#such a pathos that leaves me breathless | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

amillionmillionvoices · 4 years ago

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13th doctor/river song for #river song appreciation day!!! this got wildly out of hand / pg13 (violence) / thank you to @mygalfriday for the cheerleading, and so so much to @atheneglaukopis for reading so many times and holding my hand and all our chats i couldn’t have written this without you <3 / word count: 29k jsyk

i am the distance you put between all of the moments that we will be

By the time they make it back to the TARDIS, by the time Yaz has put Graham in a chair and fetched cups of tea none of them drink; by the time the shouts and screams have faded into the quiet of the vortex, the hum of the TARDIS calming her mind enough to think clearly, she’s already come up with and discarded over a dozen plans.

There are schematics on the console screen, a brief history of the planet pulled up in text, words leaping out at her like prisoners of war and no survivors. Graham is quiet, sitting on one of the ledges, watching her. Yaz stands beside him, saying things like, we’ll get him back and the Doctor will figure it out, just give her a minute.

There’s a tightness in her chest that reminds her too much of failure—of Amy, dissolving into flesh on the console room floor; Clara, split into thousands of lives across all of time and space. She thinks of Donna, weeping, begging to stay, everyone alive but at what cost?

She glances at the screen, the running text, absorbs phrases as they scroll by like fiercest guards in the galaxy and no aptitude for negotiation.

She knows what she needs to do. Has known, from the moment Yaz stumbled into the TARDIS, breathless, her hair singed and a streak of dried blood on her arm and said, ��They took him. They took Ryan.”

But knowing is different from moving. From careening around the console and pulling the lever that will put them into flight, put them on this path—put her on this path—that once she’s on, she can’t avoid.

It will change history. Their history.

The thought makes her eyes sting and her throat close and there has to be another way, someone else she can call.

She can’t do this to her, not again. She shouldn’t.

It’s not just history, but her history, their history, their past coming back to haunt them. She has her suspicions, but there’s no reason to tell her friends, not yet. In case she’s wrong—but she glances at the readouts again, reminding her:

Kushiel—the Angel of Punishment.

It’s a terrible idea.

But there’s another, quiet part of her, a nudging in her mind that sounds suspiciously like the TARDIS, that whispers of opportunity. Of chance. Timelines swirl in her head and she thinks she could do it, somehow—thinks they could have this, that she could see her, and keep everything intact. She doesn’t know how, exactly. But it’s there, a cruel whisper.

And then there’s Ryan. And Yaz, and Graham, staring at her expectantly, with all the trust they haven’t learned yet how to break.

She needs time, but there isn’t any. She needs help, but there’s only one person she trusts.

Cuing in the coordinates, she stares at them for a long moment, hand hovering over the lever.

“Doc?”

It’s Graham, his voice trembling.

She drops her hands and turns to them, holds her hands together in front of her to keep them from shaking.

“Right, fam. We’re going to need some help.”

Yaz moves closer, and Graham follows, and they stare at the coordinates, though they mean nothing to them, and everything to her.

“Help from who?” Graham asks.

The Doctor opens her mouth, the words nearly tumbling out without regard. She turns away so they can’t see her jaw move, biting the name back in. “An old friend,” she says.

She can feel Yaz’s hesitation. “He’s not… your last old friend, yeah?”

Graham snorts despite himself, and the Doctor flinches, covers it with a twirl and a wide smile. “Nah, she’s much better.”

“Who is she?” Graham asks. “Can we trust her?”

The Doctor swallows, her smile falling away, the lump in her throat so thick she can barely push the words out. “I’d trust her with my life.” With everything, she thinks.

Graham nods. “Well then, let’s go get her.”

The Doctor nods. She hesitates, just a moment, just long enough for Yaz to ask, “Doctor?” before she takes a deep breath, and sends the TARDIS into flight.

—

Luna is exactly how she remembers it. 51st century technology, disguised to look like 14th century architecture. The hallways are wide, the arches high, and it smells like old books.

“Are we on Earth?” Yaz asks, looking around, and the Doctor shakes her head, shutting the TARDIS door behind them.

“The moon. 51st century.”

“Then why does it look like Oxford?”

“Nostalgia,” the Doctor says, walking a familiar path, muscle memory dragging her down the hallways even as her mind and hearts reel in protest. She wants to run. Wants to turn back to the TARDIS and fly away and pretend they’ve never come here, that she’d never said a word.

But Graham is behind her, and Ryan is not, and she pushes forward, winding down a staircase, maneuvering around humanoids and aliens alike. No one pays them any attention—they don’t look any more or less out of place than anyone else, and she focuses on Yaz and Graham’s quick footsteps behind her, trying to level her breathing to the sound of theirs.

“Is this a school?” Yaz asks, and the Doctor nods, and rattles off information about the University—when it was built, how many students, famous discoveries and anything else she can think of to keep her mind distracted as they get closer and closer.

She thinks she should have parked elsewhere, saved herself the long walk through familiar halls, but she’d needed the time to center herself, to swallow down the bile in her throat.

“So your friend, she’s a student?” Graham asks, somewhat skeptical.

“Professor.”

“Of what?”

“Archaeology.”

Graham frowns. “How’s an archaeologist going to help us get Ryan back?”

“Not just any old archaeologist,” the Doctor promises, just as they turn the corner, and the Doctor can see her office at the end of the hall, the door shut. The door is rarely shut. The only time she remembers she ever closed her office door, it was because she was with a student, or with him, and she remembers so abruptly—pinning her against her desk, his hands wandering, her lips on his neck, her breathless laughter—“You’re going to get me fired!”—her first day, but she’d been so irresistible, in a pencil skirt and bright red blouse, red lipstick to match, her hair wild around her face and he’d grinned—“No, I’m not.”—and she’d moaned softly, his lips on her neck, “Isn’t that spoilers?” and he’d chuckled, slipped a hand under her skirt.

The Doctor slams her eyes shut and shakes her head quickly, dislodging the memory.

There’s a new desk sitting outside it, with a short woman with four arms behind it, typing frantically on multiple computers.

She looks up as they approach, takes in their gait, their severe expressions, and immediately shakes her head before the Doctor can even open her mouth.

“Professor Song is in a meeting.”

“Professor Song doesn’t take meetings in her office,” the Doctor counters, and the woman blinks, startled.

“She’s asked not to be disturbed.”

“So she’s in, then?”

The woman purses her lips. “She’s not available.”

“She’ll want to be. Tell her The Doctor is here.”

“Doctor what?”

The Doctor glances over her shoulder at Yaz and Graham. “I hate it when they say that.”

The woman ignores her, turns back to her computers and types with lightning speed on three of them, eyes flitting between the screens faster than a human could ever be capable of.

“What’s your business with Professor Song?” She gives them all an assessing look. “You’re not students.”

“How do you know?”

“No textbooks,” she says flatly.

“Right, you got us. I’m an old friend.” The words stick in her mouth.

The woman—a little sign on her desk says T’unera D’galaati, Administrative Assistant, Department of Archaeology—shakes her head. “You’re not on the registered list of acquaintances.”

“Since when does she have a list of acquaintances?”

T’unera glares. “If you were a friend you’d know that,” she says smartly, and the Doctor likes her instantly. Turning back to the computers, she announces, “If you tell me your name and point of business I can schedule you for an appointment next week.”

“Too far away,” the Doctor says, “I need to see her now.”

“Too bad,” T’unera says, “She’s not available.”

The Doctor eyes the distance to the door, thinks she could probably get there before T’unera could get up.

She looks back at Yaz and Graham, then eyes the door. Then looks back.

Yaz steps up immediately, clearing her throat and trying very obviously not to stare at T’unera’s many fingers.

“It’s important,” she says. “We need her help. My friend, he’s—in trouble.”

The Doctor inches out of her way, slightly closer to the door.

“I’m afraid your friend will have to wait until next Tuesday, at 11:15am.”

Graham shakes his head. “We can’t wait. He’s in danger. Doc says the professor can help us. He’s my grandson.”

“My condolences,” T’unera says without looking up.

The Doctor moves further to the side as Yaz and Graham approach the desk.

“Do you have family?” Graham asks, and T’unera scoffs.

“Of course I have family. I’m Abergarrean.”

Abergarrean, the Doctor thinks—hatched from eggs, hundreds of siblings, communal parenting, other stuff.

“So… you’d do anything for your family, yeah?” Graham asks, and T’unera sighs.

“Your attempts at pathos are endearing but misguided. I am merely a receptionist. My responsibility is Professor Song’s schedule, and since you are not approved acquaintances, I’m going to have to ask you to either make an appointment or leave the premises—”

She’s mid-speech when the Doctor bolts toward the door. She makes it two feet when a hand clamps around her wrist and drags her back in a vice grip. Yaz and Graham make startled noises, and the Doctor looks back to find T’unera still in her seat, one long, stretchy arm holding her back.

“Abergarrean,” the Doctor sighs, remembering suddenly their propensity for flexible limbs. The Doctor struggles, but T’unera doesn’t release her.

“I’m calling security,” she says, and with one of her other hands, presses a button on her desk.

“There’s no need for that—” the Doctor says, at the same time Graham finally cracks,

“We need to speak to the professor. My grandson’s life is in danger and the Doc says she can help and I don’t care what you say we’re going to speak to her—”

“Graham, don’t—” the Doctor says, at the same time he tries to push past. T’unera reaches out another long arm and grabs him, and he struggles, hard.

“Let me go!”

“Graham!”

“T’unera, please, there’s no need for this—” the Doctor tries, and then there are two men in anachronistic suits rounding the corner, and Graham’s yelling and Yaz is yelling and the door behind them opens and there’s a voice that makes the Doctor’s hearts stop beating.

“Is it too much to ask, T’unera, for one hour of peace and quiet?”

She isn’t angry, just long suffering, almost slightly amused, and T’unera—still holding the Doctor and Graham—turns to her with a chagrined look.

“I’m very sorry, Professor, these interlopers—” She tightens her grip on them both. “—are refusing to leave. I’ve called security, so there’s no need for you to—”

“River.”

She doesn’t mean to speak, doesn’t mean for her voice to break. Doesn’t mean to stare and stare but she can’t help it. River is there, right in front of her, in slacks and a blouse, unbuttoned to be just shy of appropriate. Her hair is pulled back from her face, her nails painted a light shade of pink, she’s leaning just slightly to one side, her nostrils flare slightly and she turns her gaze to the Doctor, all at once staring at her without an ounce of recognition and it hurts. More than the Doctor ever thought it could, more than she imagined. It isn’t even the lack of familiarity—she was prepared for that—but just seeing her, alive and whole and breathing when she’s not, when she’s dead and she’s been dead for so long, and the Doctor wants nothing more than to run to her, to bury her face in her neck and never let go.

River appraises her slightly, clinically, with an air of disinterest the Doctor knows is a farce. “Do I know you?”

She opens her mouth to reply, to say something, anything, and then Yaz, sweet Yaz, fumbles,

“She’s the Doctor. She has a new face, but she’s the Doctor. You know her.”

Time stands still. In the background, she can feel the security guards hovering. She knows Graham is still struggling under T’unera’s grip. She knows Yaz is looking between them, but everything has faded into the background. Everything is just noise. There’s just River, and her bright eyes, her frown. She turns back from Yaz to the Doctor and stares, eyes roaming over her face, her body, back up. She can see when it dawns on her, sees the recognition slip into her gaze, and she almost wilts in relief.

And then there’s nothing. No warmth, no joy, no sweetness or kindness. She knows her, the Doctor can tell she does, but she stares at her like she means nothing, and the Doctor can’t breathe. She can’t breathe, can’t think, can feel her hearts lurch and pain spikes through her chest and she doesn’t understand. Her whole body aches and she searches River’s gaze for something, anything—the last time she saw her, the morning on Darillium, she stared at him with such devotion, sadness, too, but it was anchored by love, so much love and now there’s nothing, and she can’t breathe.

“Get out.”

continued on ao3

#river song #drfic #river song appreciation day #river x thirteen #thirteenth doctor #MARRIED OTP #catherine writes fic

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osugna · 4 years ago

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Wong Kar Wai’s Happy Together is released in 1997, two decades before Hollywood making Moonlight and Call Me By Your Name, the movie transcends time as it is one of a kind. By following the relationship between two men, the movie is labeled as homo flick. However, Wong Kar Wai’s approach doesn’t like other gay films that stress on gender preference, and with no women as main characters, the film is in a way unisex. Happy Together digs deep into the emotions of two people in love and it is purely an exploration of love.

Lai Yiu-Fai (Tony Leung) and Ho Po-Weng (Leslie Cheung), a couple has been broken up and reconciled several times before heading to Argentina for a long trip. Ho is the one who always initiates separation and also asks “can we start over again?”. When they get lost when driving to Iguazu Falls during the trip, they quarrel and separate again. As the movie, narrated by Lai Yiu-Fai, the more introspective of the two, follows Lai around the city, the cacophonous urbanity serves as a mood-enhancing stimulant only underscores his alienation and melancholy.

After breaking up, Lai takes a job as a doorman in a tango club. One night, Ho, who has been hustling for a living, appears with a client whose stolen watch he gives Lai to help pay his air fare home. Lai is livid. But after Ho is seriously beaten up by the client, Lai allows Ho to recuperate in his shabby rooming house and nurses Ho back to health.

Then the movie switches from black-and white to full colour. He takes care of him well and he is in love again, he is even happy at work now. There are sweet moments such as sharing the same cigarette as Ho’s hands are injured, staring at each other closely at sleep, lying on the same bed, dancing and kissing passionately in the kitchen. I’m starting not to care that it is a gay relationship, it is just two people who are madly in love.

Tony Leung and Leslie Cheung are two huge actors in Hong Kong cinema, they portrays the characters with raw intensity. Tony’s Lai Yiu-Fai is caring and fully committed to his partner. Even then, Ho behaves like a spoiled dictatorial brat, demanding that his lover, stricken with the flu, leave his sick bed to cook for him. Looking back later, Lai moons about how the period of Ho’s recovery was one of the couple’s happiest. He loves him, so he falls for him every time Ho wants to reunite. While Leslie’s Ho Po-Weng is romantic, saying words that melts Lai’s heart and teaching to him to dance, but he is a recklessly free spirit and his wanton promiscuity is a bone of contention.

They had been happy together, but not for long. Quarrels arises when possessiveness and jealousy which are driven from love are intruding their relationship. Ho finds out that Lai has taken his passport, and Ho gets furious. When Ho gets to know about Lai’s male colleague, he becomes inquisitive about their relationship, Lai lies about it to make him jealous.

It’s hard to watch when you see that they are in love, but they don’t understand each other’s intention, and they do things that will erode the love. Lai stocks cigarettes just because he doesn’t want Ho to go out at night. Ho is pissed as he always wants to be free, but Ho doesn’t know his personality has given Lai insecurity.

They have stuck in the loop of separation and reconciliation. Is it because they lack understanding and they are not willing to compromise? Both characters are flawed as they are human, they are in love and they selfishly want to hold each other in their own way. Perhaps the problem is because their personalities are incompatible to begin with, but they fall in love. It’s piercingly sad to see Lai eventually visit the fall alone as the pathos deepens, and in the meantime, Ho gets back to the empty apartment with packs of cigarettes, the scars left by love is evocative no matter how many times I have watched.

Wong Kar Wai wins the best director prize at Cannes. Happy Together is stylish and powerfully moody, the sense of acute isolation while in transit is seeping through the film with the exhilarated, brooding tango music. Wong’s composition of scenes and jazzy technique capture the jumbled lives of his characters.

The cinematography of the director’s longtime collaborator, Christopher Doyle, lends the streets, alleys and bars of Buenos Aires a fizzing candy-coloured glow. Every so often, the camera momentarily draws back for a street-scene overview in which the blinking signs, traffic and clouds accelerate into a breathless sensory rush. These moments are contrasted with 10 blue-tinted shots of Iguazu Falls, which serve as a spiritual magnet for the bickering lovers. Twice in the film, the camera surveys this phenomenon in lingering, breathtaking aerial shots which seems to suck you into the emotions of the characters.

Wong Kar Wai has revealed that the depiction of a“non-accepted” relationship is inspired by the ’97 handover of Hong Kong, where Hong Kong is like an illegitimate son of the UK. The film is called Happy Together because at that point none of them knew what was going to happen after the handover, which is in parallel to that we never see Lai return to Hong Kong and we don’t know where he goes. The title was supposed to be a question instead of an answer. In this way the movie leaves a rather optimistic note in the end. You know it’s hard for both characters to get over each other, but deep down you understand the only way of not getting hurt is to stop the loop.

10/10

#happy together #1997 #wong kar wai #tony leung #leslie cheung #movie #aplus

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thestarwrites · 4 years ago

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All Right, All Might: CH. 5

Word Count: 3,170K

Rating: PG, Language

Painting: Toshinori Yagi X FemOC

The UA Guidance Counselor, a quirk user with Pathokenesis, is shocked to find out her personal hero All Might is coming to be a teacher. Second day of classes turns out to be harder on Patho’s problem student than anyone else.

——————— CHAPTER FIVE: Comfort Food

Keri and Toshinori sat at the table in the little sushi restaurant, she chuckled softly and let out a content sigh. Things were quiet between them for a few minutes, but not uncomfortably so. All Might looked up and smiled, “What’s so funny?”

“Its always funny to me that we can just go out to dinner and no one knows you,” She smiled warmly, “But I love it because I get your undivided attention.” He blushed softly and smiled, “It’s nice. Since I’ve been here in the city away from my agency, I haven’t much spent time with anyone… It’s just been me.”

“I know- that’s why you have that crappy apartment.” Keri laughed softly.

Toshinori blushed harder, “I-its not that crappy! My other apartment was just decorated nicer!!”

She smiled, “Its just funny, I know you, I know you don’t need to live an average lifestyle. But you do. It’s very telling that you are exactly who you claim to be. You’d rather eat comfort food than expensive cuisine.” She paused, “You’re like comfort food.”

“I am?”

“Yeah,” She smiled, “Like, I know there are people that say All Might is tacky and a showboat.”

Toshinori choked on his water.

“But I mean its like, eating a warm bowl of chicken soup when you’re sick, the persona is comforting, everyone likes it. It’s familiar, it’s kind — then, you have Endeavor, who I have worked with much more often than I have with you, and he never even gives his support heroes a second glance. He’s like some fancy restaurant that only lets certain people in. You’re a corner ramen shop that everyone loves to go to.” Keri smiled.

“Comfort food,” he smiled, “I like that…”

Keri smiled at him, “So- are you ready for your first big day tomorrow teaching Hero Course?”

He took a deep breath and nodded, “I think so.”

“Tch- that doesn’t sound like my Toshi.”

Looking up at her he took a breath, “What if I overdo it and start coughing up blood.”

“You won’t. You know your limits. You’re going to do great. Remember- these are fifteen year olds that LOVE you. Just be your normal hammy self,” She giggled, “Like you were with me when we met, they’ll just die.”

He smiled a little and set his card down on the bill when it came, waving the waiter off before Keri could put down any cash, “This ones on me.”

Making a face she frowned, “You /always/ say that! I can pay too, you know.”

“I’m not spending it on my crappy apartment,” He smirked, “Come on- let’s go drink that sake back to your place, so I know you’ll be safe and you don’t have to walk home.”

“And because I have an actual sofa and not a futon.”

“And… because you have an actual sofa… and not a futon,” he blushed.

————————

Keri scanned over the paperwork briefly on All Might’s desk, Test Ground Beta - Hero Training lesson. She nodded, thinking about how working in pairs would suit these kids, she was thinking about young Bakugo again when, “What are you doing snooping around in the teachers lounge, Patho.”

The cold voice of Aizawa made her jump and clutch her chest, “Holy shit Shota!” She took a deep breath, “I was just looking at the Hero Course lesson plan for today.”

“Why, don’t feel like going out there and interfering with his class like you did mine?” He spat.

She rolled her eyes, “You know what happened last year.”

“Yeah. My whole freshman class weren’t fit to be pro heroes.”

“Yeah- and you just get to make that decision and be done with those kids — but you know who had to deal with the ramifications? I did.” She huffed out, “I got calls from so many angry, disgusted, sad parents.”

“Why didn’t you just calm them down,” He chuckled.

“Because my quirk doesn’t work over phone lines Shota and you know that.”

“So what, you get paid to deal with this, remember? Nezu /needed/ a guidance counselor. Usually we just counseled the students ourselves, but he had to go on and get some nobody support hero picking up everyone’s scraps on the field to play nursemaid to future pros. When they’re out there, no ones going to do that for them, you’re just undoing the work we do here by coddling them.” His gaze was ice cold, “Can you go back to your own office? I came in here to rest.” He huffed.

“Yeah. Sure thing.” She turned and left, holding her hand over her mouth once she was in the hallway. Pushing her hair off of her shoulder she swallowed and took a breath.

Some nobody support hero picking up everyone’s scraps on the field to play nursemaid.

God she knew Aizawa wasn’t fond of her, Midnight must have really had something over on him to help give her that birthday present at the end of last semester. She couldn’t remember him being this cruel though - maybe it was All Might. Maybe her being close with All Might was making him dislike her more than usual.

Hanging her head she walked slowly up the stairs and headed into Recovery Girl’s office.

“Hello dear — Keri, are you alright?”

Shaking her head she went and sat on one of the beds, “After everything I’ve ever been through with bullying, somehow it never stops being hard to hear - even though I’m a fucking doctor.”

She frowned, “What happened, dear?”

“Its Aizawa,” She threw her arms up, “He hates me.”

She took a deep breath and smiled a bit, “Aizawa is a strange man, but one thing you know he doesn’t like is a showboat. He doesn’t think heroes need to be in the spotlight - and now who do we have working here?”

“All Might,” Keri responded numbly.

“And who do you spend almost all of your time with?”

Keri blushed furiously, “… All Might.”

“Exactly,” she nodded, “So however irritating your presence was to him last year, now he’s attached his resentment to Toshinori onto it. Don’t mind him. You do great work here. Nezu knows how good a job you do, and he’s especially thankful to have you as a close ally to All Might, with everything he’s going through.”

She nodded, “Toshinori helps me too, its not just a one way street.”

“I know, dear, he’s very fond of you,” Patho's forehead started to glow and she clapped a hand over it, “And I know you’re very fond of him. It’s sweet, watching you two.”

“Nothing’s going on,” She spat out.

Recovery girl laughed softly, “I’m an old lady, Keri, and I know a man who is smitten when I see one, mark my words.”

“He's the number one hero, the symbol of peace. He’s never had relationships, he’s too busy protecting the world… and if he did it wouldn’t be some…” She closed her eyes, “Some nobody support hero picking up everyone’s scraps on the field to play nursemaid.” She repeated Aizawa’s words and the room filled with a feeling of pain.

“You are not a nobody support hero! You are a teacher at UA high. Hold your chin up dear, sorrow gives you wrinkles,” She nodded, “Besides, All Might is looking his retirement in the face, and you know that. He needs someone to lean on, and all I’m saying is I’m glad he has you there —“

“You have a patient,” Midnight cooed as she walked in with the stretcher carrying Midoriya.

“Izuku Midoriya? Again?” Recovery Girl shook her head.

Keri jumped up, “Izuku—“ She looked at him and hung her head, thinking of a million things at once, but holding her tongue as long as midnight was there. She helped get him on one of the cots and watched as Recovery Girl performed some basic first aid, attaching an IV.

Midnight left to return downstairs to her next class as Keri grit her teeth, “All Might is going too far with him.”

Recovery girl looked up, “I won’t disagree with you.”

Patho sat beside the boy and pushed his green hair back from his forehead.

“I know you know about this special circumstance, Keri, I’m not going to pretend to think Toshinori hasn’t told you.”

“I was the first to know about Izuku,” She sighed and held his hand, her body glowing pink as she filled Midoriya with a sense of calm, even though he was unconscious, “This is not the first time Toshi and I will disagree about how he is training the boy.”

“Keri?” The older woman looked at her, “I think you should let me handle it this time,’ She smiled kindly, “He no doubt will feel remorse, but coming from an older woman and a healthcare worker might be better suited.”

Nodding Keri sighed again, “I really should get back to my office. Class should almost be over by now. I should see if anyone needs to come and talk.”

“Okay sweetheart, just leave everything to me,” She smiled and nodded.

Nodding again she waved, exiting the nursing area and heading back down the hall to her office. The elevator door opened, and there was a breathless Toshinori in his silver age costume. She looked at him and sighed.

“You’re mad again, I know,” He started softly, walking in front of her.

She shrugged, “You just…” She sighed and just leaned in and hugged him, “It’ll be alright, okay? Just go check on him, hide out for a a bit, rest,” He didn’t need to know what went on between herself and Aizawa, and if he stayed with her too long, he’d realize she was sad.

He nodded and hugged her, pulling away to go into the nurses office.

-------

Keri went into her own office, going to the bathroom she rubbed water on her face when she heard the door almost come off its hinges, jumping she looked over - Katsuki Bakugo. And he was — crying.

Slamming the door back shut he threw his bag down onto the carpet and slammed his fist into the wall.

Coming out of the bathroom she hurried over to him, “Katsuki—! Are you hurt? Whats wrong?”

He didn’t look at her, “I don’t even know what I’m - I’m doing here in your stupid office,” he started, rubbing at his eyes furiously, “I don’t need your help.”

She took a breath and moved to sit down at the kitchenette table, “You don’t have to come in here for help you know, sometimes it’s just needed to blow off some steam with someone you trust.”

“He beat me, /deku/, in the training today,” He stomped over at sat across from her at the kitchenette table, “I’m supposed to be the best. I was number one in the entrance exam.” He was babbling in a wobbled voice, “And this quirkiness freak just - he guessed my every move, he moved so fast he was- he was better than me! And its not just him - that half and half ice bastard — his quirk is so damn powerful! Some of these damn nerds I wouldn’t beat head to head in a damn fight!” He slammed his fist on the table and buried his head in his folded arms.

Keri stood and went to put the kettle on.

Bakugo looked up and sniffled, “Well — pathologic? Aren’t you gonna say something? Try to tell me that I just need to train harder and not let these bastards get me down?” She looked over her shoulder, “You aren’t here for my help, I’m just making us some tea.”

He nodded and took a shaky breath, he wasn’t here for help. Not this stupid guidance counseling bullshit. Counseling. He didn’t need council, he needed to be better.

“I think some ginger tea would do you some good right now,” She smiled kindly, turning back to the cupboards.

He nodded again, “Yeah,” biting his bottom lip he wiped at his eyes again, “How am I going to be a leader for the class if I can’t even beat shitty Deku?”

She smiled a little and took out a couple of mugs, “With some work, is all. Losing stings, no matter who is the one who lost, or who is the one who they lost to. It’s the second day of school, you have to try and be patient.”

“I can’t fall behind!”

“I didn’t say let yourself fall behind,” She turned around and leaned against the counter, “I just said be patient. You couldn’t see what the others did in their entrance exam because you were actively working, and you did incredibly. But now is the time to take stock of the class - not let yourself focus on what you feel you lack. Being a hero is about studying your opponents - and your allies.”

Coming over she set the mugs down, “Yeah, Deku does that. Studies everything.”

“Well with your intelligence I’m sure you’ll have no problem with doing the same.” She let out a soft sigh, letting herself think about Aizawa.

“Hey- “ Bakugo frowned, “You’re not yourself today, nerd.”

She looked up to him blinking, “What do you mean.”

“Tch! Don’t play dumb pathological! I can sense there’s something off, you can you know- like vent too if you want.” He crossed his arms, “Not like I have anything better to do, I can at least listen to your stupid problem so I can forget about those extras in class.”

Keri pushed the long side of her hair back, “Aizawa hates me.” She shrugged.

“He’s a weirdo. So what.”

“He doesn’t think UA needs a guidance counselor and that I am here for no reason. Today he called me a-“ she paused and closed her eyes, “A nobody support hero picking up everyone’s scraps on the field.”

Bakugo blinked at her, “Is that all?! Who the hell cares what he thinks, no one even knows who he is, so he’s not one to talk. At least you put yourself out there and do what you can. You said you got bullied in stupid high school too, do what you did with them, fucking ignore them.”

That was surprisingly insightful, “You’re right. I didn’t let that stop me then and I won’t now.”

He nodded, “And I won’t let those extras downstairs stop me now.” He huffed.

She nodded, drinking her tea, he did the same. The two of them just looked out the window as the school day was almost over. They stayed that way in a semi-comfortable silence. Keri looked over at the boy, he still looked upset, like if he thought about this more it might trigger another outburst. But she knew he would at least come and see her if he got too upset, he was here now wasn’t he?

“Tch, take a picture it’ll last longer, nerd,” he smirked at her.

She laughed and shook her head, “You’re something, Katsuki.”

Taking a breath he looked up at her, “I think I should head home, do some more thinking.”

Keri nodded and stood, “Sure, it’s getting late. You gotta get some training in if you’re going to be number one.”

“Oh. Theres no if, nerd, I /am/ going to be number one. I’ll even surpass your dumb boyfriend.” He huffed.

“Boyfriend??” She looked at him.

He laughed softly, “All Might, dunce.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she pouted.

“Mm… and Endeavor isn’t a second rate pro.”

Rolling her eyes she walked up to him as he picked up his bag, “Hey.”

“What?”

She gingerly put her hand on his back, her forehead glowing pink as she tried to calm his mind. For a moment he leaned into it. He closed his eyes and when he felt like he might cry again he pulled away, “Thats a weird quirk,” he huffed, “See ya, loser.”

“Try to have a good night Katsuki.”

He left her office and she inspected the hinges - surprisingly they held up to his explosive slamming. She ran her hands in her hair, “Poor kid… he has so much fear.” Moving back to her desk she was greeted by another sound of an opening door — this time it was Toshinori.

“Was that Bakugo again?” He asked, out of breath suddenly.

She knitted her brows together, “Yeah. He’s upset.”

“Upset— he’s so stubborn. That pride is dangerous.”

“Its more than that—“

“I should have a talk with him. He could use one of my empowering speeches I’m sure!”

“Toshinori that’s not a good idea—“

But he was gone. Keri slapped her forehead and moved to the overlook window in her office. Midoriya and Bakugo were already down there, no doubt fighting. Izuku shared the ‘fix it’ quality with Toshinori, for sure. But sometimes things can’t be fixed quick with words, sometimes things have to simmer at a boil before coming down - and if you turn the heat too high it will boil over.

She knew the small progress she had made with Katsuki that afternoon would be all but erased by the time he got home. Gathering her things together she made her way downstairs to the first floor where a few of the first year girls were mumbling to themselves.

“Hey girls, how was your second day?”

They turned around and Ochaco smiled, “Hey! You’re miss Chairo! Right?”

She smiled, “Yes, that’s me. I know you had your first hero training with All Might - how did it go?”

Mina jumped up and down, “It was SO cool!! Getting to see All Might like that! In the flesh! And getting to do some real combat!”

“It certainly was hard though,” Su commented, “And I know Midoriya got hurt again.”

She smiled, briefly looking out the window to see All Might and Izuku talking, “All Might is pretty cool, and Izuku should be just fine by tomorrow, he just needs to be more careful.”

“Whats it like- getting to be co-workers with ALL MIGHT?!” Mina squealed.

Keri laughed softly, “Well, he and I are actually good friends, so seeing him in his stupid yellow suit is just funny to me.”

Ochaco gasped and stifled a giggle about the suit, covering her mouth.

“No way!!!! You’re friends with him!?” Mina jumped.

The woman smiled, “Yes, and I’m sure as time goes on he’ll become a friend to each of you as well.” She nodded, “I’m going to head out— but if you girls ever need anything, anything at all, even if you need to vent or hide out? My door is always open.” She waved.

“Thank you Miss Chairo, ribbit.”

“Thank you! Have a good night!” Ochaco called out happily, Mina waved.

Keri walked outside, knowing the girls would still see her. Moving close she gently put her hand on All Might’s lower back. Saying something to him and then to Izuku as she bid them farewell. All Might seemed to protest before she put her hand up and smiled. They parted ways.

“Oh my gosh,” Mina gasped, “Do you think they’re totally dating?!”

#all right all might #my hero academia #Toshinori yagi x oc #bakugou katsuki #All might x OC #Toshinori Yagi

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bleepblopbloop56 · 5 years ago

Text

The Murder in the Dressing Room

Chapter 7: liar liar

Warnings: blood, death, emotional and physical abuse, implied past domestic abuse

Also on ao3

Special thanks to @pathos-logical who still, despite everything shes done, wont be listed as a co-writer 🦀 (the writing was done months ago, and shes been doing EVERYTHING since)

The sound of Logan's phone ringing shook him out of the daze he'd been in for hours, sitting on Remy's couch, staring at the yellow walls, and trying to think about anything that wasn't Virgil. He considered ignoring it, letting it ring until the caller gave up and left him to sulk alone, but he decided to at least look at the contact. Maybe if they were important enough he'd think about calling them back later.

But when he saw Roman's contact, his earlier numbness was replaced with urgency like a lightning strike. He picked up before he could think twice.

"Hello?" he rushed out, but even that was immediately cut off. At first all Logan could make out was near-hysterical rambling- but then the words sank in, and so did the horror.

"He did it- Logan, Dee killed them, it was him!" Roman was shaking so badly it was a challenge to keep the phone in his hands. "Dee, he- he sent me a picture of- of the two of us together, he didn't want me to leave him- Logan… I don't know what to do," he hiccupped, voice cracking on Logan's name. Logan's previous grief-induced apathy had fled as soon as he had heard the call, but now heart was pounding, a lump caught in his chest like he was going to either puke or scream.

"Roman, where. Are. You." Logan had always been a serious type, but never like this. Despite how often his line of work put him in danger, the life-or-death part of it had never hit quite this close to home. If his entire world was flooding, Roman was the only one with a lifeboat.

"God, I don't even know…" Roman muttered to himself, pausing to glance around him and even his breathing. "Some shitty Holiday Inn? I'm not too far from the police station."

Logan had jumped into action the second he heard Roman’s voice, frantically pulling on his shoes and throwing on one of Remy's jackets that was hanging by the door as he stormed out of the house. "Roman, I need you to meet me at the station." He heard Roman sniffle and whisper a soft agreement, followed by the sound of movement. "And Ro?" The shuffling stopped.

"I love you… and we're going to get through this, okay?" It was easier to lie to Roman than it was to lie to himself. And it was easier to tell Roman the truth about loving him than it was to pretend that he was over him. Things were just easier with Roman… Everything was easier with Roman.

"I love you too," Roman whispered, but it came out choked and broken, like it was all he could do not to cry. "I never stopped loving you, I'm sorry I ever left, if I just stayed with you then none of this would've happened- god, this is all my fault- "

Logan hushed him, starting his car and pulling out of the driveway without looking. "Everything's going to be alright, okay?” Keeping his voice steady was a challenge, but he needed to be strong, if only for Roman. “I'll see you soon."

--------

Roman wouldn't make it to the station. Hell, he barely made it out of his hotel room before a hand pushed him in again.

And even if he did, he wouldn't have wanted to.

------------

Logan went straight to his office when he reached the station, not bothering to greet the few people mulling around. Remy had been promoted to head detective on the case after Logan had dropped out, and Logan knew he’d been working late nights since. He must’ve been in Logan's office for hours now.

"Remy, I have the answer!" Logan began, swinging open the door with the kind of energy more typically associated with his partner than him. Remy didn't react, facing the board Logan had set up for the case. In the back of Logan's mind, it registered as odd that his head was lolling forward instead of leaned back to look up at it.

But that wasn't what made Logan stop dead in his tracks. No, that would be the blood that was absolutely everywhere- splattered across the walls, pooling at Remy’s feet-

Remy.

Logan rushed over to look at him, only sparing the briefest glance at the sunglasses on the floor. But suddenly he'd never missed their absence more keenly on Remy's face than the moment when he saw Remy slumped in Logan's chair, quintessential glasses replaced by an all-too familiar mask frowning up at him.

Through blurring vision and rising nausea, Logan took in the rest of the scene. The board, now covered in red from more than just yarn. The cold air coming in through the open window. Remy's torn baseball tee, so drenched in dark blood that not a speck of the original white and black fabric remained visible. The coffee cup, contents long gone cold, that somehow lay untouched on his desk. The missing picture of him and Patton on the desk, creased down the middle and scribbled on.

In red marker were two crudely drawn masks covering Logan's and Patton's faces.

Logan felt his whole world come crashing down. He had been holding on to Remy's stability through all of this, and now that was gone. Remy was gone…

Remy Murphy was dead.

Remy Murphy was dead

Remy Murphy was dead.

And Logan screamed.

------

"Hello, Roman~" Ethan sing-songed. "Where do you think you're going?" He smiled, sweet as poisoned honey, walking forward and forcing Roman to back up until his legs hit the bed. Roman scrambled away from his touch until he was against the headrest, but Dee simply leaned over him. "How are you, baby? It's been far too long since we've chatted."

"Dee," Roman choked out. "Please don't do this." He let out a violent sob when Dee grabbed his chin and pulled it forward, forcing their eyes to meet.

"Someone's been a little tattletale huh?" Dee smiled. It wasn't anything like his old smile. He'd used to smile like he owned the world. This smile said he was about to destroy it.

"Gone off telling your little boyfriend about me, huh?" Roman shook his head, gasping and swallowing his sobs in an attempt to keep quiet.

"LIAR!" Dee shouted, shoving Roman's head into the wall. Ignoring Roman's cry of pain, he continued, "Why is everyone such a dirty fucking liar?! Do you think I'm an idiot?" Roman was openly sobbing now. Dee's face softened, and he pulled Roman into a hug he was too afraid to pull away from.

"I'm sorry, baby, you know I didn't mean it" he cooed, petting Roman's hair right where his head had hit the wall. "Do you forgive me?" On instinct Roman nodded, hands balled into fists in the sheets.

Dee pulled back and kissed Roman's forehead, putting on a fake pout when Roman flinched away. "We're gonna go home now, alright? And we're not gonna run, or yell, or get upset, okay baby?"

"Or what?" Roman dared to ask, but the question came out too breathless to have any real bite to it. "Or you'll kill me? Do it. End all of this, Dee. I give up. Kill me if you want, just stop this," he begged. "Kill me. And let them find me with that fucking mask on just like everyone else, but never fucking touch another one of my friends or family again."

Dee stared at him for a moment, and Roman couldn't tell if he was confused or if he was contemplating if it would be worth it.

"Oh no no no, baby." Ethan ran his hands over Roman’s cheeks, gently wiping away his tears. "I love you, that's why I'm doing all this! I just want you to be with me."

"Then what'll you do?" He clenched his fists tighter. He wanted to pretend it was to put on a show of bravery, but in reality he was trying to keep from shaking too hard, afraid Dee might notice and get angry.

"Then I'll kill your little love bird! You're such a cheating whore sometimes, baby," Dee crooned, cradling Roman's tear-streaked face, "but you've had your fun now! And now we're going home!"

Roman tried to think back to the first time he met Dee, to remember if there were any signs to any of this when he had let himself get swept away by those initial promises and gifts. Nothing in his memory held any clues to how he would end up here, with three people dead and his soulmate's life on the cutting board.

"Did you bring anything with you, sweetheart?" Dee’s soft hands petting over Roman’s face contradicted his eyes, alight with something more than poison behind them. Roman shook his head no- all he had on him was his wallet and phone. "Good boy. Now let's go. One hand on me at all times, alright baby?"

Roman nodded, and held out his hand, trying to ignore the way Dee gripped down too hard, the opposite of Logan's gentle hands leading him to the car after the restaurant only a few days ago.

"One more thing." Dee stopped him as he was getting in the car. "Give me your phone. You don't deserve it anymore."

Roman’s breath seized. Dee had always let him have his phone. No matter the scolding and yelling about who he was talking to, the constant searches through Roman’s steadily dwindling messages, the deletion of social media and surrender of passwords, he was still allowed to have it. Part of him wanted to protest, to cling to his one link to the outside world- to Logan- but he was in no place to make demands.

With shaking fingers reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone, a cheap sparkling case barely protecting the shattered screen, the result of being chucked against the wall one too many times in one of Dee's fits of rage. Dee snatched it out of his hands and stuffed it in his pocket before starting the engine and pulling out of the parking lot.

There were a million thoughts whirling through Roman's head as Dee drove them to wherever he had been hiding, but for some reason his mind kept circling back to his phone. So small, in the grand scheme of things, but he couldn't help but feel he'd given up more than just that when he'd handed it over.

The murder in the dressing room taglist:

@cataclysm-al @theteenagetrickster @intrurality-fusion @katie-the-noble-fangirl @whizzie72 @grayson-22 @i-have-n0-idea-what-im-d0ing @winterwonderland7669 @missieluvsmurder @sign-from-god-complex @dragonindigo245 @angryfanboyscreaming @ninja-wizard101 @sombraookami @crystalistrappedintheinternet @imtooaromanticforthis @why-should-i-tell-youu2 @dragon-hair @satanblessi @spookilyfingergunsoutofexistence @skruffy901 @selectivereality @nonbeenary-enbee @imbasicallyshakespear @cats-vetal-miking-vomit @incoherentfangirl @oofmood @nonbianary-pineapple @royalnerd829 @unicornlogansanders @magma-llama

#thomas sanders #sander sides #roman sanders #deceit sanders #tw deceit #abusive deceit #manipulative deceit #past roceit #rociet #logince

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wewillwriteyou · 6 years ago

Text

Friends Will Be Friends || Chapter 12

A few elements from the main plot: A very special group of friends: early days, drama, laughter, booze, success, rock stars life, girl power, friendship, love, sex, music, misunderstandings, some more drama, family. Pairings in the tags

Summary Chapter 12: Some time’s passed. The concert in Taunton, December 1973. A new character may or may not appear

Word count: 3K

Warnings: Okay it’s mainly fluff and softness, BUT, you have to watch out the usual curse word or some bad language. Also, some little reference to sex and/or sexy times. It’s really small. You won’t even notice it.

A/N: Hi folks. Sooooo with this chapter, a new segment of our story opens up and it will take… a few chapters to complete. We really hope you’re enjoying this so far and we’d like to hear your honest opinion on it, lovesies 💖😏 So, please, as usual, if you like what you read, comment, like, reblog and share this with others! For everyone who follows and supports this story, thank you guys (you know who you are)! You are real stars! ⭐💗

“Thank you, Taunton!” Freddie’s voice cracked in the mic, as he shouted from the top of his lungs. The stage’s lights were illuminating his skinny silhouette, as he was bowed and nodded like a real diva. Brian approached him and goofily waved at the cheering crowd with a simple nod. On Freddie’s right side, John was bowing too, with a hand on his heart, still astonished by the number of people that were screaming and applauding them. Roger left his drum set, all sweaty and half-naked, and put his arms in the air, before throwing his drumsticks in the crowd.

In a matter of two years, the boys had come a long way; everything had changed after that concert at the Imperial College. A prestigious record producer had seen them perform and had decided to give them a chance. They had already recorded an album and travelled all around England. Every night a different place, the boys were tireless and had become real rock stars.

The four of them were now bowing all together, at the edge of the stage, while the people in the front row were trying to reach them, screaming and stretching their arms towards them.

In the backstage, far away from the spotlight of fame, the girls were applauding too, with their hearts full of love and proudness. Chelsea, Mel and Mary had been by their sides since the start and seeing them gaining the fame they deserved was always something touching and extremely beautiful.

During those two years, they had followed them on tour as much as possible and spent hours listening to their quarrels in the recording studio, on which song should have been put in the album. But everything, every sacrifice, every fight or argument and every sleepless night had been absolutely worth it because now all four of them had finally made their dreams come true.

The boys walked towards the backstage, still waving at the crowd.

“You did amazing, love!” Chelsea said, caressing Freddie’s arm as he was hugging and kissing Mary on the cheek. He didn’t have the time to thank her, because a pair of arms took her hips and lifted her from the ground. Chelsea screamed in amusement and, when her feet touched again the ground, she turned around to find John’s smiley face just a few inches away from her.

“And what about me?” he asked her, pulling her closer to hug her.

“You did amazing too, sweetheart” she chuckled in his arms and then pulled away to admire his outfit.

“What did I tell you, Mel? He looks great in this black and white suit” Chelsea gloated, smiling to her friend, that was now massaging John’s arm.

“I didn’t have doubts” she answered, tilting her head to her boyfriend and lifting an eyebrow in an accusatory way. John rolled his eyes, but when he opened his mouth to speak, he was cut off by a squeaking, raspy voice, that was coming from Chelsea’s back.

“You have to thank me, for that. It was me that convinced the crew to hire the best stylist I’ve ever met” Roger was approaching them, with a towel behind his neck and his arms open to welcome his girlfriend in his chest.

Chelsea slightly blushed and ran to him, to hug him tight. Roger spun her around, while his arms were settled around her waist. Chelsea cupped his face with her hands and pulled him closer to kiss him softly.

“Actually, darling, I insisted on having this amazing lady as my personal stylist” Freddie stated, approaching the couple with Mary by his side. Roger completely ignored him, slowly pulling away from Chelsea’s lips. He then put his arms behind her shoulders to pull her closer to him.

“Before I got interrupted” John added, walking towards them, while holding hands with Mel “I was trying to say that I had never had doubts on your talent, Chel. I just had doubts about the choice of the clothes, because you know, they are a little bit–”

“They’re perfect my dear!” Freddie cut him off and John shook his head, an entertained smile forming on his face.

“Well look at you, all cute and sweet. Can someone please help me with all these cables and stuff?” Brian’s voice recalled the attention of the group and they all turned around to see his curly brown hair bouncing, as he was trying to hold a lot of things in his arms.

Chelsea immediately reached him, when she saw he was about to make everything fall on the ground. She stretched her arms towards him and helped him, taking away from his hands a tangle of cables. Brian’s warm smile thanked Chelsea, who smiled back.

“You don’t have to be jealous, mate. I’m sure out there there’s a girl that’s waiting for you to come and tell her all about the physics stuff you so very much adore” Roger joked, giving Brian a pat on his shoulder. He rolled his eyes as an answer, used to Roger’s sense of humour.

“I’ll help him with this. You can wait for me in the tour bus, baby” Chelsea said, turning to Roger. He smirked and leaned down to kiss her again. Brian looked away and Chelsea could tell he was visibly embarrassed by that moment, so she pulled away and winked at Roger.

“Okay, see you later, honey” he replied, giving her a soft slap on her butt as she turned around. Chelsea let out a tiny squeak and heard Roger’s giggle as he walked away with the rest of the band and the girls.

She followed Brian through some doors and corridors, elbowing between the people of the crew and she thanked the enormous mass of curly hair he had, because, if it wasn’t for that, she could have easily got lost in the confusion. They finally entered a little room and Brian pointed a dusty shelf; Chelsea put down the cables and helped him tiding up some pedals and other strings he still had in his hands.

“You know, letting grow your hair free and natural was the best decision of your life! I would’ve lost myself in this labyrinth if it hadn’t been for them” Chelsea stated, turning around to look at Brian while they left the room.

“Yeah, it doesn’t matter if I look like a poodle” he replied, making her laugh and shake her head.

“He’s treating you well, right?” Brian asked, as they stepped out of the little room and started to walk down the hallway. Chelsea looked up to him, as the height difference between them was more than evident, smiling for the cute question.

Brian had never been really talkative - not as much as Freddie or Roger anyway - but Chelsea had the chance to get to know him well during the last two years and she indeed enjoyed his company. They liked to walk together, going anywhere, sometimes without saying a word, just appreciating the comfortable silence that was always surrounding them.

Chelsea was usually the first to hear Brian’s new songs or riffs because he was convinced that she had a great ear with these things, as he used to say. And Chelsea never complained about that, on the contrary, she loved seeing him getting experimental in front of her, with his concentrated face as he made his guitar sing.

“Yes, you’d be impressed to see the gentleman he has become” Chelsea replied, always with a smile on her face. Brian noticed her dreamy expression and chuckled softly.

“Roger Taylor a gentleman? Are you sure we’re talking about the same Roger Taylor?” he teased to see her reaction. She raised an eyebrow and let out a sigh between the laughter.

“Yes, we are. He’s always so caring and sweet and…” Brian cut her off.

“And he’s always ready for a good sex-session I guess, am I wrong? You two are like bunnies” he joked, but Chelsea wasn’t expecting such a comment coming from Brian’s mouth, so she gasped in surprise.

“Mr May, I find this comment very inappropriate!” she joked back “and it’s none of your business. Although, I can’t say you’re wrong. But he’s a great boyfriend, I swear” Brian chuckled, seeing how her eyes always shined when she talked about him.

“I can tell this. You look so in love” Chelsea flushed at those words.

“Is that so evident?” she asked him and Brian raised an eyebrow. Then nodded, closing his eyes to give more pathos to his non-verbal answer. Chelsea friendly pushed him, putting her hand on his shoulder and making him laugh a little.

“But hey, I’m sure it’s mutual because I’ve never seen Roger like that. With any girl” Brian widely smiled and looked down at Chelsea, who was still blushing. He noticed her pleased face and he put his long skinny arm behind her shoulder and Chelsea leaned her head on him, putting her arm behind his waist, as they kept walking.

They were about to leave the arena and reach the others in the tour bus when a female voice called them. They turned around and saw a girl running after them.

“Excuse me” she was breathless when she reached them, so she tried to recompose herself, putting a string of her hair behind her ear “I don’t want to be or sound obtrusive, but you are the guitarist of Queen, right?” she shyly asked, as a soft red colour started to expand on her cheeks.

When Chelsea didn’t hear any response from Brian, she looked up at his face to find him with his mouth slightly open and his eyes locked with the girl’s.

Brian was sure she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen; she had wavy hair, that had a strange and rare colour between brown and red. Her light blue eyes were staring at Brian and he felt his knees trembling. He knew he was being obvious, but he couldn’t help himself: she was gorgeous. The girl noticed the gaze he was giving her and she looked at the ground, clearly happy to receive his attention.

Chelsea felt like the third wheel of the situation, so seeing that Brian was still admiring her without saying a word, she gave him a little push and then replied.

“Yes, he’s the guitarist. The big Brian May” she smiled as she said this, receiving a deadly gaze from the tall boy.

“You were great before!” the girl complimented him “I’m Chrissie by the way” Chelsea tried to reach for her hand, but Brian pushed her away. He shook her hand, without breaking eye-contact. The girl understood that the entire situation was starting to get a little bit awkward, so she cleared her throat, before speaking again.

“I would like to know if it’s possible to meet the rest of the band”

“I’m so sorry, they’re already on the tour bus now” Brian finally spoke, but Chrissie seemed disappointed.

“Oh, okay. I just made everything that I could to be here tonight to meet the band, but hey, it seems like I’m always late. Thank you anyway, it was a pleasure meeting you two” she turned on her heels and started to walk away.

“Invite her to the after party!” Chelsea said between her teeth.

“What? I don’t even know her!” Brian replied, with his whole face red and blushed. Chelsea rolled her eyes.

“Listen to me, do you want to lose the chance to get to know this girl? I don’t think so! So tell her that tomorrow you have a concert in Peterborough and that after it there’s an amazing Christmas party! Be the man Brian!”

“I’m a man!” Brian shouted back.

“Then prove it!” Chelsea replied, crossing her arms on her chest. Brian looked over her shoulder and, after giving her one last gaze, he started to ran to reach Chrissie. Chelsea looked at him with a proud expression on her face, as he stopped her by the arm and started to talk with her. She nodded and left the arena, to give them a little bit of privacy.

She quickly walked in the parking lot, covering her face with the collar of her jacket. When she reached the tour bus she ran inside, feeling her nose already cold and surely red. Everything was dark and quiet, just a couple of peaceful, sleepy breaths was filling the air.

When her eyes got used to the dim light that surrounded her, Chelsea noticed that Freddie and Mary were sleeping, hugged into each other’s arms, on the not so comfy kind of sofa, how Fred himself used to call it, that was on her left. On the opposite side, there was the same kind of seats, arranged in a kind of semicircle, with a little table on the middle, where the guys used to play scrabble. And there she saw John, with his feet stretched over the end of the seat because he was too tall to properly lay there; on the top of him, with her head on his chest, Mel was sleeping peacefully.

Chelsea smiled when she walked over the little (and empty) cot that was near the tiny bathroom, because she already knew that Roger had probably argued with everyone to have the double sized bed that was situated in the back of the bus. When she slowly pushed aside the see-through curtains that gave a little privacy to the only “bedroom” of that mini house on four wheels, Chelsea saw her boyfriend already asleep.

She stopped there to look at him for a minute. He was sleeping shirtless, as usual, with his mouth open. He was laying on his tummy and Chelsea could see his back muscles relaxing under the blanket. She fondly smiled when she noticed that he had left on her pillow one of the shirts, knowing how she loved to sleep snuggling in his clothes. She was about to join him when she heard the door of the bus opening, followed by Brian’s voice, who was talking with the driver.

Chelsea turned around and, while she was approaching the curly boy curious as hell, the bus started to move and she almost fell on the ground. Brian heard her cuss and let out a soft laugh. When she looked up to him, he pointed at the cot and Chelsea nodded, already knowing what he was about to ask.

“Will it ever be my turn to sleep in that bed or…?” he asked, while he leaned down to take a beer from the little fridge in front of his crib. He offered one to Chelsea too and she accepted it, sitting beside him on the little cot.

“So? Are you going to tell me what happened with the girl of your dreams or do I have to beg you?” Chelsea questioned, lifting her bottle in the air. Brian shook his head and raised his beer to meet hers.

“Cheers,” he said after the toast and then they both took a long sip from the green glass bottle.

“I invited her to come to our concert tomorrow and then to the party in the hotel” Brian finally said, turning around to look at Chelsea in the eyes. She noticed that he still had flushed cheeks and a stupid smile on his face.

“…and?” she asked, but he scrolled his shoulders, making her pout “Oh c’mon Bri, not even a little kiss?”

“No. I like taking things slow” he replied with a touchy tone. Chelsea rolled her eyes and left her head fall against the window behind her. She sighed and took another sip of beer.

“At least did you discover something about her?”

“Just that she works as a hairdresser because she told me that she doesn’t know if she can come tomorrow because Peterborough is far from where she lives and she has to work. But nothing else” Chelsea looked him with a disappointed face.

“What?” he asked, wrapping his lips against the neck of the bottle, finishing the beer.

“You should have told her something! Flirt a little bit!” she replied. He rolled his eyes and shut her up with a movement of his hand. Chelsea chuckled noticing how pissed he looked, so she stretched her arm to put it behind his back.

“Hey, I’m sorry okay. The world would be a better place if there were more gentle and kind men like you around” she sincerely smiled to him and Brian returned the gesture, fondly grateful for her words. He was about to reply when a voice in the dark recalled their attention.

“After this philosophic statement, can you come to sleep and cuddle with your gentle and kind man? I didn’t almost throw hands with Freddie for that fucking bed for nothing” Roger was keeping the curtains open, standing in between with only his boxers on.

“You could have put on something” Brian commented, pointing at his half-naked body, while Chelsea was approaching him.

“I’m sure that someone here thinks differently from you” Roger replied, looking to Chelsea in a flirty way. She smirked in response and kissed him. She teasingly pulled away and walked past him, already taking off her clothes. Roger bit his lip and turned around to look at Brian with a proud expression on his face.

“You see. She’s such a bad girl” he said, pointing at her. Brian rolled his eyes and when he opened his mouth to say something, Chelsea’s bra flew in the air, hitting Roger’s face. Soon the panties appeared on the ground at his feet.

“You two are disgusting!” Brian almost shouted while he was laying on the cot when Roger quickly disappeared behind the curtains and the sound of Chelsea’s giggles filled the air.

“We know that” they replied in unison. Brian shook his head and hide it under the pillow when he started to hear more chuckles and not so subtle sounds coming from the ‘bedroom’. He sighed knowing it would have been a long journey.

Chapters: ⤎ previous | next ⤏

A/N: Hello again! Hope you enjoyed this one 💗 we’re gonna tag the lovely people who read, liked and commented the previous chapters. If you want to be tagged in the next one, comment under this one or leave us a message. Our inboxes are always open for you beautiful people

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amazable01 · 5 years ago

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And the Puppets Danced- Chapter 13

A03 Link Here

I blink awake, black spots in my vision flickering over the blurriness beyond.

“Patton?” I hear, a voice unknown to me calling out from beyond my line of sight. “Are you alright, Patton?”

“huh…?”

I hear a sigh. “Thank goodness. We were worried you wouldn’t wake.”

I blink, as something settles on my face, and I can see again. A man is standing above the bed I’m laid in, and moves to help me up.

“wha’s goin’ on…?”

“You, umm…” He sighs. “You died. I saved your life.”

I freeze, eyes widening. “d-died…?”

“Yes. You did die. You threw yourself in front of Deceit’s blast, and protected my son and his fiance.”

I shake, everything coming back to me. “oh…”

He nods. “But, it’s better now. Everyone is okay, and safe.”

“logan?”

He smiles. “He’s fine. He’s yet to wake up, but he’s fine.”

I nod. “Logan…”

“He’ll be here soon, I promise.” He rings a bell, and goes to the door. “Tell my son that Patton is awake. And fetch us something to eat and drink.”

The servant nods and leaves.

I take a moment to look around the room. It’s quite grand, and yet, not as grand as you would expect from a former king. In fact, the most grand thing is a large window that juts out of the room, and opens onto a balcony.

“I’m guessing you have many questions. Can you sit up?”

I sit up, leaning against the headboard. “Good?”

He smiles. “Perfect.” He sits on a chair beside the bed. “So, what are you feeling?”

I blink, thinking. “Shock? Maybe sadness, I’m not sure. I can’t really pinpoint my feelings, right now, and… my brain is all sluggish…”

He nods. “That would make sense. You’re not used to your brain actually fully running your body yet. It will take some getting used to. Thankfully, you seem to be doing better right now.” He smiles at me. “Anything else of note?”

I blink. “Should there be?”

He chuckles. “No, no, Patton. Just checking to make sure your woods aren’t conflicting, or I forgot to add anything.” He sighs. “You were pretty beaten up. Thankfully, your heart and face got away without much damage, so we were able to fix those up rather easily. Your body, on the other hand, well… it was a bit of a project to put you back together from splinters and memory. But we did it, nonetheless. Your hair and eyes needed fixing too, and we had to sand down those disgusting brands, but… You’re good. Amazing, in fact. Some of my best work.”

I look down at my hands, which are much softer than the dainty ones Deceit had given me. In fact, my whole body is just a bit softer. I feel… imperfect. Like that porcelain doll aspect of myself was taken away from me, leaving nothing but my true self behind. I feel naked, despite the clothes I’m wearing.

I don’t even notice I’m crying until the man brushes a couple of tears from my eyes. “Hey, hey… It’s alright. Are you happy with it?”

I nod quickly. “Yes!” I manage to say through the sobs. “I feel so much better!”

He smiles softly, and pulls me into his arms. The touch is different than other peoples. This is hug is soft, familiar like an old bedtime story. But all the same, it’s firm and safe, without being constricting. A good balance.

The doors burst open, causing both the ex-king and me to jump. “Father! He’s awake! He’s really, truly awake!”

Suddenly, the king’s arms are wrapped round me, keeping me in his grip. “Gods above, we thought you’d never wake…”

“Roman, manners.” His father says, moving out of the space. “You were worried, but we knew he would eventually be awake.”

Roman whines. “Still!” He looks at me, eyes bright with excitement. “I’m glad you’re awake! And that you’re okay! I was so sad that happened to you under my care. I couldn’t forgive myself if you hadn’t woken. But you have, so there’s no problem now!”

My eyes snap back to the door as I hear a soft sob. My eyes bulge a bit as I feel my breath be released in a soft word.

“logan.”

In seemingly a flash, I’m in his arms, my lips pressed to his in a desperate attempt to stay in his embrace. I grip his shirt tightly, knuckles going white as I kiss him as passionately as I possibly can. I feel the weight of his arms settle around my waist, and I move mine to his shoulders, neither of us releasing from the kiss as it happens.

Finally, I feel Logan pull back slightly to give us both air, his lips hovering on mine. “patton…” He says, his voice incredibly soft.

“logan…” I respond, breathless. “you’re okay…”

“Patton… I refuse to let fear keep my from speaking the truth. I love you.” He pulls me in for another deep kiss.

I gasp at the sudden contact, but let myself melt into his embrace and tender care. This kiss is less breathtaking and urgent, but still just as passionate. As we pull away from this, I feel my heart swell, love and adoration pouring from the very depths of my now freed soul.

“I love you too.”

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chicagoindiecritics · 5 years ago

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New from Jeff York on The Establishing Shot: “THE FURNACE” IS A FIERCE AND INSPIRING TALE ABOUT KEEPING THE FAITH

There is a surprising sunniness evident throughout THE FURNACE, the new movie about a handicapped long-distance runner facing the toughest race of her life. It permeates writer/director Darrell Roodt’s film in everything from the golden glow of its cinematography to the narrator’s warm, reassuring voice-over. It’s a shrewd maneuver, cloaking a story about death and physical suffering in earnest optimism. And yet, it works, spectacularly, making for one of the most inspiring motion pictures this year.

THE FURNACE is the nickname for a grueling, week-long foot race across the wilds of the African bush in this fictional story, inspired by true events, and it becomes the main focus of central character Mary Harris (Jamie Bernadette). She’s not only an avid runner, itching for such a challenge, but the race might be the only way for her to rise out of her deep depression. She’s been demoralized since her new husband Matt perished in a freak car accident at Christmas, one that gravely injured her as well, leaving her with just one lung. Mary now struggles to breathe, using a respirator and oxygen tank to aid her intake. She also has eschewed God, blaming him for taking her husband from her.

The race is a way to honor Matt too, as the young couple planned to run it together. Mary even clings to the special running shoe he bought for her as the last vestige of her connection to her husband. Ultimately, the race is more than just a symbol of her marriage like that shoe; it’s a journey back to her better, healthier self.

THE FURNACE is a salvation story, as well as an underdog tale, but there’s artistry here seldom seen in such material. For starters, the film is gorgeous, particularly its outdoor locations. Cinematographer Justus de Jager has created some of the most stunning tableaus in any film of 2019. The editing, score, and sound design are superior attributes here too.

Still, as good as all those production values are here, this type of film sinks or swims depending on how well the underdog role is pulled off. In Jamie Bernadette, Roodt has hit pay dirt. She makes Mary a winner long before she participates in that challenging race. Bernadette creates a complex protagonist, one that’s developed much deeper than most such characters. Her Mary is wry, honest, sexy, soulful, and scarily steely when she has to be. Those dark, glaring eyes come in particularly handy when she needs to face down some wild animals along the race path, and stare them down she does.

Bernadette has gained a stellar reputation in Hollywood as the go-to-girl in the horror genre. She’s done excellent work in many a frightener, including I SPIT ON YOUR GRAVE: DEJA VU this past spring. Bernadette always gives 100% to such material, making audiences believe every second of sheer hell she’s going through. Here, her Mary goes through hell and more, and Bernadette does a masterful job conveying all the physical demands her character faces. Yet, just as compelling is how the actress conveys her character’s growing confidence, as well as the pluck and wit she employs to confront adversity. She’s a fascinating woman; no wonder the cemetery gravedigger (Luthuli Dlamini) can’t help but be drawn to her when he happens upon her visiting her husband’s grave.

Coffin, as he cleverly asks Mary to call him, has his own tragic story as well. The African transplant lost his entire family to a civil war back in his country, but the wise sage remains an optimist nonetheless. Coffin even accepts that his MD license doesn’t translate in America, leaving him stuck in the menial labor job at the cemetery. His upbeat attitude inspires Mary all the more to run the Furnace, and soon, she’s employing him as her coach and muse.

The film could’ve spent a lot of time showing Coffin guide Mary in building up her strength and stamina, but Roodt wisely truncates such scenes. Even after Mary lands in the hospital, exhausted from a small race in her hometown, Roodt doesn’t spend much time milking the pathos. Instead, he moves the narrative along briskly, getting Mary and Coffin together in Africa and ready to run by the 30-minute mark.

Here is where Roodt spends the rest of the film and pulls out all the stops with his creative team. Everything is shot on location, there are no recognizable green-screen effects, and that’s really Bernadette running over hill and dale, doing all of her own stunt work. Indeed, she interacts with the wildlife along the way in one scene after another that will leave audiences, dare I say, breathless.

The landscapes are lush, lit naturally, and Roodt smartly highlights Mary’s appreciation of her surroundings as she runs too. (The giddy expression on Bernadette’s face as Mary gawks in awe at a cluster of zebras is adorable.) Meanwhile, Coffin follows her journey, tagging along with track officials, to meet her at the markers along the lengthy race.

Dlamini is the warm narrator that starts off the film, and he continues to provide a sort of play-by-play for us of the highlights of Mary’s journey. His baritone has a Morgan Freeman type of gravitas to it, and he works wonders with a line, even when they tend towards being on-the-nose. (‘Sorrow looks back. Worry looks around. And faith looks up.”) But more often than not, Roodt relies on the actions of his actors, not their words, to tell the story. One of Bernadette’s best physical bits is when Mary is stung by a scorpion and starts to hallucinate. Bernadette frets and stumbles around, discombobulated, yet trying to gain back control over her mind and body. She even ends up carrying on a conversation with herself, just this side of delusional, as if she’s confiding with a girlfriend at a bar. It could’ve played as silly. Instead, the accomplished actress makes it all incredibly touching.

Because this is a salvation story, there’s a lot of discussion of God and faith throughout, particularly with a true believer Mary meets at the race, played by an insinuating Laura Linn. This fellow runner will help Mary realize, along with the spiritually driven Coffin, that such a journey requires faith in God as well as herself. Sometimes the moralizing can get a little heavy-handed here, but by and large, it lands. Still, an over-the-top visual towards the end probably goes a Tony Kushner too far, but damn if it didn’t give me goosebumps anyway.

THE FURNACE inspires, not only with its message about faith but in how impressively this modest feature delivers the goods. This film, opening October 15th in select theaters and on VOD, is shot with verve and performed with passion, its heart unabashedly on its sleeve. I can’t think of a better place for it to be worn.

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castlehead · 7 years ago

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[Wonderpain.]

I was inclined to say that truth is pedestrian, then move on to the tap Along of one finger with a beat, itself getting cross at the small Movement for fucking its vibe with alternatives. Temper, temper. Reach: it is around the corner, by the orange stand, beau station, Stand, between the largest fealties, good for good: now, Fruits of love having themselves out by the atom's eke. And greatest abuses taken, inflated, ballooning outwards, By the cosmos. Taken in. Then, a field needs mittens for it. It’s Too windy. An acreage of pretty pines shivers in wind along it. Knotty wood gurgles against wood. The outside comes Lovingly, from a South of crouching stems refusing Like a head in arms to be face up with the sun in Some accenting the holding half of space it lives in, Leaving nub the unreal, unreal chaos-space of it; It determines each footing of energy as to the very Transgressive delta, constantly upending and turning. Few get beyond that dirty waters, inscrutable space Especially, yet there it is, off and now in the substratum Combing thru normal wretchedness for The Wonderful Pain you cause staying in your room until daybreak, running Into nobody and liking that. But the fears that made You delicate nay fragile are the flowers of your isolation, Stuck, lonely for the mopingness to return, a close ally To you, either that or distant feelings of suicide that image Out some grand pathos you let bestir the sleeping dreads, The ones of a dead morn, for evenings make you suffer. When weakening in the bathroom alone in your hunch, An eternity grows instead from swirling color nowhere There in The Real. I want to invade with some synopsis your Trip down Dreaming Lane, a forest of bust camping out. Reach for the ocean after all the oceans do roll-call. Ascertain knowledge like a friend who was away awhile, Vroom status up till the morn of your writer's hand, Lifting expressions up on crutches to hobble steady Straight: out the maims into flames, disorder the hurt, They are just traces of irate buds shuddering, here: The shutters of my brains are making a beat together And will have a fire mix tape for the end of quarterlies. . . . . . . . . . Locked down, on lock down, brackish as any waters’ Limning mix, truth is pedestrian. Truth’s these half Thoughts blunting me with every one of them, Scalding flame like a boil’s always been on the hand Touching the letting go and usurping its true letting Go, touching the side of my jacket listening to music. The music gets really angry. Truth is banal and small. The atom went on familiar with my soft, cool touch, As rain dashes out the field like a bad idea disposed of. My room inflates, for all the vices I have taken care To unwage a hurt against, for so long having done. And my lot flames up in some marauding, crystal clarity, Filled endless with uses, ways to use, paths to using A brain made fertile climate to grunt shapes out full with Deliberate heeding some ideal of dreams: that dreams can Loosen out into reality's mind, in act and commitment, For the style of life is a moral one, or three. Escape The delta or exonerate those who have tried and failed. Make a full thought from these dispersed pieces, fledge, Raining an ecstatic night across breathless landscapes Taking the outside North to lover's Dreaming Lane That wrinkles sharp the nub of chaos, of filled emptiness As might rolling, bumping oranges contrive an atom's ocean From the vibing, short touch of sentinel bombs, guarding The tiny place where shook the entire world, like random fields Beating fire across carnivorous a sappy, rundown direction's Fault, mistake coeval with a running mind, a nose in the cold, snot Stringing in the wind, a quiet power in the other room: where the Sun tries to make sense of everything left deep in excess chaos, Gathering innards' sense still proud and growling there, like children Somewhere unknown that smells funky. They want out already. I feel something sieve through the route. As if wrongs ladled out Of the soup still draped their ghost over the silly flavor that small all’s Brandished for all time against a brave nothing in the bathroom [nothing//all].. I am my wrongs, I have puckered up to kiss the ass of death. Old friend. - - Which room is right ?? Where wastes my time ?? As awesome as failure the wind's harassment drops its grip on A field of crud, longs for time to undue these mountains of Vice, vice-mountains, oughted the right way, as in, I ask back My hand in mussing the music: unclog deltas: receive it quiet.

#poetry #poem #pome #powtry #depth as predicament #the sad truth of it all

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poemsformom · 4 years ago

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Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror

By John Ashbery

As Parmigianino did it, the right hand Bigger than the head, thrust at the viewer And swerving easily away, as though to protect What it advertises. A few leaded panes, old beams, Fur, pleated muslin, a coral ring run together In a movement supporting the face, which swims Toward and away like the hand Except that it is in repose. It is what is Sequestered. Vasari says, "Francesco one day set himself To take his own portrait, looking at himself from that purpose In a convex mirror, such as is used by barbers . . . He accordingly caused a ball of wood to be made By a turner, and having divided it in half and Brought it to the size of the mirror, he set himself With great art to copy all that he saw in the glass," Chiefly his reflection, of which the portrait Is the reflection, of which the portrait Is the reflection once removed. The glass chose to reflect only what he saw Which was enough for his purpose: his image Glazed, embalmed, projected at a 180-degree angle. The time of day or the density of the light Adhering to the face keeps it Lively and intact in a recurring wave Of arrival. The soul establishes itself. But how far can it swim out through the eyes And still return safely to its nest? The surface Of the mirror being convex, the distance increases Significantly; that is, enough to make the point That the soul is a captive, treated humanely, kept In suspension, unable to advance much farther Than your look as it intercepts the picture. Pope Clement and his court were "stupefied" By it, according to Vasari, and promised a commission That never materialized. The soul has to stay where it is, Even though restless, hearing raindrops at the pane, The sighing of autumn leaves thrashed by the wind, Longing to be free, outside, but it must stay Posing in this place. It must move As little as possible. This is what the portrait says. But there is in that gaze a combination Of tenderness, amusement and regret, so powerful In its restraint that one cannot look for long. The secret is too plain. The pity of it smarts, Makes hot tears spurt: that the soul is not a soul, Has no secret, is small, and it fits Its hollow perfectly: its room, our moment of attention. That is the tune but there are no words. The words are only speculation (From the Latin speculum, mirror): They seek and cannot find the meaning of the music. We see only postures of the dream, Riders of the motion that swings the face Into view under evening skies, with no False disarray as proof of authenticity. But it is life englobed. One would like to stick one's hand Out of the globe, but its dimension, What carries it, will not allow it. No doubt it is this, not the reflex To hide something, which makes the hand loom large As it retreats slightly. There is no way To build it flat like a section of wall: It must join the segment of a circle, Roving back to the body of which it seems So unlikely a part, to fence in and shore up the face On which the effort of this condition reads Like a pinpoint of a smile, a spark Or star one is not sure of having seen As darkness resumes. A perverse light whose Imperative of subtlety dooms in advance its Conceit to light up: unimportant but meant. Francesco, your hand is big enough To wreck the sphere, and too big, One would think, to weave delicate meshes That only argue its further detention. (Big, but not coarse, merely on another scale, Like a dozing whale on the sea bottom In relation to the tiny, self-important ship On the surface.) But your eyes proclaim That everything is surface. The surface is what's there And nothing can exist except what's there. There are no recesses in the room, only alcoves, And the window doesn't matter much, or that Sliver of window or mirror on the right, even As a gauge of the weather, which in French is Le temps, the word for time, and which Follows a course wherein changes are merely Features of the whole. The whole is stable within Instability, a globe like ours, resting On a pedestal of vacuum, a ping-pong ball Secure on its jet of water. And just as there are no words for the surface, that is, No words to say what it really is, that it is not Superficial but a visible core, then there is No way out of the problem of pathos vs. experience. You will stay on, restive, serene in Your gesture which is neither embrace nor warning But which holds something of both in pure Affirmation that doesn't affirm anything. The balloon pops, the attention Turns dully away. Clouds In the puddle stir up into sawtoothed fragments. I think of the friends Who came to see me, of what yesterday Was like. A peculiar slant Of memory that intrudes on the dreaming model In the silence of the studio as he considers Lifting the pencil to the self-portrait. How many people came and stayed a certain time, Uttered light or dark speech that became part of you Like light behind windblown fog and sand, Filtered and influenced by it, until no part Remains that is surely you. Those voices in the dusk Have told you all and still the tale goes on In the form of memories deposited in irregular Clumps of crystals. Whose curved hand controls, Francesco, the turning seasons and the thoughts That peel off and fly away at breathless speeds Like the last stubborn leaves ripped From wet branches? I see in this only the chaos Of your round mirror which organizes everything Around the polestar of your eyes which are empty, Know nothing, dream but reveal nothing. I feel the carousel starting slowly And going faster and faster: desk, papers, books, Photographs of friends, the window and the trees Merging in one neutral band that surrounds Me on all sides, everywhere I look. And I cannot explain the action of leveling, Why it should all boil down to one Uniform substance, a magma of interiors. My guide in these matters is your self, Firm, oblique, accepting everything with the same Wraith of a smile, and as time speeds up so that it is soon Much later, I can know only the straight way out, The distance between us. Long ago The strewn evidence meant something, The small accidents and pleasures Of the day as it moved gracelessly on, A housewife doing chores. Impossible now To restore those properties in the silver blur that is The record of what you accomplished by sitting down "With great art to copy all that you saw in the glass" So as to perfect and rule out the extraneous Forever. In the circle of your intentions certain spars Remain that perpetuate the enchantment of self with self: Eyebeams, muslin, coral. It doesn't matter Because these are things as they are today Before one's shadow ever grew Out of the field into thoughts of tomorrow. Tomorrow is easy, but today is uncharted, Desolate, reluctant as any landscape To yield what are laws of perspective After all only to the painter's deep Mistrust, a weak instrument though Necessary. Of course some things Are possible, it knows, but it doesn't know Which ones. Some day we will try To do as many things as are possible And perhaps we shall succeed at a handful Of them, but this will not have anything To do with what is promised today, our Landscape sweeping out from us to disappear On the horizon. Today enough of a cover burnishes To keep the supposition of promises together In one piece of surface, letting one ramble Back home from them so that these Even stronger possibilities can remain Whole without being tested. Actually The skin of the bubble-chamber's as tough as Reptile eggs; everything gets "programmed" there In due course: more keeps getting included Without adding to the sum, and just as one Gets accustomed to a noise that Kept one awake but now no longer does, So the room contains this flow like an hourglass Without varying in climate or quality (Except perhaps to brighten bleakly and almost Invisibly, in a focus sharpening toward death--more Of this later). What should be the vacuum of a dream Becomes continually replete as the source of dreams Is being tapped so that this one dream May wax, flourish like a cabbage rose, Defying sumptuary laws, leaving us To awake and try to begin living in what Has now become a slum. Sydney Freedberg in his Parmigianino says of it: "Realism in this portrait No longer produces and objective truth, but a bizarria . . . . However its distortion does not create A feeling of disharmony . . . . The forms retain A strong measure of ideal beauty," because Fed by our dreams, so inconsequential until one day We notice the hole they left. Now their importance If not their meaning is plain. They were to nourish A dream which includes them all, as they are Finally reversed in the accumulating mirror. They seemed strange because we couldn't actually see them. And we realize this only at a point where they lapse Like a wave breaking on a rock, giving up Its shape in a gesture which expresses that shape. The forms retain a strong measure of ideal beauty As they forage in secret on our idea of distortion. Why be unhappy with this arrangement, since Dreams prolong us as they are absorbed? Something like living occurs, a movement Out of the dream into its codification. As I start to forget it It presents its stereotype again But it is an unfamiliar stereotype, the face Riding at anchor, issued from hazards, soon To accost others, "rather angel than man" (Vasari). Perhaps an angel looks like everything We have forgotten, I mean forgotten Things that don't seem familiar when We meet them again, lost beyond telling, Which were ours once. This would be the point Of invading the privacy of this man who "Dabbled in alchemy, but whose wish Here was not to examine the subtleties of art In a detached, scientific spirit: he wished through them To impart the sense of novelty and amazement to the spectator" (Freedberg). Later portraits such as the Uffizi "Gentleman," the Borghese "Young Prelate" and The Naples "Antea" issue from Mannerist Tensions, but here, as Freedberg points out, The surprise, the tension are in the concept Rather than its realization. The consonance of the High Renaissance Is present, though distorted by the mirror. What is novel is the extreme care in rendering The velleities of the rounded reflecting surface (It is the first mirror portrait), So that you could be fooled for a moment Before you realize the reflection Isn't yours. You feel then like one of those Hoffmann characters who have been deprived Of a reflection, except that the whole of me Is seen to be supplanted by the strict Otherness of the painter in his Other room. We have surprised him At work, but no, he has surprised us As he works. The picture is almost finished, The surprise almost over, as when one looks out, Startled by a snowfall which even now is Ending in specks and sparkles of snow. It happened while you were inside, asleep, And there is no reason why you should have Been awake for it, except that the day Is ending and it will be hard for you To get to sleep tonight, at least until late. The shadow of the city injects its own Urgency: Rome where Francesco Was at work during the Sack: his inventions Amazed the soldiers who burst in on him; They decided to spare his life, but he left soon after; Vienna where the painting is today, where I saw it with Pierre in the summer of 1959; New York Where I am now, which is a logarithm Of other cities. Our landscape Is alive with filiations, shuttlings; Business is carried on by look, gesture, Hearsay. It is another life to the city, The backing of the looking glass of the Unidentified but precisely sketched studio. It wants To siphon off the life of the studio, deflate Its mapped space to enactments, island it. That operation has been temporarily stalled But something new is on the way, a new preciosity In the wind. Can you stand it, Francesco? Are you strong enough for it? This wind brings what it knows not, is Self--propelled, blind, has no notion Of itself. It is inertia that once Acknowledged saps all activity, secret or public: Whispers of the word that can't be understood But can be felt, a chill, a blight Moving outward along the capes and peninsulas Of your nervures and so to the archipelagoes And to the bathed, aired secrecy of the open sea. This is its negative side. Its positive side is Making you notice life and the stresses That only seemed to go away, but now, As this new mode questions, are seen to be Hastening out of style. If they are to become classics They must decide which side they are on. Their reticence has undermined The urban scenery, made its ambiguities Look willful and tired, the games of an old man. What we need now is this unlikely Challenger pounding on the gates of an amazed Castle. Your argument, Francesco, Had begun to grow stale as no answer Or answers were forthcoming. If it dissolves now Into dust, that only means its time had come Some time ago, but look now, and listen: It may be that another life is stocked there In recesses no one knew of; that it, Not we, are the change; that we are in fact it If we could get back to it, relive some of the way It looked, turn our faces to the globe as it sets And still be coming out all right: Nerves normal, breath normal. Since it is a metaphor Made to include us, we are a part of it and Can live in it as in fact we have done, Only leaving our minds bare for questioning We now see will not take place at random But in an orderly way that means to menace Nobody--the normal way things are done, Like the concentric growing up of days Around a life: correctly, if you think about it. A breeze like the turning of a page Brings back your face: the moment Takes such a big bite out of the haze Of pleasant intuition it comes after. The locking into place is "death itself," As Berg said of a phrase in Mahler's Ninth; Or, to quote Imogen in Cymbeline, "There cannot Be a pinch in death more sharp than this," for, Though only exercise or tactic, it carries The momentum of a conviction that had been building. Mere forgetfulness cannot remove it Nor wishing bring it back, as long as it remains The white precipitate of its dream In the climate of sighs flung across our world, A cloth over a birdcage. But it is certain that What is beautiful seems so only in relation to a specific Life, experienced or not, channeled into some form Steeped in the nostalgia of a collective past. The light sinks today with an enthusiasm I have known elsewhere, and known why It seemed meaningful, that others felt this way Years ago. I go on consulting This mirror that is no longer mine For as much brisk vacancy as is to be My portion this time. And the vase is always full Because there is only just so much room And it accommodates everything. The sample One sees is not to be taken as Merely that, but as everything as it May be imagined outside time--not as a gesture But as all, in the refined, assimilable state. But what is this universe the porch of As it veers in and out, back and forth, Refusing to surround us and still the only Thing we can see? Love once Tipped the scales but now is shadowed, invisible, Though mysteriously present, around somewhere. But we know it cannot be sandwiched Between two adjacent moments, that its windings Lead nowhere except to further tributaries And that these empty themselves into a vague Sense of something that can never be known Even though it seems likely that each of us Knows what it is and is capable of Communicating it to the other. But the look Some wear as a sign makes one want to Push forward ignoring the apparent NaÏveté of the attempt, not caring That no one is listening, since the light Has been lit once and for all in their eyes And is present, unimpaired, a permanent anomaly, Awake and silent. On the surface of it There seems no special reason why that light Should be focused by love, or why The city falling with its beautiful suburbs Into space always less clear, less defined, Should read as the support of its progress, The easel upon which the drama unfolded To its own satisfaction and to the end Of our dreaming, as we had never imagined It would end, in worn daylight with the painted Promise showing through as a gage, a bond. This nondescript, never-to-be defined daytime is The secret of where it takes place And we can no longer return to the various Conflicting statements gathered, lapses of memory Of the principal witnesses. All we know Is that we are a little early, that Today has that special, lapidary Todayness that the sunlight reproduces Faithfully in casting twig-shadows on blithe Sidewalks. No previous day would have been like this. I used to think they were all alike, That the present always looked the same to everybody But this confusion drains away as one Is always cresting into one's present. Yet the "poetic," straw-colored space Of the long corridor that leads back to the painting, Its darkening opposite--is this Some figment of "art," not to be imagined As real, let alone special? Hasn't it too its lair In the present we are always escaping from And falling back into, as the waterwheel of days Pursues its uneventful, even serene course? I think it is trying to say it is today And we must get out of it even as the public Is pushing through the museum now so as to Be out by closing time. You can't live there. The gray glaze of the past attacks all know-how: Secrets of wash and finish that took a lifetime To learn and are reduced to the status of Black-and-white illustrations in a book where colorplates Are rare. That is, all time Reduces to no special time. No one Alludes to the change; to do so might Involve calling attention to oneself Which would augment the dread of not getting out Before having seen the whole collection (Except for the sculptures in the basement: They are where they belong). Our time gets to be veiled, compromised By the portrait's will to endure. It hints at Our own, which we were hoping to keep hidden. We don't need paintings or Doggerel written by mature poets when The explosion is so precise, so fine. Is there any point even in acknowledging The existence of all that? Does it Exist? Certainly the leisure to Indulge stately pastimes doesn't, Any more. Today has no margins, the event arrives Flush with its edges, is of the same substance, Indistinguishable. "Play" is something else; It exists, in a society specifically Organized as a demonstration of itself. There is no other way, and those assholes Who would confuse everything with their mirror games Which seem to multiply stakes and possibilities, or At least confuse issues by means of an investing Aura that would corrode the architecture Of the whole in a haze of suppressed mockery, Are beside the point. They are out of the game, Which doesn't exist until they are out of it. It seems like a very hostile universe But as the principle of each individual thing is Hostile to, exists at the expense of all the others As philosophers have often pointed out, at least This thing, the mute, undivided present, Has the justification of logic, which In this instance isn't a bad thing Or wouldn't be, if the way of telling Didn't somehow intrude, twisting the end result Into a caricature of itself. This always Happens, as in the game where A whispered phrase passed around the room Ends up as something completely different. It is the principle that makes works of art so unlike What the artist intended. Often he finds He has omitted the thing he started out to say In the first place. Seduced by flowers, Explicit pleasures, he blames himself (though Secretly satisfied with the result), imagining He had a say in the matter and exercised An option of which he was hardly conscious, Unaware that necessity circumvents such resolutions. So as to create something new For itself, that there is no other way, That the history of creation proceeds according to Stringent laws, and that things Do get done in this way, but never the things We set out to accomplish and wanted so desperately To see come into being. Parmigianino Must have realized this as he worked at his Life-obstructing task. One is forced to read The perfectly plausible accomplishment of a purpose Into the smooth, perhaps even bland (but so Enigmatic) finish. Is there anything To be serious about beyond this otherness That gets included in the most ordinary Forms of daily activity, changing everything Slightly and profoundly, and tearing the matter Of creation, any creation, not just artistic creation Out of our hands, to install it on some monstrous, near Peak, too close to ignore, too far For one to intervene? This otherness, this "Not-being-us" is all there is to look at In the mirror, though no one can say How it came to be this way. A ship Flying unknown colors has entered the harbor. You are allowing extraneous matters To break up your day, cloud the focus Of the crystal ball. Its scene drifts away Like vapor scattered on the wind. The fertile Thought-associations that until now came So easily, appear no more, or rarely. Their Colorings are less intense, washed out By autumn rains and winds, spoiled, muddied, Given back to you because they are worthless. Yet we are such creatures of habit that their Implications are still around en permanence, confusing Issues. To be serious only about sex Is perhaps one way, but the sands are hissing As they approach the beginning of the big slide Into what happened. This past Is now here: the painter's Reflected face, in which we linger, receiving Dreams and inspirations on an unassigned Frequency, but the hues have turned metallic, The curves and edges are not so rich. Each person Has one big theory to explain the universe But it doesn't tell the whole story And in the end it is what is outside him That matters, to him and especially to us Who have been given no help whatever In decoding our own man-size quotient and must rely On second-hand knowledge. Yet I know That no one else's taste is going to be Any help, and might as well be ignored. Once it seemed so perfect--gloss on the fine Freckled skin, lips moistened as though about to part Releasing speech, and the familiar look Of clothes and furniture that one forgets. This could have been our paradise: exotic Refuge within an exhausted world, but that wasn't In the cards, because it couldn't have been The point. Aping naturalness may be the first step Toward achieving an inner calm But it is the first step only, and often Remains a frozen gesture of welcome etched On the air materializing behind it, A convention. And we have really No time for these, except to use them For kindling. The sooner they are burnt up The better for the roles we have to play. Therefore I beseech you, withdraw that hand, Offer it no longer as shield or greeting, The shield of a greeting, Francesco: There is room for one bullet in the chamber: Our looking through the wrong end Of the telescope as you fall back at a speed Faster than that of light to flatten ultimately Among the features of the room, an invitation Never mailed, the "it was all a dream" Syndrome, though the "all" tells tersely Enough how it wasn't. Its existence Was real, though troubled, and the ache Of this waking dream can never drown out The diagram still sketched on the wind, Chosen, meant for me and materialized In the disguising radiance of my room. We have seen the city; it is the gibbous Mirrored eye of an insect. All things happen On its balcony and are resumed within, But the action is the cold, syrupy flow Of a pageant. One feels too confined, Sifting the April sunlight for clues, In the mere stillness of the ease of its Parameter. The hand holds no chalk And each part of the whole falls off And cannot know it knew, except Here and there, in cold pockets Of remembrance, whispers out of time.

#john ashbery #poem

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