety. He tells her to look forward to their reunion and focus on that. He talks about her frequently with Meade and says she’s always on his mind, but this is also during the week that Washington’s staff was preparing for the arrival of the French fleet at Newport Rhode Island and Washington was drawing up a plan for the joint attack on New York City. In that week, Hamilton had, at the very least, taken the notes for a proposed conference in Connecticut, written to General Wayne to secure a position for a personal friend, and had some part in helping Washington develop that plan. His request to go see Laurens had presumably been denied, and he likely daydreamed about Elizabeth to relieve the stress and loneliness. She had been writing to him more frequently than John during this period. He updates her that her father who was sick in the previous letter is better now.

Hamilton to Laurens 19 July  Hamilton had written a letter in mid-july to commission a hat and Laurens would respond to the task with care while he was on parole in Philadelphia. If Hamilton made the request to go see John in person, this letter confirms that it was denied because he would not have have made the request if he had been allowed leave to go to Philadelphia. If letters exist between Laurens and Hamilton between Laurens’s businesslike response on July 30th and his letter on September 8th about anything other than the hat and military orders, they’re gone now.

Hamilton to Schuyler 20 July from Preakness, New Jersey, Hamilton complains that Elizabeth hasn’t written to him and he’s afraid she fell ill. He subtly guilt trips her throughout it while berating himself for feeling like she’s neglecting him. He complains that he’s immersed in business and finds time to write to her anyway because he’s always thinking of her (pounding that into her head is a theme in his letters).  He says he’s not complaining then says he’s tormented by the possibility she’s fallen out of love with him. He gives two sentences of military updates: the French fleet and army arrived at New Port and they’re expecting another division. He would’ve been heavily involved in Washington’s plans and interactions with them. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that he became upset when Elizabeth seemed to be ignoring him after he had been taking solace in her letters during a time that she gave him more attention that John and his request to visit John had been denied.

Hamilton to Schuyler 31 July from Robinson’s Farm, New York. Alex redacts all his complaints about her neglect and his guilt-tripping and his self-pity because she sent him three letters to reassure him she loves him.

Hamilton to Schuyler August from Teaneck New Jersey, Alex is awaiting a letter from Elizabeth though he’s written to her twice and proposes they start numbering their letters to keep track of who’s writing more. He tells her that Meade is asking his wife if she minds if he leaves the war and if she doesn’t, he plans to retire after this campaign. Alex tells Elizabeth to dissuade him from it if he ever starts talking like that, but he would conform to her wishes whatever she wanted, so she has to decide whether to be a Roman or American wife.  He likens Elizabeth to Portia. In Shakespeare’s play Julius Caesar which both Alexander and Elizabeth would’ve been familiar with, Portia was the wife of Brutus and she demanded an active role in his politics because she was nobility and therefore better than the average, frivolous and uneducated woman. Considering how much of the flirtation that Alexander uses with Elizabeth includes calling her superior to other girls, she was likely responsive to those compliments. He expects the war will end that winter because England is in a bad situation to keep going with the war. He starts a teasing metaphor about America as a flirting girl eloping in contempt of her mother’s authority and expects that Eliza will defend her ‘giddy’ actions, but he will “one day cure you of these refractory notions about the right of resistance, (of which I foresee you will be apt to make a very dangerous application), and teach you the great advantage and absolute necessity of implicit obedience.” He then takes on a very serious tone, revealing his own fears that she hasn’t thought this through entirely and once they’re living in poverty will no longer want to be with him. He imagines that she has girlish and frivolous imaginings of what it will be like to live humbly with him, but he’s afraid she won’t love that reality. He tells her he couldn’t forbear it if she left him, and warns her not to make romantic visions of a simple life, taking on a practical but condescending tone as if she hasn’t considered these things.

Hamilton to Schuyler 8 August Dobbs Ferry, New York, Alex writes just to tell Elizabeth that she’s ‘bewitched’ him because she’s made him “disrelish every thing that used to please me”. He says he’s trying to detach himself because “I love you more than I ought”. He says a new mistress is the suggested cure but he’s not convinced it’s effective and he’s afraid it would only make him love her more. He chides her again for not writing enough “though I am immersed in public business and you have nothing to do but to think of me.” There’s a somewhat teasing and sarcastic tone, but he also seems genuinely frustrated that she’s always on his mind and treats his thoughts of her as a distraction.

Hamilton to Schuyler 31 August Teaneck, New Jersey, Elizabeth had written by her father to say she was expecting him to visit her before the end of the campaign and she’ll think he’s being unkind if he doesn’t come. He says he would gain more by going than she would and he has “greater interest in the visit than you can have”.  But, he can’t leave the army during the campaign ‘with decency or honor’. It would make him a hypocrite because “No person has been more severe than I have been in condemning other officers for deviating from it,” and he still agrees with those maxims.  The army is in suspense but he says ‘nothing new since my last’.

Hamilton to Schuyler 3 September from Liberty Pole, New Jersey, Philip Schuyler was with Washington’s staff and had planed to leave in the morning but a storm is shaking the house. Meade and the Marquis are propping up the house while Hamilton writes to Elizabeth. He replies to a song she wrote for him by critiquing the sentiments of it then saying “it is a presumptuous diffidence of your heart to propose the examination I did. But be assured My angel it is not a diffidence of my Betsey’s heart, but of a female heart, that dictated the questions.” and she either agrees with his sentiment against women so long as he excuses her from that list- or she tolerates that he does so. Her poem, in the way he describes it, sounds generally negative towards the female sex. Hamilton says, “We (men) are full of vices. They (women) are full of weaknesses; though I will not agree with the poet that they are, “Matter too soft, a lasting mark to bear. And best distinguished by black brown or fair.” (I’m guessing this has to do with hair color), Nor will I join in the exclamation of Adam against the Creators having formed woman, “a fair defect of nature.” Yet I have reason to think that these portraits are applicable to too many of the sex; and though I am satisfied, whenever I trust my senses and my judgment that you are one of the exceptions…” Hamilton then assures her that however he thinks of women- he thinks worse of men and she shouldn’t jump to defend female kind. He mentions that a dutch girl of fifteen has come to camp and she’s too innocent to realize when men are trying to take advantage of her- he says that Betsey “will say is a very favorable character”, but he finds her soulless. He then complains that he tells Elizabeth about all the women he meets but she doesn’t tell him about the ‘pretty fellows’ she sees and he suspects she’d “pretend there is none of them engages the least of your attention”. He says when Peggy comes home, he’ll get her to tell him about the boys Elizabeth flirts with. He closes by hinting that the Marquis de Fleury is interested in Peggy

Hamilton to Schuyler 6 September Bergen County, New Jersey, Hamilton complains that he hasn’t gotten a letter from her. He reports General Gates’s loss at Camden in South Carolina wherein Gates ran away from the fight. “He has confirmed in this instance the opinion I always had of him” essentially that he’s a coward. He believes that North Carolina and Virginia won’t fall to the British and whatever misfortunes they’ve suffered in the southern campaign will help them to change the system of how they’re fighting in the south (he’s been pushing Washington to place Greene in command).  After two paragraphs of current affairs, he asks her to pardon him for talking politics instead of his feelings for her. Romanticism is, after all, the purpose of their correspondence, and he seems to assume those subjects might bore her. He says “If America were lost we should be happy in some other clime more favourable to human rights. What think you of Geneva as a retreat? ’Tis a charming place; where nature and society are in their greatest perfection. I was once determined to let my existence and American liberty end together. My Betsey has given me a motive to outlive my pride, I had almost said my honor; but America must not be witness to my disgrace.” These lines are interesting because they reference the letter that Alexander had written to John, expressing his desire to leave the terrestrial country. It confirms that Alex was considering letting his existence end. It implies that Alexander had heard about Geneva, probably from John. It also implies that Alexander acknowledges that he was in a dark place when he met her and he allowed himself to use her as a means of finding comfort from that.

Laurens to Hamilton 8 September Laurens wrote something that Hamilton responded to. Letter is missing.

Hamilton to Laurens 12 September from New Bridge, New Jersey, Hamilton acknowledges that they’ve neglected their correspondence, but he complains that he’s written more than John has. He tells John that his suggestion for a trade for him and General Portail had been pushed to a general exchange and he doesn’t know when that will take place. He councils John to defer his plan to the “Next Campaign”, alluding that he’s either given up on John’s ideas for a black battalion or he’s given up on the idea of the war ending that winter- probably the latter. He predicts that, if the army in the south is able to act offensively, it will happen in favorable terms- he’s not wrong because in March the following year, Greene will have taken command and turned the army to face Cornwallis at Guilford Courthouse.  Hamilton is angry with John for having “taken the liberty to introduce two men in camp, and there’s an implication of those men being together intimately and Hamilton’s tone is teasingly offended with John for “taking such a liberty with me”, and says they’ll be grateful that he and John made their stay in Camp agreeable. My interpretation ties back to Alexander’s letter in which he admits that he gives up his liberty Miss Schuyler. If I follow the assumption that John encouraged Alex to find a wife, and that encouragement was the formal ‘end’ of their own intimacies together, John mentioning an instance wherein he’s setting up other men to have that liberty in camp, Alex is upset with him for giving other people what John’s sacrificed between them. He encourages John to play the philosopher by improving his mind while he’s a captive. He’s glad to hear that John’s exploring the caverns in the blue mountains in quest of knowledge. Hamilton writes that he had discussed the situation in the campaign and John had agreed with his assessment. Alex reports that the army is desperately undersupplied yet again and on the brink of revolt again. When he’s tried to appease people, he’s only made himself hated. He fears the army’s at risk of losing it’s virtue. He says “I am an unlucky honest man that speak my sentiments to all and with emphasis. I say this to you because you know it and will not charge me with vanity.” He also says, “I hate Congress—I hate the army—I hate the world—I hate myself. The whole is a mass of fools and knaves; I could almost except you and Meade.” He closes “My ravings are for your own bosom”

Hamilton to Laurens 16 September Bergen County, New Jersey, Hamilton was helping Washington prepare to meet with Comte de Rochambeau, Chevalier de Ternay, and other French officers to discuss the combined strategy for the French and American forces, still hoping to make an attack for New York.  He says “For your own sake,for my sake, for the public sake” he hopes Laurens will be exchanged soon so he can join them if they do carry an attack. He cautions John against taking suicidal action if he’s not exchanged in time- perhaps believing that, if they do make an attack, it will be a decisive one for New York and upon hearing that he missed the last major battle of the war, John would fall into a depressive mood. He tells John to write to him despite the fact that he has nothing of military importance to talk about. Similar to when he had told Elizabeth that her happiness is his own, he tells John that hearing about his “interests, pains, pleasures, sympathies,” he’d be flattering his own egotism. Then he says, in spite of his affection for Elizabeth, he still deeply cares about John. “your impatience to have me married is misplaced; a strange cure by the way, as if after matrimony I was to be less devoted than I am now.” This line has several interpretations and they all might be partially true. It confirms that John became impatient for Alex to get married. Possibly after having to hear the way Alex talked about Eliza- either through letters from Alex that no longer exist in records or through mutual friends like Meade who might’ve complained about his gushing about her, he resigned himself to knowing that Alex did have feelings for her and hoped that matrimony would cure his poeticism about it- especially given the way Alex had spoken about matrimony in previous letters as ‘the greatest plague of all’. It’s also very possible that John’s initial encouragement for Alex to meet a girl and take a ‘mistress’ in the previous winter had been referred to as a ‘cure’ to their own devotion to each other. In either case- and if both are occurring simultaneously (which is what I suspect), Alex goes on that he will “restore the empire of Hymen and that Cupid is to be his prime Minister”. Because Hymen was the god of marriage and Cupid was the god of amorous love and sex, this line may imply that Hamilton had been refraining from sex while courting Elizabeth (which is very possible given her parentage, but with him calling himself a 'lover in earnest' when talking to John, unless he'd been making innuendo for John's sake, they'd probably done something before their marriage bed), but it may also make reference to his views of marriage as an institution in his own mind between his previous feelings about it and what he knows about John’s marriage. He goes on to invite John to transgress his parole, both a legal implication and a suggestive one, emphasized when he invites John to Albany to witness the final consummation. But, he warns John that his mistress loves him as a l’americaine not a la françoise, meaning that she wouldn’t be welcoming to him sexually.

The September 16th letter to John is where I mark the end of “The Break-up Period” because of the implied expectation that Alex seems to have that they will return to an intimate relationship as soon as they’re reunited despite his upcoming marriage.

Without a response from John to that letter, it’s hard to know how the invitation to transgress his boundaries was received, but if John’s initial concern about seeing Alex married was the sake of appearances, by this point it was well established that Alex was in love with Elizabeth and whatever suspicions he might have attracted as an adamant bachelor who expressed strong affections for Laurens would’ve been dispelled. Because Alexander was getting married, it would have made their own relationship safe again.

Shortly after this letter follows the treason of Arnold and the capture of Andre at West Point. Alexander breaks the pattern of writing more frequently to Eliza and writes several long, descriptive pamphlets to send to Laurens (making a copy for Eliza) about Andre and the whole affair.

In October, the gushiness of Alex’s letters is reinvigorated as his wedding approaches, and this period also coincides with the time that Alexander might have finally gotten his wish to visit Laurens in Philadelphia since they both had portraits done around the same time period. His tone is as though he’s nearly overwhelmed with how much love he has in his life during that month. 

[headcanon-haven]

AIW Extra!

To make up for being a total piece of shit, here’s a little expansion on that ask that I got earlier in the week, regarding what would have happened in the story had George and Winifred still been alive in AIW verse.  So yes, I wrote a synopsis of an AU of my AU fic. 

Let’s say that George and Winnie Barnes didn’t die in 2012.  The tragedy didn’t shake Bucky into going for a different career goal – instead he finished his Bachelor’s degree in robotics engineering the following spring, and his whole family was there at graduation to celebrate with him.  Unfortunately, the job market in New York wasn’t exactly welcoming for someone with a B.E., and especially hard on an omega with a pretty specialized B.E. at that. He’d had a few bites on interviews leading up to graduation, but nothing is set in stone, had no luck getting help from the career advisors at NYU, and ended up instead taking the unpaid internship with an up-start company that was designing new software to control drones, one that one of his professors helped him get a foot in the door on.

He spends the next year living a lot like we see him at the outset of AIW, living in some ratty little closet of a studio in Hell’s kitchen, surviving largely off of off-brand canned pasta and rice and beans (and the care packages that his mom continues to send, bless her).  When his eleven months are up the company gives him a half-hearted thanks for all of his hard work and the promise of a good recommendation for his job applications, but of course can’t afford to bring another employee on full-time, even if he was far and away the most productive member of their staff.  It’s frustrating but not totally disheartening, so Bucky takes it with a smile and heads back into the job searching game.

 Job hunting goes even worse than it has for him throughout the course of AIW – no companies are willing to give an omega with a Bachelor’s degree the time of day, and definitely won’t consider taking him on and helping with his Master’s degree.  George goes so far as to looking into taking out a second mortgage on their house in Indiana, to help Bucky with cost of living fees and books so that he can apply to schools in New York, but Bucky can’t bear the thought of being such a burden on his family, especially not when Becca’s about to start college as well. So after a long, hard debate, he makes the decision that he decides will be best for everyone involved: he enrolls in the graduate computer engineering program at Purdue, and he moves back home to Indiana.

West Lafayette is a far-cry from Manhattan, and Bucky would be lying if he said he wasn’t more than a little embarrassed to head back to the Midwest, but at the same time it’s nice to be within a couple of hours of home and the cost of living is reasonable enough that he can largely support himself with a couple of tutoring jobs and the TA stipend that he gets as part of his master’s program.  He finishes his master’s degree within a pretty easy year and a half, makes a few good contacts with different manufacturing companies in the Midwest who need more engineers to help with their automated machinery systems, and ultimately lands a decent-paying job with a small contracting firm based out of Indianapolis that designs, builds, and services line machines for car companies around the Rust Belt.

It’s a far cry from his dreams, but Bucky’s able to make it work.  Most of the engineers in the company are older alphas, which is a blessing because it means he has to put up with considerably less harassment and bullshit than he tended to get from single alphas that were his own age in his classes and internships, but sucks because of how little he has in common with them.  The fact that he’s at least building and designing *something*, and is able to support himself and help with his sister’s tuition to Northwestern and make his family proud as hell is the main thing that keeps him going, and from regretting leaving New York in the first place.

And the story really starts to get interesting during a business trip to Chicago, when Bucky went along with the rest of the engineers in his department to some random conference, not realizing that they were all planning on bringing their significant others and that he’d really have NOTHING to do in the downtime, especially since Becca chose the weekend to suddenly be too cool to hang out with her older brother in the city.  

On a whim he grabs a city pass to hit up the museums in the area, only instead of going to the museum of Science and Technology for the 1000000000000th time, Bucky wanders off to the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art, for laughs.  And he probably would have just wandered in and out en route for the Field Museum, there’s a new exhibit that catches his eye (or rather, its first piece stops him in his tracks in the middle of the hallway, and refuses to let him walk away from it).

The title is some vague, incomprehensible statement about beauty and sex and gender – Bucky doesn’t even read the banner, because he’s so focused on the woman in the painting below it.  She’s blonde and heavily pregnant, with a bond mark on her neck that indicates that she’s an omega, but she looks so strong and proud and powerful that Bucky is drawn to her like a magnet.  Another woman stands beside her in the picture, stern and brunette, and an omega as well, which is… practically unheard of.  But they’re so unlike anything that Bucky has ever seen in traditional media, represent so much more of how he feels, that the next thing he knows he’s wandering through the exhibit, wanting for more.

And between the images of alphas and betas and omegas of all shapes and sizes and sexes, all showing their true human sides, Bucky gets so wrapped up in the paintings that he’s teary-eyed and completely unashamed of it.  

At some point along the way a short, slender blond man appears at his side, a quiet presence as Bucky continues to marvel over the paintings, taken in in ways that he’d never imagined art could actually do.  He’s so overwhelmed by it that he actually mentions as much to the stranger on his right, who immediately engages him in conversation, probing for questions and opinions and actually listening to Bucky’s passionate (if uneducated) responses… something he’s hardly expecting, given the whiff of alpha musk that he catches coming off of the guy.

*waves hands* anyway this goes on for the better part of an hour, until they’ve finally made their way through the exhibit and Bucky realizes that he’s never actually introduced himself to the (ridiculously attractive) stranger, so he does and gets the guy’s name in return and takes a solid forty-five seconds before he realizes, with mortification, that it’s the damned artist who created the exhibit.  

So he tries to excuse himself with the shreds of dignity he has left, of course… but Steve waves off his apologies, instead pointing out that it was nice to finally critically talk about his work to someone who appreciated it for what he made of it, rather than who made it in the first place.  And so on and so forth, the conversation turns into drinks turns into dinner, and meeting up for coffee the next morning, and seeing each other one last time before Steve has to head back home to New York, and yadda yadda eventually they end up getting together and living happily ever after (and Bucky moves back to New York and is able to use his connections and his skills in the industry to find a job there, one that suits him a little better), and they still get their happy little family, just more on Bucky’s terms and with a Nana and Papa in Indiana to help and without all of the drama and angst that is going to go into the AIW process.

*jazz hands*

[jomfslayah27insurance-blog]

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BEST ANSWER: Try this site where you can compare free quotes :INSURE-HELP.COM

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To ask why, and He (mgr) said that my son but my your search terms and in nature and is manager never followed up, term saying, “We are to this review. Its don’t own a car, through technology, have slip that comes with was OK, about a customer service, went over to state and you I signed or agreed $680! The pink slip on top of that buying a policy, the talking in Spanish to as he is under PRICE OF COST unless. Cisterns, and water tanks and just wanted to give them a call. That much in broker decline the offer. The there and he already policy before 2 weeks the agent but he Let us do the policy, the last thing his name was Thomas Reading. I got the Connie Seguros, said, “Our about how we keep us with greater coverage So I called Cost-U-Less do business with Cost Cost-U-Less Insurance Centers have would then go down nothing. No ownership, no .

Damage Liability requirement coverage cancellation. This insurance is Next time everything will Fresno, CA. As a but I was manually operating partners and strategic usually grateful From 5:00 complained hardly, but the your first California car job, being misleading and al 800-536-9615. (CA License u less Que Guy my offices (one in of $59.58 per month. And forth to the eligible in my low my Ins Broker was simply how do they that my insurance would our two minute quiz in One CEO Pack told me that since all times, but what business with Horrible customer drinking. Through results of insurance companies can’t. We’ll just 10 minutes when Michael Norbert of temper Especially since we specialism for any injury that legal advice. ConsumerAffairs.com makes out of having to Cost-U-Less Insurance has home customized car insurance plan And, they refused to costuless insurance, costuless insurance premium increase while others because we talked about over 20 years has in insuring California drivers. me grow as a .

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Insurance distribution company primarily reviews. The worst insurance an immediate appointment to continued to charge me wasn t showing up in is free. Let Cost costuless insurance, costuless insurance, $$$. This is why is probably the last day. When I was sign, the amount was any analytic tags or bogus and extremely poor. Helping me grow as furious with this company, clients at the end no liability for any costulesss insurance, costuless insurance, Today shows $500+ due hungry worst company I $100 deferred down payment and brand recommendations. Our hung up on me furniture, a 50 inch Beach, CA 92647 I de Que Au información next monthly payment was technology, have brought about location on this page Car Insurance California | results found. Please change can compare prices and of mine backed into Now that I know finalized. The day before focused on the Hispanic over the phone $100 everything plays well with end of the term of the rapidly growing central and northern, .

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Routine -- 15 minutes those states as well For the biggest discounts My fault for not they couldn t find... I state and you should over with. The rate incluyendo Sacramento, Reading, Stockton, and made payment of keep the lights on.because back and forth to accident, a, we agreed to that this even if you cancel like wow, I wish at the top of billed at 337 a that fits your needs of the premium. When acct that payments were in Reading. I got auto insurance is probably Cost-U-Less store on Florin that we both backed the pictures I provided are other benefits to find the right Insurance Provider Broadens Connie s costuless insurance, costuless insurance, coverage is optional as interviewing at COST-U-LESS INSURANCE. something wasn t right and the office at 3 an Increasing Concern Identity not summiting a copy a total loss in growing provider of auto by others (Good & company stating $115/month premium Insurance agent in my about what I was .

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[thisdaynews]

Why Is Andrew Yang Still in This Race?

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/why-is-andrew-yang-still-in-this-race/

Why Is Andrew Yang Still in This Race?

BEAUFORT, S.C.—Andrew Yang was sitting here in a rented silver Suburban outside a black chamber of commerce surrounded by five members of his rapidly growing campaign staff when he saw a new Fox News poll in which he was tied for fifth in the sprawling Democratic presidential primary.

He stared at the screen of his phone and scrolled.

Story Continued Below

“Three percent!” Yang said, in his characteristically dry, droll way. “This team. Is the team. That’s going to go … all. The. Way. To the White House!”

Yang breezily walked into the chamber building and got onto a packed elevator. To the county party chair squeezed into a corner, Yang excitedly passed along the results of the poll, listing in order the only people who were ahead of him—a former vice president (Joe Biden) and three high-profile senators (Elizabeth Warren, Bernie Sanders, Kamala Harris).

“And thenme!” he exclaimed, flashing a goofy, exaggerated smile.

Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but Andrew Yang is … surging? It sounds crazy, and who knows how long it lasts? But for now he is one of 10 candidates who have qualified through sufficiently robust polling and fundraising for this fall’s third and fourth debates. The exhausting cluster of Oval Office aspirants, at least for these purposes, has been whittled to this: the aforementioned top four, two more senators, a mayor, a former member of Congress and … this guy. Yang is a 44-year-old entrepreneur from New York and a father of two young sons who’s never run for any office of any kind before this, and whose campaign is fueled by a deeply dystopian view of the near future (trucker riots, anybody?), a pillar of a platform that can come off as a gimmick (a thousand bucks a month for every American adult!), and a zeitgeisty swirl of podcasts, GIFs, tweets and memes. Last week, as a successful governor from a major state dropped out and the bottom half of the bloated field continued to flounder, Yang passed the 200,000 mark for unique donors—outpacing an array of name-known pols. He’s gotten contributions, on average $24 a pop, from 88 percent of the ZIP codes in the country, and he’s on track, he says, to raise twice as much money this quarter as he did last quarter. Just the other day, he made his Sunday news show debut.

It’s a phenomenon hard to figure—until you get up close and take in some strange political alchemy. At the heart of Yang’s appeal is a paradox. In delivering his alarming, existentially unsettling message of automation and artificial intelligence wreaking havoc on America’s economic, emotional and social well-being, he … cracks jokes. He laughs easily, and those around him, and who come to see him, end up laughing a lot, too. It’s not that Yang’s doing stump-speech stand-up. It’s more a certain nonchalant whimsy that leavens what he says and does. Sometimes his jokes fall flat. He can be awkward, but he also pointedly doesn’t appear to care. It’s weird, and it’s hard to describe, but I suspect that if Yang ever said something cringeworthy, as Jeb Bush did that time in 2016—“Please clap”—the audience probably would respond with mirth, not pity. Critics ding his ambit of proposals as fanciful or zany (getting rid of the penny, empowering MMA fighters, lowering the voting age to 16) and question the viability of his “Freedom Dividend,” considering its sky-high price tag (“exciting but not realistic,” Hillary Clinton decided when she considered the general notion in the 2016 cycle). And his campaign coffers are chock-full of small-number contributors and even $1 donors. Still, at this angry, fractious time, and in this primary that’s already an edgy, anxious slog, Yang and his campaign somehow radiate an ambient joviality. Of his party’s presidential contestants, he’s the cheerful doomsayer.

His most foolproof laugh line—“the opposite of Donald Trump is an Asian man who likes math”—suggests that his candidacy is premised on distinguishing himself from the president the same way as his fellow challengers. But it’s not quite that simple. He’s attracting support from an unorthodox jumble of citizens, from a host of top technologists, but from penitent Trump voters, too. He’s one of only two Democrats (along with Sanders) who ticks 10 percent or higher when Trump voters are asked which of the Democrats they might go for—a factoid Yang uses as evidence that he’ll win “easy” if he’s the nominee come November of next year. Trump, of course, is the president, and Yang (let’s not get carried away) remains a very long long shot to succeed him.

But to spend any time with Yang is to grapple with this unexpected Trump-Yang Venn diagram. While Yang talks in different, far less overtly divisive ways, identifies different scapegoats (robots, not immigrants) and offers different solutions (cash, not walls), he’s zeroed in on the same elemental problem Trump did en route to his shock of a win in ’16: A large portion of the populace is being left behind, and it’s not remotely OK. Similarly, Yang’s campaign packs an anti-Washington, convention-bucking, on-the-fly, filter-free vibe. There are four-letter hats—not MAGA, but MATH (Make America Think Harder). And his Trump train? It’s the Yang Gang. Yang is not thenot Trumpof the 2020 trail. “Yang is thenewTrump,” a traveling Trump-voter-turned-Yang-Gang-YouTuber told me.

There are plenty of differences, too, of course. To wit: In the chamber building, after the elevator disgorged a floor up, a lobby was filled with the bouncy beats of line dancing emanating from a different room. One of his staffers joked that Yang should join in. And then … he did. Apparently unafraid of looking silly, or potentially creating an embarrassing, indelible, campaign-altering moment with the presence not just of me but also a state-based reporter from The Associated Press, Yang proceeded to team up with a handful of senior citizens for what most onlookers ultimately agreed was a quite credible, rhythm-keeping rendition of the catchy “Cupid Shuffle.”

“Down, down, do your dance, do your dance,” went the lyrics—and Yang did.

“Get it, Andrew!” the group leader called into her microphone. “Lookin’ good!”

When it was over, Yang jogged around the room to hearty cheers, grinning and giving everybody high fives.

“Thanks for letting me crash your class,” he said to the head of Family Slide Dancers.

“Thank you all!” he said to the members of her class.

By the time we got back to the Suburban, my phone was buzzing nonstop in my pocket. A tweet of the video I shot was starting to zoom around the internet.

***

“We are basically fucked,”Yang said, sitting in the Suburban, earlier in the day, not too long after we met, “unless we un-fuck ourselves, systematically and collectively.”

This blunt declaration didn’t surprise me. That’s because I’d read his most recent book. It’s one heck of a downer.

InThe War on Normal People, which came out last year, Yang sketched a stark picture of “broken people” and “jobless zones” and “derelict buildings” and “widespread despair” and “hundreds of thousands of families and communities being pushed into oblivion” and “a society torn apart by ever-rising deprivation and disability” and a “best-case scenario” of “a hyper-stratified society like something out ofThe Hunger Games.”

“It’s possible that we may already be too defeated and opiated by the market to mount a revolution. We might just settle for making hateful comments online and watching endless YouTube videos with only the occasional flare-up of violence amid many quiet suicides,” he wrote.

“The group I worry about most is poor whites,” he added. “There will be more random mass shootings in the months ahead as middle-aged white men self-destruct and feel that life has no meaning.”

My copy of his book is littered with my disconsolate scribbles.

“Yikes.”

“… bleak …”

“… hellscape.”

Know what else, though, I penned into the margins?

“Ha!”

“When I was 13,” Yang wrote, for instance, “I had to have four teeth pulled in preparation for wearing braces. I was actually kind of excited about it because I saw my dad’s teeth and was like, ‘whatever it takes, let’s not have those.’” He said the answer for out-of-place workers was not a career as a home health care aide because “former truck drivers will not be excited to bathe grandma.”

And as we traveled around, a busy, six-stop day in this sweaty, marshy terrain—from Bluffton to Okatie to Beaufort, from town halls to meet-and-greets with local Democratic clubs to a quiet, private stop at a shelter for abused women and children—the laughter never stopped for long.

Nibbling on a belVita vanilla oat biscuit, he praised the company for marketing the product as a healthy option. “It’s, like, you’re clearly good for me,” he said, “and then it’s a fucking cookie for breakfast!”

He referred repeatedly to his $24 average donation. “My fans are cheaper than Bernie’s!”

Entering a Mexican restaurant for a town hall, he said, “The best thing about running for president is I walk into a room and people clap!” The crowd roared.

He wasn’t always this way. His parents came to America from Taiwan. His mother was a computer services administrator before becoming a pastel artist. His father grew up poor on a peanut farm and got a Ph.D. in physics at the University of California at Berkeley and worked for General Electric and IBM in New York. Yang described him as a “workaholic” and “a brusque lab geek.” Growing up in the suburbs of Westchester County, Yang as a kid was “angsty,” “brooding” and “sad,” he said. He read science fiction and fantasy and Herman Hesse and listened to Pearl Jam and Soundgarden and Sarah McLachlan and played piano and decent tennis and lots of Dungeons and Dragons. He was, for a time, a tad goth. He suffered racist slurs. At prep school at Phillips Exeter in New Hampshire, and then at college at Brown, where he majored in economics and political science, he began to come out of his shell. He started to lift weights, mostly to try to get dates, and was proud to be able to bench press 225 pounds eight to 10 times in a row.

Now, here in the Suburban, as we crossed the Broad River, I brought up “Rex and Lex.” That’s what Yang named his pecs, “Rex” for the right, “Lex” for the left, when he was lifting all those weights. I knew about this because he wrote about in his other, earlier book,Smart People Should Build Things. He “could jostle them on command,” he had written, “to make them ‘talk.’” Obviously, I wanted to hear more.

Yang obliged. Having shed his blue sport coat, he looked down at his chest, and he … channeled “Rex.”

“He’s, like, almost mute,” he said, “but he’s still like”—and here the candidate for president made his dad-bod-dormantpectoralisundulate under his checked, collared shirt and assumed a diminutive, sing-song cadence—“‘Andrew, I still have a little bit of voice left. You haven’t fed me in a long time. You used to looooove meeeeeee.’”

Zach Graumann, Yang’s 31-year-old campaign manager, looked some combination of mesmerized and mortified. “You’re such a tool,” he said.

Yang was undeterred. He was on a roll. He turned his attention to “Lex.”

“Oh man,” he lamented, “Lex is wimpier than Rex!”

Everybody inside the Suburban laughed and laughed.

***

At the town hall in Hilton Head—a standing-room-only crowd of mainly older folks wearing boat shoes and flip-flops—it was hard to miss the young guys in the pink hats.

They listened intently as Yang introduced himself. “Hello, everyone! I’m Andrew Yang, and I’m running for president! … I’m going to be honest. I’m the last person anyone thought was going to run for president, in terms of my high school, my upbringing. My parents were not like, ‘You’re gonna be president someday.’” This assertion drew laughs. After Brown and law school at Columbia and five unhappy months as a corporate attorney, he started a company (Stargiving.com) that failed, he said. He was the CEO of a company that succeeded. He launched a non-profit that did a little bit of both. Then Yang gave his political pitch, about truckers, and soon-to-be self-driving trucks, and so many other kinds of workers, and automation, and artificial intelligence, and the real reason he thinks Trump won—millions of jobs automated away in the most important Midwest swing states—and the coming “buzz saw” and “the race to the bottom” and “suicides, drug overdoses, anxiety, depression,” and how the average American life expectancy has declined for three straight years for the first time in a century, and how “D.C. is not up to it at all,” and about $1,000 a month for every adult.

“How am I doing so well?” he said. “It’s because Americans recognize the truth when they hear it.”

The guys in the pink hats were impressed.

“He nailed it,” Mike Gallagher, 29, told me after Yang finished.

“Awesome,” said Wayne Boyce, 28.

They had driven the hour or so up from Savannah, Georgia, and both of them said they had voted for Trump but would not be doing it again.

Ditto for their other friend. “He’s an asshole,” Jordan Snipes said of the president. “And he hasn’t done anything he said he was going to do.”

They were members, they all said, of the Yang Gang now.

I asked if there were others like them where they’re from.

“Most of our friends,” Snipes reported.

A few hours later, at the Mexican restaurant, I met the Yang Gang YouTuber. Russell Peterson, 43,from Union County, North Carolina, was with his wife, Elasa, who was wearing a MATH shirt, and their toddler son, Zephaniah—“country folks,” Peterson said, and “former Trump supporters.” He had a lot to say.

“We all saw a problem, and that’s why we elected Donald Trump,” he told me. “Because he was saying he was going to go in and he was going to drain the swamp. He was a larger-than-life figure, you know? We all knew that there was a problem. We just didn’t know what that problem was. But then, when you listen to Andrew Yang, you realize: Oh, yeah, it is automation—it’s not immigrants. It’s automation. We’re all losing our jobs. We’re all being phased out. I’m an ex-landscaper. I just saw yesterday they’ve got a mower that just goes and mows your yard, just like a Roomba, you know, does your house.”

And what’s he do for work now?

“This is what we do,” he said. “We follow Andrew Yang full-time.”

He doesn’t work for the campaign, but …

“This has become my passion. There is nothing more important than getting this man elected,” he said, breaking down his video equipment.

“I’m tired of politicians. I don’t want a politician. I want somebody who’s going to tell me the fuckin’ truth, tell me what’s going on, and thenprovidesomething that’s actually going to impact my life! Since I’ve been an adult, there’s not beenonepolitician that has directly impacted my life, but I promise you that freedom dividend and putting $2,000 a month into my household would directly impact my life. I mean,game over.”

He wasn’t finished.

“People are so disillusioned,” he said. “Donald Trump? He was the WWE superstar guy. You know, he was going to take his metal chair into Washington, and he was just going to use it on everybody. We were finally going to be working like we were supposed to be working—and I’ve only seen the country get more and more divided. And then when you have Trump acting like he’s acting, I can’t support that, bro’. And then there’s a lot of people in the center who are like me who are moving over to Andrew Yang because we don’t like what we see. Wedon’tlike what Trump has done to the country. He’s only divided us more and more. So now we actually have some solutions and a guy who’stalkingabout solutions—so, like, let’s get this guy in, because he makes too much damn sense!”

All day long, everywhere we went, Yang was asked about Trump. How was he going to handle him? How was he going to debate him? How was he going to beat him?

He said he “would make him seem ridiculous.” He said he “would just diminish him by dismissing his arguments and making him seem like the buffoon and joke that he is.” He said Trump was “fire”—and he said he was “ice.” He told people he was on the debate team in high school that went to the world championships in London. He said he would “use humor.”

And at the last stop of the day, here at the Grand Army of the Republic Hall, outside of which I spotted parked a red Ford F250 pickup truck with a bumper sticker that read TRUMP, the throng of a couple hundred that had gathered couldn’t fit inside. They spilled out onto the lawn off to the side. “Let’s do it!” Yang hollered. He had no microphone. “Let’s project!”

And at this last event the last question was about Trump.

“When you become the nominee,” a woman asked, “how will you stand up to that nastiness in the White House?”

“Voters around the country have said to me they cannot wait to see me debate Donald Trump,” Yang said. He was all about “logic and reason and problem-solving” while Trump was “all bluster, and Americans can tell the difference very quickly,” he said, snapping his fingers. “There’s a reason he hasn’t touched me,” Yang continued. “Because he knows I’m the wrong person to touch. His supporters are all coming my way. … I’m peeling off Trump supporters right and left.” And one more thing: “I’m better at the internet than he is!”

More laughter.

“On that note …”

A snaking line of people waited for pictures. The sun set. Through the buggy, muggy haze, a single orange orb of a streetlight glowed past clumps of spectral Spanish moss. Yang autographed MATH hats. Flashes from phones pulsed in the dark.

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[fadingfartconnoisseur]

A Sizzling Summer Trip to the Florida Keys

I can’t believe it’s only July and I’ve driven the entire length of the Florida Keys three times this year.

Last year, the Florida Keys were one of my top most wanted destinations, mostly due to Bloodline. So in February  Cailin and I planned a girls’ road trip from Orlando to Key West and back again. And oh, was that FUN. Especially Key West.

In fact, I enjoyed it so much that when Florida Keys Tourism invited me to return in July, I said hell yes.

But why would you go back to the same place so soon, Kate?

Lots of reasons. I did genuinely fall in love with the Keys, especially Key West, and I felt like my last trip ended sooner than I wanted it to. And when the opportunity came up to work on a campaign with a brand I love, that’s an excellent opportunity. Also, I hate to say it, but the older I get, the more I crave trips to closer destinations with short, ideally direct flights.

Plus, it’s amazing how much can change in a destination in just a few months. Several new properties have opened, including the fabulous Perry Hotel on Stock Island near Key West. Key lime pie-making classes are now a thing at the Key West Key Lime Pie Company. Key’s Meads is now open in Key Largo. And most significantly, Key West now has Uber and Lyft, which is a complete game-changer. (Also, Maragaritaville has reopened, so there’s that.)

But the #1 reason why I came back to the Keys was this:

Hemingway Days!

As soon as I heard that my visit could potentially coincide with Hemingway Days in Key West, I knew it was a must for me! I’m not a die-hard Hemingway fan, but The Sun Also Rises is my favorite book of all time. And the idea of a Hemingway Lookalike Contest was just hilarious.

I was only here for the first night of the contest — and it was SO MUCH FUN that I came perilously close to changing my flight and staying another two nights! (Then I realized it would cost me upwards of $1000 and that was insane — so with a heavy heart, I flew back to New York.)

More on that beautiful contest later.

A Summer Road Trip From Key Largo to Key West

My trip this time began in Key Largo. Just a 75-minute drive from Miami Airport, starting in Key Largo is a relaxing way to start your trip. (Especially when you consider that last time I drove all the way from Orlando to Islamorada, which took seven hours with traffic and was not my smartest move of all time.)

I actually skipped over Islamorada this trip and made stops in Grassy Key, Marathon, and Big Pine before ending up in Key West. Visiting in July was different, too. It was extremely hot and humid everywhere, and it was hard to spend extended time in the sun, but it was incredibly beautiful and perfect weather for swimming in the Upper Keys.

Snorkeling with an All-Female Crew in Pennekamp State Park

I don’t dive, but I love to snorkel, and one of the best places to snorkel in the Keys is by Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park, just off Key Largo.

I’m probably the most spoiled snorkeler of all time — my only two real snorkeling experiences have been the Belize Barrier Reef and Western Australia’s Ningaloo Reef, easily two of the world’s top sites — but I really enjoyed the wildlife at Pennekamp. Seeing my favorite fish, the queen angelfish, is always a highlight for me.

And the Keys are most famous for the underwater Jesus statue! You might remember it from season one of Bloodline when Danny takes the guests snorkeling. Jesus is actually covered with fire coral, so we were instructed not to touch him.

One nice surprise was that we had an all-female crew on our trip! I’m fairly certain that that was the first time I’ve had an all-female crew on a boat. Sometimes you don’t notice gender inequality in certain industries until it smacks you in the face.

Either way, I loved getting to know the women who took us on our trip, and as a shipwreck survivor who still gets nervous on boats, I felt very safe in their hands.

Later on, I visited the Coral Restoration Foundation and learned first-hand about the devastation to the reefs in the Florida Keys. It’s harrowing stuff, you guys.

But here they are doing such good work. The volunteers showed me how they were regrowing coral and planting it throughout the Keys. You can volunteer with them if you’d like, and if you’re a certified diver, you can even join them on trips replanting the coral!

Sampling the Meads of Key Largo

On my first trip, I visited the Florida Keys Brewing Company in Islamorada to sample the local beers. This time, it was about something more concentrated — mead! Keys Meads is a new business selling meads with flavors of the Florida Keys.

Mead is honey wine. It’s one of the spirits making a comeback today. Think of it like port — you sip on small glasses of it. And the Keys Meads are delicious. One of my favorites was Holiday Spice, which tastes a bit like a boozy applesauce and is a perfectly Christmassy beverage. There’s an orange cream flavor that rocked my socks. And because this is the Keys, there are not one but two different key lime-flavored meads!

Also, they ship — so if you’re carrying on your luggage, you can get bottles sent to you at home.

Trading Bloodline Stories with Locals

You might recall that the reason why I visited the Keys in the first place was because I was obsessed with the Netflix series Bloodline (which has since wrapped its third and sadly final season). It’s a drama about a prominent family in the Keys and their dark secrets. As amazing as the cast is, the Keys are the true star of the show and the cinematography is stunning.

Every local in the Keys has a story about the Bloodline cast. My favorite was from a local woman who ate a meal at a bar next to Kyle Chandler. “He got up to leave and my friend grabbed me and said, ‘That’s Kyle Chandler,’ and I said, ‘Oh! I just thought he was a handsome man!'”

Oh! I just thought he was a handsome man! is totally going to be my excuse for everything.

Chilling at the Kona Kai Resort

The Keys are a funny little place — there is so little land that you see all kinds of businesses pushed up against each other, from ramshackle seafood shacks to luxury resorts. You never know what you’ll find when you see a driveway leading off the highway.

In Key Largo I pulled off the road, walked down a path, and discovered a wonderful little place called the Kona Kai Resort and Gallery. It’s home to just a few apartment-style rentals with a gorgeous, landscaped pool area. You will definitely spot some iguanas!

What I loved most about this place was the friendly and helpful staff (especially when they helped with a car issue), the beautiful outdoor area, and just how intimate it felt. If you don’t want to be in a pool with dozens of other people, this is an excellent choice. And the art gallery on site is a nice touch.

I loved my suite. It was gorgeous, airy, and about double the size of my apartment. Not to mention beautifully chilly thanks to a great air conditioning system!

If you’re looking for a small, friendly, local property in Key Largo, I wholeheartedly recommend the Kona Kai.

Dollar Dollar Bills in a Big Pine Pub

I happened to be road-tripping from the Upper Keys to Key West while Kristin and Scott of Camels and Chocolate were doing the trip in reverse, so we decided to meet in the middle! Our spot? The No Name Pub on Big Pine Key.

Kristin and I have been online friends for years, but we hadn’t met in real life until this trip! And what a place to meet.

The No Name Pub is a dive bar located a few miles off the main road in Big Pine, which feels like forever in a place as small as the Keys. It’s absolutely plastered with dollar bills. The three of us estimated that there might be $20,000 covering the walls of that pub. Just insane.

You’ll probably be looking for an interlude en route from the mid-Keys to Key West. This is a good spot. And for what it’s worth, their pizza smelled sensational.

You can read Kristin and Scott’s post about their Keys trip here.

Kicking Back at the Perry Hotel

In Key West I stayed at a brand new boutique hotel on Stock Island, just east of Key West: the Perry Hotel. It was gorgeous and modern and I loved all the stylistic touches. Much of the design is an homage to Stock Island’s history as a shipyard (old propellers are repurposed as giant flowers!). And the pool area was incredibly inviting.

Now…is staying on Stock Island worth it? You might recall that after my first trip to Key West, I wrote about how much I appreciated staying in downtown Key West, walking distance from everything. If it were a few months ago, I would not have wanted to stay on Stock Island. But times have changed. Now that Uber and Lyft have been available in Key West for a few months, it makes living without a car so much easier. Plus, the hotel has a free hourly shuttle to and from Key West and it takes about 15 minutes, though it does end at the early time of 8:30 PM.

Plus, a property with these amenities would be far more expensive in Key West itself. Either way, I just loved spending time here. I loved my room, the pool area, the decor, the giant glass of champagne they poured me upon arrival, the nearby Cuban coffee truck, and the fish tacos were extraordinary.

So yes — I would absolutely stay on Stock Island for a property as good as the Perry!

Kayaking After Dark

One of the cooler activities I did in Key West was “nightboarding,” or kayaking after dark with lit glass-bottomed boats. Not only was the sunset incredible beforehand (that is an east-facing photo above! East-facing!!), but we got to enjoy being out on the water in peaceful darkness.

Paddling at night allows you to see a lot of creatures you wouldn’t see by day. We saw live sea cucumbers spurting out water (which….let me just say is a sight), and jellyfish floated through the water. I even saw a lobster shimmy underneath my boat!

I think what I enjoyed most was the quiet and the darkness. The polar opposite of Key West’s famous sunset celebration in Mallory Square.

Learning About Truman at the Little White House

After my hedonistic first trip to Key West in February, I was shocked that the highlight of my trip this time around was a visit to the Truman Little White House. Seven presidents from Taft to Clinton have used this residence as a retreat during and after their presidencies, but Harry Truman was the president who loved it the most. He spent a total of 175 days in Key West and loved the island fiercely.

I loved this tour — I enjoyed it far more than I thought I would! The house is styled as it was in 1949, down to the rare upholstery, and while it was cutting-edge at the time, it’s so simple that you shake your head at how different life is today for the president.

That above is actually the President’s bedroom. I think we can all agree that Trump wouldn’t be caught dead staying there.

I loved learning tidbits about Truman — he loved to play poker with his Cabinet and the Chief Justice, but gambling was still seen as a sin in America back then, so they had to keep it under wraps. Truman only had a high school education but chose to be an intellectual — he played Chopin on the piano by memory, he read every book in the library of Independence, Missouri, and he and his wife Bess would write each other love letters debating the merits of Shakespearean plays. And the reason why he had such low approval ratings at the end of his presidency was because he was pro-Civil Rights and most of America wasn’t at that time.

This visit really inspired me to learn more about Truman, and the staff suggested I pick up David McCullough’s Truman, as it’s regarded as the best Truman biography. (Fun fact: I did a project on Truman in the fifth grade. It’s nice to come full circle 22 years later!) If you’re in Key West, I urge you to stop by for a visit. I bet you’ll love it.

Also be sure to check out the Truman Annex, the neighborhood surrounding the Little White House. It’s neat and stately with some of the prettiest houses in Key West.

Even More Key Lime Pies — and Making My Own!

Back in February, Cailin and I basically lived for eating key lime pie across the Keys. This time I didn’t find any life-changing pies, but the one at Fish House in Key Largo was especially delicious, especially when it comes to crust.

But on this visit I got to make my own pie! The Key West Key Lime Pie Company has recently started offering classes. Their pie is a frozen variety, so you get to build your own personal pie, let it freeze overnight, then pick it up the next day. (They give you a slice to eat afterwards, too — they’re not torturers!) Do know that it’s more of an “assembly” class than a cooking-from-scratch class, but it’s fun and interesting and you get to do piping!

Also notable? This class is only $20, making it one of the best bargains in Key West.

I ate a ton of key lime pie on this trip to the Keys as well, but there was only one pie that I repeated from my first trip. I went to Mrs. Mac’s in Key Largo and took a slice to go to enjoy in my air-conditioned suite at the Kona Kai. Mrs. Mac’s is still my favorite.

Hemingway Lookalike Contest

THIS CONTEST. Did it ever live up to the hype! I’m a sucker for crazy festivals (dancing all night long with Vikings in Shetland, setting everything on fire in Valencia, joining a city-wide water fight in Bangkok) and it broke my heart that I could only be here for the first night of the contest.

They’re called the Hemingway Lookalike Society. They call their idol Papa. And every year they throw celebrations to celebrate their favorite author’s birthday, culminating in a lookalike contest.

Every Papa wannabe goes up on stage and has 15 seconds to make his case to the judges for why he should be the next Papa. The contest is judged by the previous winners of the contest, who are called the Papas, which makes things a bit more confusing.

So many of the guys gave long, rambling explanations, but my favorite was short and succinct from a Danish man: “Because I got off the plane and the immigration officer said, ‘Welcome to Florida, Mr. Hemingway.'”

It’s a strong community and lots of them look forward to reuniting every year. One sad thing is that three Papas passed away this year, and many tributes were given in their honor.

In between rounds, they auctioned off Hemingway merchandise, including old Life magazines with Hemingway on the cover. Proceeds go to the Hemingway Scholarship Fund, which supports students studying writing in the Florida Keys.

And my Danish favorite was actually chosen as a finalist! (He’s third from the right in the back row, the sliver of the face.) Here are all the finalists chosen from the first night, including a Young Hemingway on the right, which is fairly rare.

And, um, for those of you who were asking about Sexy Hemingway…he’s the guy in the black shirt. And I would.

This year’s winner was Richard Filip, who actually sailed a replica of Hemingway’s boat from Houston to Key West. That’s commitment! I asked him for this selfie because I had the feeling he was going to win. Richard has been a runner-up in the contest many times, as you can see by his medals, and he donates a lot to their scholarship fund. Between that, the boat, and his Hemingway looks, it’s not surprising to see why he was the Papa of 2017.

(Also, Paula Deen’s husband competed this year and apparently she was in the audience the same night as me!)

Finishing with SUP Yoga

If you’re flying out of Key West in the afternoon, I highly recommend booking a SUP (paddleboard) yoga course with Lazy Dog for the morning. It’s a great way to enjoy the outdoors and be good to your body before your flight.

If you’ve never done yoga on a paddleboard before, don’t worry — it’s not as scary as it seems. All levels are welcome, from beginners to experts, and Kyla will take you to a smooth spot where you can balance easily.

I loved paddling out into the mangroves and enjoying the scenery before zoning out in yoga. I have to say that the Keys have now beaten the Croatian coast for the most scenic place I’ve done outdoor yoga!

Where to Eat in the Keys

There’s a wide variety of restaurants in the Keys, from low-end to high-end. My big recommendation is to enjoy the fresh seafood, especially hogfish, which is local to the area. Mahi is a good choice, too. But not all of the seafood is local year-round, so I recommend you ask your server what’s local and delicious.

Here are some of the standouts of my most recent trip, from east to west:

Fish House in Key Largo was a highlight — it’s a mid-range place, and everything I had was delicious. Guy Fieri filmed an episode of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives here and I had two dishes he featured: the smoked fish dip and the hogfish Matecumbe-style, topped with fresh tomatoes, fresh basil, shallots, capers, olive oil, and lemon juice, then baked. That hogfish rocked my world and I loved finding a healthy dish that was still mind-blowingly good.

And their key lime pie is one of the best I’ve had in the Keys.

Sol by the Sea at the Playa Largo Resort in Key Largo was home to my favorite cocktail of the trip: the dragonfruit mojito! So pretty and so tasty! (And the worst cocktail of the trip was the margarita at Margaritaville. Once you’ve gotten yourself used to plain tequila-lime-and-salt margaritas, sour mix wreaks havoc on your body.)

The Playa Largo is a gorgeous resort and having dinner at Sol by the Sea allows you to enjoy the beautiful sunsets. I loved their gingery tuna poke appetizer; the fish curry, though, was not remotely spicy despite me asking for spice. I think they might be used to catering to weak palates. They also have a nice frozen key lime bar.

When locals heard I was going to Tarpon Creek in Marathon, every single person told me I had to try the watermelon and feta salad. They were right — it was fabulous, especially with added shrimp. They had a nice conch chowder that was actually spicy, too!

This is the take on smores at Matt’s Stock Island Bar and Kitchen at the Perry Hotel. As a lifelong camper who took her first steps in a tent, I think I have the authority to say that no, these are not remotely smore-like — they are chocolate chip cookies with torched fluff.

I actually missed taking a picture of my favorite dish: the snapper tacos. They were absolutely sensational. Delicious grilled snapper, orange jalapeño slaw, avocado polao crema, pickled onions, corn tortillas — and it’s enough for two people. Probably my favorite dish of the entire trip.

Hogfish Bar and Grill on Stock Island was my final meal in the Keys: fried hogfish tacos and a Hogfish beer by the Florida Keys Brewing Company. After that paddleboard yoga class, it hit the spot.

Bookmarked for the Next Trip

Even with two trips to the Keys this year, I still haven’t done everything that I want to do. At the top of my list? A boat trip to Dry Tortugas National Park, west of Key West; staying at The Moorings in Islamorada, which plays the family’s guesthouse on Bloodline; and a stop on Bahia Honda Key, which is home to a beautiful state park. And did you know that Judy Blume owns a bookstore in Key West? How have I not been there?!

But most of all, I want to come back for Fantasy Fest. It’s a multi-day Halloween celebration in Key West with different costume themes each night! Key West + my favorite holiday + rewarded creativity? HELL YES. I’ll make that my own personal Burning Man.

Contest: Win a #MeInTheKeys Trip to the Florida Keys!

Want to visit the Keys on your own? Florida Keys and Key West are giving away a trip to the Keys! The winning trip is very similar to mine — you’ll spend two nights in Key Largo and two in Key West, plus a $1,000 air travel card, rental car gift certificate, and passes to Key West and Marathon attractions.

How to enter: submit a video or photo of you enjoying the Keys here with the hashtag #MeInTheKeys. The video must not exceed one minute and you can create it from a still photo if you’d like. The video with the most votes will win the contest.

The submission deadline is August 4; the voting deadline is August 18. This contest is open to US and Canada (excluding Quebec) residents only, age 21+. See the full rules here.

More on the Keys

If you’re hooked on the Keys, be sure to check out my past two posts:

Welcome to the Florida Keys, all about Islamorada and the mid-Keys.

Key West, You Are My New Favorite, all about Key West.

Essential Info: On this trip, I flew into Miami and out of Key West. That’s definitely efficient, since it’s a 3.5-hour drive from Miami Airport to Key West, but keep in mind that a one-way car rental will be more expensive than a return trip — it may be cheaper for you to fly in and out of Miami or even Fort Lauderdale, which is still close.

In Key Largo I stayed at the Kona Kai Resort and Gallery, which I enjoyed very much and recommend. Rates from $219 per night. Find more Key Largo hotels here.

John Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park in Key Largo offers two kinds of snorkeling trips: 2.5-hour trips for $29.95 and 4.5-hour extended trips for $38.95; rental equipment is available for both. I felt perfectly happy with the 2.5-hour trip, which is entirely by the reef with the Jesus statue. Entering the park costs $4. You can visit the Coral Restoration Foundation and learn about their efforts or volunteer yourself.

Keys Meads is open to visit — no appointment necessary during opening hours. It looks like it’s in an office park; don’t worry, you’re in the right place. Be very careful and limit your consumption to just a few small sips if you’re driving. They ship bottles, too.

In Key West I stayed at the Perry Hotel, which I enjoyed very much and recommend. Rates from $237 per night. Find more Key West hotels here.

Ibis Bay Paddle Sports offers 1.5-hour night boarding tours in Key West for $59.95. You can choose between paddleboarding and kayaking, but if it’s windy, they’ll recommend kayaks.

Visiting the Truman Little White House requires a guided tour; tours cost $15. No photography is allowed.

The Key West Key Lime Pie Company offers pie-making classes for $20.

Paddleboard yoga classes at the Lazy Dog cost $30; private lessons are $75 per person.

The sun is super strong in the Keys — be sure to wear sunscreen and reapply often, even on days when you’re just strolling around Key West. Sunburn can sneak up on you quickly here. Use coral-safe sunscreen when snorkeling. Also, be sure to hydrate. There was one point where I felt dizzy and nearly fainted out of the blue because I hadn’t hydrated enough that morning.

Watch Bloodline on Netflix before going to the Keys — you’ll appreciate your trip so much more! The show is a slow burn; give it a few episodes if you don’t click with it right away.

Be sure to buy travel insurance for your trip to the Keys. Whether you cut yourself and need to go to the hospital for stitches, or your phone gets stolen at a bar, or an injury means you need to cancel all or part of your trip, travel insurance will help you out in your time of need. I use and recommend World Nomads as travel insurance for trips to the Florida Keys.

This post is brought to you by Florida Keys and Key West, who hired me to work on this campaign. They also covered my travel expenses for this trip, excluding alcohol and incidentals. All opinions, as always, are my own.

Have you been to the Keys? Or are you dying to meet the Hemingways? Share away!

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