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whenisitenoughtrees · 4 years ago

Text

a slow voice on a wave of phase

Logan has a voice like a galaxy, shot through with silver and streaked with stars, and today, Roman has realized that he is in love.

Roman has seen colors in sounds for as long as he can remember, and Logan's voice paints the night sky across his vision. It's no wonder that he falls in love with him, though it is surprising that he took this long to realize it.

(Wherein Roman pines, Remus' input is surprisingly helpful, and Logan has a lot more feelings than anyone is giving him credit for.)

Content Warnings: Remus-typical inappropriateness, mild Roman-typical insecurity

Word Count: 5,629

Pairings: Logince, platonic Creativitwins, brief mention of Dukeceit

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

The idea comes to him suddenly, and by ‘suddenly,’ he means ‘with the force of a giant shark crashing through the wall of his bedroom at ninety miles per hour,’ because that is how Remus makes his entrance: half-naked, dripping wet, and straddling the back of a two-and-a-half ton great white.

“Tada!” Remus crows, sliding onto the floor. “You bet I couldn’t do it!” The shark, presumably irritated either by the lack of water dooming it to slow asphyxiation or by the loud, annoying man yelling in its face, flops around on the floor helplessly. Roman watches it through half-lidded eyes, and briefly considers getting up to deal with it before it starts knocking things over.

“But the proof’s in the pudding!” his brother continues, slapping the shark with a wink. Who the wink is directed at, Roman has no idea. Hopefully not the shark, though he wouldn’t put it past him. “Or in the big-ass shark! It only ate me three times before I got to ride it!” At this, he makes a disgusting motion with his hips, calling attention to the fact that his swimming trunks really do not cover enough, and Roman wonders just what, exactly, he did to deserve this treatment.

“What are you doing in my room?” he demands. Or at least, he means to demand; it comes out sounding more like an exhausted sigh, and he supposes that he shouldn’t have expected anything different. Lying in bed in pajamas is not a position from which one can demand much of anything, even if that one happens to be a prince with an incredible amount of creative power at his fingertips.

Not that he’s feeling much creative power at the moment.

Remus finally seems to register his tone and position. He stalks forward, his nose wrinkling, and Roman is greeted with a close-up view of his brother’s bare chest, which is just about par the course. It could be worse, he supposes. At least he’s shirtless and not pantsless. Mostly.

“What crawled up your ass and died there?” Remus asks. “Ooh, was it a spider, like, the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the waterspout, except the waterspout’s your--”

“Oh my god,” he says, and finally works up the willpower to sit up and shove his brother away. “Can you stop?”

“Can’t stop won’t stop!” Remus trills gleefully, but Roman ignores him in favor of standing to inspect the shark in the middle of his bedroom floor. It is, he has to admit, a bit impressive, and all those teeth are equal parts cool and terrifying. He would likely be more impressed if it wasn’t expiring on his carpet, or if there wasn’t a shark-sized hole in his wall leading to parts unknown. He frowns, focusing and waving a hand, and both the shark and the damage disappear. Unfortunately, the water all over the floor does not.

“Wow,” Remus says. “You are no fun.”

“If you think I’m leaving an open path to your side of the Imagination in my room, you’re…” Remus grins at him, propping his head up in his hands and waggling his eyebrows expectantly. “... nevermind.”

“I never do mind,” Remus agrees, and takes the initiative to flop down onto his bed, thus getting water all over his bedsheets, because he’s an inconsiderate jerk. “So, what’s got you all down in the dumps? Usually, I crash a shark through your wall and you get all pissy about it, but you’re being boring. What gives?”

Roman glares, and seriously considers trying to remove him too. There was a time when he would have been able to do so easily, a time when he knew for a fact that he belonged in the light and Remus belonged in the dark, with all of the other things that ooze and crawl. But things aren’t so black and white these days, and now that Thomas has begun to tentatively ask for Remus’ input every now and again, it’s harder than ever to make him leave when he gets it in his head that he wants to be somewhere. He is, in that way, a bit like a pimple, or a particularly persistent mold. Neither of which he can actually call him to his face, because he’ll just take it as a compliment, but the fact remains that once he grows on, it is incredibly difficult to scrape him off.

“What gives is that I want you out of my room,” he tries, crossing his arms, but Remus makes a tsking sound.

“Oh, sure,” he says. “That’s why you were lying there all sad and shit? You looked like someone that decided that their idea of fun is to lie down in the middle of the street and see what happens.” He pauses. “Actually, do you think Thomas would--”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

He pouts. “Boo,” he says. “You never let me do anything. But I mean, really Ro Ro, it can’t be a creative block. I’ve seen you in one of those, and you get all whiny and sick and then you start acting like you’re a poet in the 18oos and you’ve got consumption.” He lays a hand across his brow. “Oh me oh my, if only I could write one last poem before I cough my whole lungs out of my body. Ooh, could you imagine what that would look like? Your lungs, just sliding out of your mouth like big grey sacks?”

“First of all, no, gross,” Roman says. “Also, I didn’t know poets dying of consumption sounded like congested Southern belles.”

Remus waves a hand. “Eh, not the point,” he says. “And maybe the poets didn’t, but you sure do.”

“Hey--”

“But my point,” he continues, “is that it can’t be that, ‘cause Thomas has got a backlog of weeks’ worth of ideas to peruse if he actually wants to do something, which means that’s not your issue.” He rolls over on his side, so as better to make eye contact. “So what is your deal?”

Roman opens his mouth and promptly closes it again. Honestly, if this were about anything else, he might consider telling him. As annoying as he is, he feels closer to Remus now than he has in years, perhaps to the point where he could feel comfortable sharing something personal. Sure, Remus will probably laugh or make fun, or twist it into something weird or a horrible innuendo, but at least it would be out there, in the open, and someone else would know of it. At least there would be proof of its existence outside of his own mind.

But this? Can he share this?

Because the deal isn’t a messed up audition or a troublesome idea. It isn’t even one of his usual personal issues, like the self-doubt that creeps into his mind in the small hours of the morning, the whispered thought that none of his ideas are worthy of use, that he himself is failing in his purpose, a mere facsimile of the prince that he is supposed to be.

No. For once, it’s not that, and he refuses to fall down that rabbit hole.

The deal is that Logan has a voice like a galaxy, shot through with silver and streaked with stars, and today, Roman has realized that he is in love.

-----

It took a while for either of them to notice that none of the others experience the world the way they do. They never thought to question it; Roman saw colors in sound, and Remus heard music in images, and that was just the way it was. It wasn’t until they were a bit older that they figured out that the weird looks they garnered when they brought it up, when Roman mentioned a teacher with a corn-yellow drawl or when Remus talked about a picture in 3/4 time, weren’t just disapproval directed at the way the Creativities saw the world, but instead a genuine lack of understanding.

They stopped talking about it, eventually. Or rather, Roman stopped talking about it, and Remus accepted that nobody would pay attention to his eccentricities as long as he presented them in a certain way.

So really, it’s not that Roman is hiding it. It’s just never come up.

Remus’ voice is like an oil spill, black and thick and oozing, but with flashes of lime green running through it, the color of slime and radioactive waste. Patton’s is pink, yellow, and blue all swirled together, like a field of flowers, or every flavor of cotton candy all at once. Virgil’s voice is more difficult to pin down; once, he thought it was a black, swirling smoke, but as the years have passed, Roman has realized that the smoke is not black, but dark purple, only showing its true color when light is shined through it. Janus’ is similarly difficult to interpret, but lately, he has likened it to a still, quiet forest, all dark green and brown, secrets lurking just under the surface.

But Logan’s has always been his favorite. Because Logan’s voice sounds like space itself, a backdrop of black peppered with millions of shining, twinkling lights, mixed with bright galaxies and spinning nebulae, vast and beautiful and incomprehensible. At his calmest, it is a void, the light of the stars distant and cold, but when he gets excited, when he begins to ramble about a topic, the stars increase in number and illuminate his whole face, swirling in his eyes and hair, and Roman could listen to him for days.

He’s always known that he has a bit of a crush. But he’s always thought that a crush was all it was, and if it was a bit longer-lasting than crushes are meant to be, well, it’s not as if there are a lot of other options. The mindscape proper only has seven inhabitants, and it would feel wrong to try to date someone from the Imagination, considering that he controls the place. So, he’s been content to linger on his feelings for Logan, never pushing for anything more than he would be willing to give, because another thing that he’s always known is that never in a million years would his feelings be returned.

Logan, as he has said himself so many times, does not do feelings. And even though Roman knows very well that Logan is not nearly as unfeeling as he would like to pretend to be, that does not mean that he would be comfortable with, or even open to the idea of a relationship. And even if he were, he would not choose to be with him, would not choose the embodiment of dreams and fantasies, everything that logic attempts to deny. So it’s a hopeless crush, a one-sided romance for the ages, the type of story that Roman would be captivated with if he weren’t at the center of it, if thinking about it didn’t make his chest tight and his eyes sting.

But this morning--

Oh, gods of Olympus, this morning--

He has no idea what prompted the epiphany. By all rights, this morning was like any other morning: Patton at the pancake griddle, Virgil slumped and half-awake at the table, Logan sipping at his coffee. Roman made his usual stunning and gorgeous entrance, ready to tackle the day’s challenges like a true knight would, and traded his usual morning barbs with Virgil. But before he could even sit down, Logan looked up at him, smiled slightly, and said, “Good morning, Roman,” a galaxy glittering around him, and Roman took a brief moment to think about how much he loves him.

And then stopped up short. Because, what? Love? No?

Except, yes.

These feelings have been bursting in his chest for so long, fireworks setting off whenever Logan speaks, whenever Logan so much as looks his way. And he thought they were a crush, no more than that, if not ignorable then at least possible to work around. But that’s not right, has never been right, and in this instant, years’ worth of suppositions came crashing down around his ears.

So, his mind racing, the silence stretching too long, he did the only thing he could think to do.

“I, uh, forgot a thing,” he stammered, and beat a hasty retreat back to his room, ignoring the way Patton called after him. Upon closing the door behind him, he changed back into his pajamas and collapsed back on his bed, his mind whirling, intent on not facing anybody else until he has to.

Because he loves Logan. Is in love with Logan. Has been in love with Logan for years and years now, has been pining away without even understanding that that was what he was doing.

Frankly, he’s not sure he can think of a worse position to be in.

-----

Which brings him here: his floor wet, his arms crossed, and Remus staring expectantly at him, waiting for an explanation. And Remus isn’t one to back down easily, which leaves Roman in a predicament.

He could try lying. But he’s not sure he could lie well enough about this, and frankly, he doesn’t want to risk Janus getting himself involved. But the only other option is the truth, and he’s not sure he wants Remus to know the truth, not sure he trusts Remus not to hold it over his head, to mock him or to stick his fingers in an open wound that he himself has only just discovered.

Because Remus would definitely do that. Both literally and figuratively.

“Bro,” Remus says, looking amused, “whatever it is, I’m almost positive it’s not that deep. You know what is deep?”

“What?” Roman replies, hoping beyond hope for a change of topic.

“My butt!” Remus says, and then cackles.

Roman buries his face in his hands, and Remus’ laughter stretches on and on and on, filling the room with slick oil, painting the walls with slime and noxious fumes, and green squiggles worm their way onto the backs of his eyelids, and he absolutely cannot do this right now.

“I’m in love with Logan,” he mumbles into his hands, and the laughter cuts off abruptly.

“You’re what?” Remus asks, and Roman looks up from his hands. Remus has sat up in his bed, and is staring at him with a peculiarly intent expression.

“I’m in love with Logan,” he repeats, firmer this time. He holds Remus’ gaze, daring him to say something, so of course, Remus does, erupting into laughter once again.

“You can’t be serious,” he says in between giggles. “Really? Logan? He’s such a stick in the mud. A stick in the mud with a stick up his butt. It’s like a flag, except, instead of a flag it’s Logan, because the stick is both in the mud and up his butt.” He pauses, and Roman’s face must be doing something, because Remus sobers just a bit, raising an eyebrow. “Huh. You’re actually serious.”

He groans, plopping down in the middle of the floor, ignoring the way the dampness of the carpet seeps into his pants. “I don’t know what to do,” he moans, more to air his grievance than to accomplish anything else. It’s not as if he’s expecting Remus to have any useful suggestions for him.

But Remus shifts on the bed so he can face him completely. “Okay, you’re gonna have to explain this one to me, because I don’t get it,” he says. “Whenever I look at Logan, I get robot noises and video game music on full blast.” He breaks off, humming a few bars, and Roman has to admit that it’s not an unpleasant tune, though not one he would think to associate with Logan. “Plus,” Remus continues, “he’s so boring. Sure, he’s fun to wind up, but he’s all about the rules and being logical and no, Thomas can’t do that, he’ll get acid burns, so why don’t we watch a documentary instead?” He says the last in an almost perfect imitation of Logan’s voice, his face darkening. Oddly, when Remus does it, Roman doesn’t connect the sound with space at all, hearing only the same oily splatters that his brother’s voice usually consists of. “I don’t want to watch documentaries. I want to do shit.”

Roman shakes his head. “You don’t hear what his voice actually sounds like,” he insists. “It’s… gods above, he talks, and it’s like he brings all the stars down to earth. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in my life.” He scrubs a hand across his face. “And sometimes he smiles and says something smart, and I’m just, wow, I would die for you. Do you know how pretty his smile is? And he’s so frickin’ smart.”

Remus’ expression has frozen halfway between awe and disgust. “You’ve got it bad,” he says, and Roman groans.

“You think I don’t know that?” he says. “I just don’t know what to do about it!” He sighs. “Theoretically, I know all about romance and wooing. I’m the romance guy! But when I think about wooing Logan, my stomach gets all twisted up in knots. Like a sad pretzel. I mean, grand gestures and gifts are the way to go, right? But what even could I give him that he would like? He hates things that are ‘frivolous and unrealistic,’ but that’s my whole thing!”

Remus cocks his head. “Bones,” he says sagely.

He blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Give him some bones,” Remus says, nodding, like this makes perfect sense. “Like, two, maybe three bones. Boys like bones.”

“... Where am I getting these bones?”

Remus’ face brightens. “I’ve got a few extra!” he proclaims. “Wanna see?”

“I-- no,” he says. “Stop. I’m not giving him bones. Why do you--” No, best not to question. “Nevermind. Is that how you got Janus to date you?”

Remus grins. “Nah,” he says. “I mean, maybe that helped. I think what really did it was that I wrote him our song.”

“You wrote him a song?”

“No, stupid, our song,” he says. “Like, how I look at him and I hear a song. And then I’ve got a song, too. So I figured out a way to mash them together. And then I gave it to him.” He sighs, almost dreamily, if Remus has a dreamy setting. Roman would like to never hear that again, thank you, because frankly, he doesn’t much want to hear about whatever weird relationship his brother has with Deceit, and he sort of regrets bringing it up in the first place. “He really, really liked it. Said it was the best thing he’d ever heard.” Remus pauses, an odd light entering his eyes. “He said something about it being from the heart. I tried giving him my actual heart, but then he said that wasn’t what he meant.”

“From the heart,” he mutters, considering. So, something heartfelt, personal. Remus literally gave Deceit something that showed how he perceived him, everything that he felt. But how can he do the same and make sure that it’s something Logan likes? Logan likes science, likes math and numbers, likes facts, and Roman doesn’t know anything about any of those things. All he knows is how Logan makes him feel and the way his voice shines like starlight in his mind’s eye, and he’s not sure how to translate that into something Logan would appreciate, or even understand.

And then it comes: the idea.

“Holy shit,” he says, spine straightening, the burst of inspiration setting his mind to whirring. For an instant, he sees it dancing before him, an image of perfection, within his reach if only he can replicate exactly what he envisions. “Remus, you’re a genius!”

Remus gawks. “I am?” he asks, and his face brightens. “I already knew that, but fuck yeah!”

Roman laughs, bright and free, clambering to his feet. “Okay, okay, I know what I’m doing,” he says. “So I need you to get out, but god, thank you so much.”

Remus hops off the bed without protest. “Anytime, bro bro,” he says, sauntering toward the door. “Remember to put in a good word with Tommy-boy for me. And if you end up fucking, put a sock on the door.”

“You’re gross,” Roman says, pushing him out. The words carry no bite, and the last thing he sees before closing the door in his face is Remus grinning at him, an expression of pure delight.

-----

In the end, it takes him a week. A week holed up in his room, only occasionally emerging to grab food, and he knows he’s making everyone else worry, but he can’t stop himself, doesn’t dare stop until what he sees in his mind has been set to paper, exactly how he wants it. It has been so long since an idea has gripped him like this, since he has been so inspired to create, since he has been so sure in his ability to make something beautiful, and he feels as though he could subsist on his exhilaration alone.

When it is done, he steps back, admires his handiwork, and proceeds to sleep for twenty-two hours straight.

On the eighth day, he steps out into the hallway, canvas tucked securely under his arm, and makes his way down the hall to Logan’s room.

He takes a deep breath before knocking, hoping to steady his nerves. He hasn’t had much time, these past few days, to worry about whether or not Logan would like it, but now, he’s wondering if this was a mistake, if this is something that would be better kept to himself. He can wave off the others’ concern by pretending he was working on hypothetical ideas, or that a quest in the Imagination ran over-long. He doesn’t actually have to give this to Logan at all, doesn’t have to bare himself like this, doesn’t have to risk his scorn and judgement.

But what else is love, in the end, if not a risk worth taking?

He knocks, and moments later, hears footsteps from inside. He barely has time to check that there is a smile on his face before Logan opens the door, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“Roman,” he greets, and though nothing outwardly changes, Roman’s brain insists that a shooting star streaks across his vision. “We haven’t seen much of you these past few days.”

“Ah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “right, sorry. I just got caught up in the creative process, you know how it is.”

“I do not,” Logan says. “Nevertheless, I am glad to see you well.” He pauses. “I was… somewhat concerned after your hasty exit the last time I saw you. I wanted to ensure that I did not do something to offend you.”

Oh, shit. He’s been so busy that he hadn’t bothered to think about how that moment might have been interpreted. And there is an odd note in Logan’s tone that implies that this is actually something that’s been troubling him, and Roman feels like kicking himself for letting him worry about it.

“No, no, not at all!” he says, gesturing with his free hand. “I just got struck with inspiration in that very moment, so of course, I needed to retreat before the idea was lost.” He winces internally as the words leave his mouth. It is a lie, but only just; it certainly wasn’t inspiration that he was struck with. That came later.

“I see,” Logan says, and Roman hopes that he isn’t imagining the way his shoulders relax, if only slightly. “That is good to hear. In that case, was there something you needed from me?”

“I--” He breaks off, swallowing hard. This is the moment of truth, the last second in which he could turn back. He is, essentially, offering up all of his emotions on a silver platter, even if Logan likely won’t recognize that fact. Still, rejection at this point would hurt worse than any failed audition, worse than any mistake he has ever made, and he has made so many.

But he has spent so long on this. He wants it to be seen by its object.

“This is for you,” he blurts out, and shoves the canvas out in front of him like a shield. Logan takes it, startled, and Roman watches as his eyes flicker across the painting, widening ever so slightly.

After a week’s worth of work, he knows exactly what Logan is seeing. A painting of blacks and dark blues and purples, pinpricks of whites and yellows and reds, a display of the cosmos swirling on a backdrop of the void. Everything that Roman sees when Logan speaks is here: the inky darkness of his calm, the supernova of his anger, the stars that glitter and twirl in his excitement. It is like no view of space that mankind has ever seen, because this universe is Logan, completely and utterly, is comprised of the galaxies that drip from his tongue when he speaks.

This is how Roman sees him. This is how Roman loves him.

The silence stretches on for a long time, so long that Roman is tempted to declare the whole thing a bust, to laugh and play it off like it’s no big deal, like his heart won’t be completely and utterly crushed if Logan hates it.

“You painted this?” Logan finally asks. His voice sounds choked, a star collapsing in on itself. Roman shuffles his feet.

“Uh, yeah,” he says. “I just thought, um, you like space? So I, uh. Do you like it?”

He tries not to sound needy, tries not to sound like his happiness is contingent on the answer he receives. He’s not sure how much he succeeds.

“It’s… adequate,” Logan replies, and Roman could dance, could sing his relief to any and all who would listen, because he knows Logan well enough to know what that means. And if that’s the best he’ll get, he’ll take it and go and be glad, because Logan likes it, and that is more than enough for him. He feels like he’s on top of the world, like he’s floating in space himself, orbiting the moon and staring into the sun and being blinded and loving every minute of it.

“Actually,” Logan says, and for a second, Roman’s heart drops into his shoes, before he continues with, “it’s… it’s far more than adequate. I don’t know much about art, but I know a piece of expert craftsmanship when I see one.” He looks up at Roman, his eyes shining. “You made this for me?”

There is an emotion in his voice that Roman cannot name, but it is speckled with so many stars, more than he thinks he’s ever seen at once. More stars than void, at least, shining and shimmering with light.

And Roman wasn’t planning to do this. Was planning to take this slowly, was planning to give Logan his offering and leave, using his reaction as a gauge for the next step, if he dared to take a next step at all, if he came away with the conclusion that Logan would not hate him for attempting a romance. But the way Logan is staring at him, wide-eyed and open, as if he has been gifted something incredibly precious, makes him want Logan to understand just how much this means, just how much it says. Just how much of his heart and soul he is putting on the line.

Dear sweet Beyonce, he’s actually going to do it, isn’t he?

“I did,” he says. “Um, okay, I’ve never actually explained this to anyone, so bear with me.” Logan tilts his head, confused, but is otherwise silent. “Uh, have you ever heard of the thing where people’s senses get crossed? Like, say, you associate a color with a particular number or letter?”

Logan’s eyebrows furrow. “Are you referring to synesthesia?” he asks.

He can’t stop his smile. Logan’s heard of it. Maybe that will make this easier. “Yeah, that,” he says. “So, uh, Remus and I have that. He hears music when he looks at things, and I, uh. Well. I’ve sort of got the opposite.”

Logan stares at him. “You’re telling me,” he says, “that all these years, you’ve both perceived the world in an entirely different way from the rest of us, and you’ve never said a word about it?”

He winces. “I suppose?” he says. “Are you angry?”

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Logan is angry. He didn’t intend for Logan to be angry. He’s going to be angry if Logan is angry, angry with himself for spoiling this moment, for daring to reach for more than he could have. He should have left it alone, should have taken Logan’s enjoyment of the painting for what it was and not pushed for anything more. God, his heart feels as though it’s trying to claw its way out of his throat.

But Logan shakes his head. “No, just… surprised,” he says. “When you say you have the opposite of what Remus does, do you mean that you see images when you listen to music?”

“Sort of?” he says. “Not really images, more just arrangements of colors, if that makes sense. And I don’t actually see it with my eyes, just in my head, even though it feels like I’m seeing it with my eyes, sometimes. Even though I know I’m not really.” He pauses for a breath. He doesn’t think he’s explaining himself very well, but Logan is sill listening, so he has no choice but to push on. “And, um, not just music. Any sound, really.”

Logan nods, seeming to take it in stride. “I think I understand,” he says. “It truly is fascinating how so many of us exhibit traits and quirks that Thomas himself does not.” A measure of excitement bleeds into his voice, flaring up like the sun, and Roman resists the urge to blurt out something incredibly sappy and highly inappropriate for the moment. “So, this painting--” He glances back down at the painting, still gripped in both hands, and then abruptly stops talking.

“It’s, uh, it’s you,” Roman says, attempting to fill up the sudden quiet. “It’s your voice. I mean, it’s what I see when I hear your voice.”

“It’s… me?”

“Yes,” he says.

“You… you see this when I talk?”

“Uh huh,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Logan’s head is lowered, his voice too soft to read well, and Roman’s nerves begin to return in full force. “Was this weird? I’m sorry if this was weird. I just, your voice is so gorgeous, and I really wanted to paint it, and I’m probably making this worse, aren’t I? If you don’t like it anymore you don’t have to keep it.”

At last, Logan raises his head. His face is burning bright red, and Roman really, really hopes it’s not in fury, hopes that he hasn’t just ruined everything. Slowly, Logan sets the painting down to rest against the wall and steps forward. Roman, for his part, is rooted in place, tracking every movement, every breath.

“Roman,” Logan says. “Don’t be idiotic.”

And then, he backs Roman against the wall and kisses him.

He doesn’t kiss like Roman would have expected. There is nothing cold about it, nothing clinical; instead, he is hard and demanding, insistent and passionate, and as soon as Roman’s brain reboots, he returns it just as eagerly, deepening it, placing his hands on the sides of Logan’s face to hold him there, hold him where he can taste him, because he has fantasized about this moment but never, ever thought that this dream could come true. And when Logan pulls back, he doesn’t go far, his face lingering bare inches from his own. His breaths puff across his skin, and behind his glasses, his pupils are dilated.

“So I take it you like it,” Roman says. His voice is hoarse.

“I do,” Logan says. His face is flushed, twisted in what is probably embarrassment, but he doesn’t look away. “And lately, I have found myself rather liking you, too. I, ah, didn’t think you returned the sentiment.”

Roman blinks, and then, throws back his head and laughs. “Are you serious?” he asks. “We could have been doing this already?” He tugs Logan’s face closer to his, resting their foreheads together. Logan turns an even more brilliant shade of scarlet. “Just in case I didn’t make it clear,” he says, “I really, really like you, Logan.” He strokes a thumb across his cheek. “My galaxy,” he breathes. “My starlight.”

Logan makes a noise deep in the back of his throat. “Yes,” he says, and it’s almost a squeak. “That is satisfactory.”

And with that, with starlight gleaming behind his eyes and his heart tapping out double-time, Roman laughs, and pulls Logan back in.

-----

A few nights later, he finds a collection of questionably-shaped bones sitting on his dresser. He is less than enthusiastic, but Logan seems interested, so he kisses his boyfriend-- his boyfriend!-- on the top of his head and leaves him to his scientific study. Of bones. Because Logan is a weird nerd, but that’s alright, because he loves him both in spite of it and because of it.

He just. Loves Logan. All of him. So much. And Logan likes him back, and now they’re together, and really, nothing could be better than this.

He briefly considers the merits of getting Remus a gift basket, but ultimately decides against it. They’ve never needed that sort of thing between them, and if the next time Remus intrudes on his space, he doesn’t protest as much as he usually would? Well, they both understand, and that’s more than enough.

Writing Taglist: @just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree @glitchybina

#sanders sides #ts sides #logince #creativitwins #ts roman #roman sanders #ts remus #remus sanders #ts logan #logan sanders #sympathetic remus #long post #my fic #*blows kiss to my collection of disney movies*#this one's for you roman #happy birthday to the best gay disney prince

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hardgivermilkshake · 3 years ago

Text

JAIMEANDRéSCASTILLO

Biography;

ANDRéS CASTILLO born in Popayán Colombia from musical and attorneys parents heritage, studied at the kinder garden Mi Trensito, My little Train; Colegio Calasanz, at his high school, where he participated at the chorus, started his guitar studies and never lose a year till successful graduation. Jaime Andrés ( his given name & the way some people call him in Colombia ) studied his first guitar and music lesson w/ his father, el doctor Jaime Castillo Fernández. Castillo ( like some people call ANDRéS in the States, when called at high school and in the army on his mandatory service at BOGOTá ) studied in several schools of music and in an English school at Chicago, Illinois at The United States. Actually, Jaime Andrés studied in one of the most important conservatories in America; had the real pleausre to get his participation in class at The Chicago College of Performing Arts where he degreed a Bachelor of Music, “convalidación pendiente,” a hold on convalidations at the Ministrar of Education in Colombia. In addition, his first great Jazz guitar lesson was w/ Gabriel Rondón. Castillo also studied at La Académia Cristancho as one of his first formal music studies, remarkable lessons with Baracaldo, and Jorge Pulecio. Moreover, he studied at La Universidad Javeriana where the program of jazz was not accepted but he could studied classical guitar in the formal program with Maestro Carlos Posada. Anyway, aftermath, Castillo goes to look for the real swing, Jazz at The US, founding John Mclean as his maestro and teacher at Roosevelt University in The Chicago College of Performing Arts, and maestro Paul Henry who pushed classical guitar as a minor, you know, and in this coming and going and ups and downs, funs and funcks... Castillo ends up studying his Master of Arts of pedagogy applied on music with emphasis in classical guitar with Brian Torrosian, a branch in Andrés Segovia´s class technique. “Maestro Oscar Giguilla I´m so sorry I could not graduate yet from NEIU, I´m working on the studios and Maestro´s Villalobos and Bach works still....” I´ll be back though! I sweetly remember my couple of classes with maestra Pamela Kimball at the CCPA, thank you maestra. Maestra Phillips your class was beautiful, maestro Scott great lessons and I have to talk to you soon. Maestros Hassey, Folse and Marquozy my grace hello... TEACHERS MAESTROS GRACE AND GENEROUS PEOPLE at the CCPA, Northeastern Illinois University and The University of Illinois at Chicago..............dolce grace tutti. Thank you maestros Fareed Hake and Jeff Parker for your lesson as well.

ANDRéS

“I´m still studying the class of all my guitar maestros, you know how it goes, plus I´m very happy to continue doing it.” says ANDRéS with a smile in his laughing face.

Several concerts & jam sessions in my curriculum

Solo guitar appearances.

Compositions for solo guitar and other formats.

Arranger on my own music catalogue: albums, youtube, facebook, instagram, tiktok channels...

Teaching at several institutions in Colombia, Universities, and at the Chicago area Castillo taught in different level programs becoming a strong well done teacher. “I enjoyed my teaching process so much getting great results for my own program...”

°) albums are part of his publishing corporate records among paintings, poems, tails, and a guess that participated in Disney channel as soon the girls mention it...

Awards in Elmhurst College Jazz Festival for outstanding recognition, Honores conferred from the members of the faculty at Roosevelt University, The Chicago College of Performing Arts, Nombramiento como Par-académico en Colombia, convalidaciones pendientes en el territorio soberano. Becas logradas por merito, Academia Cristancho, ( menoscabo universidad javeriana, no beca allowed ), Roosevelt University and Northeastern Illinois University, paying for all his studies at The United States parallel to his living from 1°)°)°) to 200/ (1999-2007).

Actually ANDRéS CASTILLO as much people know and call him at The United States, is promoting his collaboration with the band leader and outstanding saxophonist Taku Akiyama at youTube, facebook, instagram, tik tok and his own...

“My experience of having fun with maestro Taku points in the fact that maestro Taku was very patient since the first day I performed with his till today, I was not the same performer from first tune we just played till the end, he was a real gentleman, a very big fan of guitar, he liked my playing and he let me know that several times, as well as the members of his quintet, Noritaka, Joshua and Timothy, The Taku Akiyama´s Quintet. It is hard to tell but responsibility don´t seam to be the most popular thing nowadays, I loved that feature in his personality and as the director of the jazz program we shared as fellow students at The Chicago College of Performing Arts, el maestro Rob Parton mentioned referring to el maestro Taku: ´he is a very special person,´ repeating this for our fellow students when one day maestro Taku was absent... Y nunca lo olvidaré...”

JAIMEANDRéSCASTILLO

Former President(e)-vicepresident(e);

ANDRéS CASTILLO MUSIC PUBLISHING, INC. ANDRéS is actual student of maestro Henry Johnson, ( recomended to check out his channels ). On rights 2021 June 28, BOGOTá. Col.

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queer-cosette · 5 years ago

Text

Coco Writes

OK, so I know I’m not always great about summarising my fics on here; I usually just post links. But here is a masterpost of all my fics!

Les Miserables

The Leader And The Cynic

Rated T

1/1 chapter; 1226 words

Summary:

A series of moments from the relationship of Enjolras and Grantaire. Because now my happiness depends on the happiness of fictional revolutionaries. Modern AU

Read on FF.net

Series - On Se Sent Comme Par Magie

The Destiny Of Cosette

Rated T

No Archive Warnings Apply

22/22 chapters; 88,475 words

Summary:

Cosette is an ordinary Parisian teenager - until one day, she stumbles across a powerful Faery being attacked by an ogre! And when she inadvertently uses magic to protect the Faery, Enjolras, she realises that she’s maybe not as normal as she thought. Enjolras invites her to attend Faery school in another dimension with him, where they become friends with three other faeries - Courfeyrac, Jehan and Éponine - and form Les Amis. But all is not well in the Magic Dimension -

What’s the deal with Grantaire, Marius, Bahorel and Combeferre - four cute wizards from another school?

What are Patron-Minette - a trio of witches - planning?

And who is Fantine, the mysterious Nymph who keeps appearing in Cosette’s dreams?

Read on AO3

The Shadow Phoenix

Rated T

No Archive Warnings Apply

26/26 chapters; 165,435 words

Summary:

Les Amis start their second year at Musain College for Faeries, and right off the bat, strange things begin happening in the Magic Dimension. Musichetta, a water Faery, arrives at the school begging for help to rescue her friends, the Piskies, and Patron-Minette have busted out of rehabilitation with the help of a strange skeletal knight - who matches Musichetta’s description of the Piskies’ kidnapper. With the help of Musichetta, Feuilly - a Wizard and new member of Les Amis -, and Professor Mabeuf, the wise new philosophy teacher, this year promises to be as exciting as the last!

Read on AO3

The Warlock Of The Flame

Rated T

Major Character Death

18/25 chapters; 122,516 words

Summary:

Cosette’s life is going great! With Lord Méchant defeated, her final year at Musain College for Faeries is going to be normal (for once); her relationship with Marius is going spectacularly (and it looks like there’s a proposal in the pipeline!); and there’s nothing to suggest that the Magical Dimension is in any danger. But then news of something horrible happening on Musichetta’s home planet reaches the ears of Les Amis - and according to Headmaster Myriel, there’s only one Warlock who could have caused it. As Cosette and her friends face off with the culprit, it becomes more and more apparent that his true nature and past are darker than any of them could have imagined...

Read on AO3

***

Total Drama

Dear Diary

Rated M

Major Character Death, Reference To Eating Disorders and Attempted/Implied Sexual Assault

9/? chapters; 27,617 words

Summary:

"Dear Diary - My teen angst bullshit now has a body count."

Heather Chandler. Gwen Duke. Lindsay McNamara. Courtney Sawyer. Together they make up the most powerful clique at Westerburg High. Most people would die to get into it.

Courtney would kill to get out of it.

Enter Duncan Dean. He has a way with women, a way with words, and a very special way with a gun.

"It's God versus my boyfriend, and God's losing..."

Read on AO3

Read on FF.net

A Little Fall Of Rain

Rated T

Major Character Death

1/1 chapter; 663 words

Summary:

In the midst of the July Uprising, Gwen Thénardier takes a bullet for long time friend Duncan Pontmercy, despite his love for Courtney and his obliviousness towards her feelings for him. Gwen as Éponine, Duncan as Marius. Based off the scene in the musical. I don't own TDI or Les Mis. Warning: Character Death.

Read on FF.net

Freak Out, Let It Go

Rated K+ (G for AO3 users)

1/1 chapter; 271 words

Summary:

Alternatively called ‘What Happens When I listen To Avril Lavigne For Three Hours Straight’. One-shot starring our favourite crazy redhead. Enjoy.

Read on FF.net

Bubblegum Bitch

Rated T

1/1 chapter; 539 words

Summary:

Heather is shiny and perfect on the outside, but on the inside she's a backstabbing user - a mess.

Read on FF.net

I Wish

Rated T

Implied Character Death

1/1 chapter; 357 words

Summary:

When Courtney doesn't show up after TDWT's finale, Duncan does some serious thinking about the past.

Read on FF.net

***

Miraculous Ladybug

mArinette

Rated T

No Archive Warnings Apply

7/8 chapters

Summary:

Marinette tells a lie. A pretty big lie. And soon one lie turns into another, and before she knows it, she's going out of her way to keep the lie going.

When Lila lies, it's sloppy. But Marinette's lie is all too believable.

At least no one else is getting hurt by her lie.

But Marinette's about to find out how hard it is to be known as the school slut.

An Easy A AU.

Read on AO3

Series - A Miraculous Musical

Cute Boys With Short Haircuts

Rated G

No Archive Warnings Apply

1/1 chapter

Summary:

Marinette sees Adrien and Kagami kissing and jumps to conclusions. Hurt and upset, she heads up to her balcony to do the one thing that cheers her up: singing a really angsty song.

Adrien had nothing to do with the kiss. He just wants to ask Marinette out. He passes her balcony as Chat Noir and hears the most beautiful singing voice... but the song is so sad. And then he sticks around just a little too long, and catches sight of something he shouldn't have...

Read on AO3

Act One: Whalesong

Rated T

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

2/? chapters

Summary:

Marinette's family receives tragic news, and suddenly her cousin becomes her roommate. With her only possessions being a small suitcase of clothes and a bizarre hair-clip, anyone connected to María Sugrue-Dupain begins to become infected with some sort of singing virus - in which they have no choice but to sing about their problems. Ms Bustier, ever resourceful, takes the opportunity to direct the class in a production of the musical 'Heathers', and there is drama on-stage and off it.

But why does the singing virus exist at all? Why is Gabriel Agreste suddenly so interested in Adrien's schoolmates? And seriously, is Nathalie OK? The Gorilla wants to know if he should call someone. Should he call someone?

Read on AO3

Series - Let Me Be Loved

More Adventurous

Rated G

No Archive Warnings Apply

1/1 chapter

Summary:

"And it's only doubts that we're counting On fingers broken long ago. I read with every broken heart We should become more adventurous..."

As Marinette sings at a Kitty Section concert, Adrien starts to notice her in a new light. Unfortunately, he's too late, even if he's not quite sure what he's too late for.

100% inspired by 'More Adventurous' by Rilo Kiley

Read on AO3

***

Equestria Girls

Dazzlings

Rated M

Contains Major Character Death, Reference To Eating Disorders and Attempted/Implied Sexual Assault

13/13 chapters

Summary:

"Well, fuck me gently with a chainsaw! Nancy Drew is onto you, Sunset."

Sunset Shimmer wished she was popular, and she became popular -

And suddenly she wished she wasn’t popular.

When Sunset is faced with a fate seemingly worse than death, mysterious new kid Flash Sentry suggests she take matters into her own hands and use drain cleaner, Ich Lüge bullets, and adult ignorance to make the world a better place.

But is his vision of a world without bullies really worth the cost?

Read on AO3

Read on FF.net

***

Original Work

Our Relationship Was A Rainbow

Rated T

No Archive Warnings Apply

1/1 chapter

Summary:

An original piece following the course of a relationship that in spite of glowing all the colours of the rainbow, ended grey and cloudy.

Read on AO3

An Anthology Of Verse, written by a traumatised (yet certified) idiot

Rated G

No Archive Warnings Apply

2/? chapters

Summary:

I asked my followers on Tumblr if they'd be interested in reading some of my original poetry if I posted it here. Four likes and a comment saying "Yes please!!" is more than good enough for me. I hope you enjoy it!

(Note: A lot of this was initially written a few years ago - or even longer. Some of it has - naturally - been edited since my initial draft, but some of it may have a different style to my more recent writing.)

(Another Note: I will be posting new poems as they come to me, or I rediscover them. I will also update tags as I go.)

Read on Ao3

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crisisevil · 5 years ago

Text

A brief tale of dead languages and resilient teachers - a pynch fic

summary: Latin professor and local idiot Ronan Lynch thinks he's being subtle by leaving romantic poetry in a dead language for science teacher and confused soul Adam Parrish to find. He's not.

notes: I am very much italian, so all of this was written the italian school system in mind, where latin classes are more likely than they have any right to be and every group of students stay in the same class at all hours. I literally wrote this in a madwoman rampage at 3 a.m. after a weird saturday night because of the funny and adorable idea Kayla (lynchniall) shared on the infamous and wonderful screeming discord chat. I hope you enjoy it, it's short and silly but I liked writing it a lot.

The first time Adam saw Ronan Lynch, he hadn’t really struck him as the romantic, strongly passionate type. But he made for an unusual Latin teacher, for sure, with his buzz cut and loud mouth, lean and tall in a way that made him hard to miss and with deep inquisitive eyes even harder to forget. He mostly saw him talking with Gansey, out of all the other teachers, a pair that looked both absurd and impossibly close, like an invisible line made of history and dead emperors magically tied them together. Or maybe they were just college friends and he was still trying to adjust to the new school, to process the weird impression of being the odd one out that had accompanied him during his own high school years.

So he just tried not to think about them. About Lynch, in particular, with his sharp smile and impossibly handsome face. It got a little harder, though, after the time he noticed the sharp edge of a tattoo peaking from the collar of his button up shirt and felt the strong need to see how far it went down his back.

It was also impossible not to hear him outside class, Adam found out, his voice deep and maybe slightly overexcited as he analysed verses with older students or even explained basic rules for the younger ones. That was the first actual thing he learned about Ronan Lynch: in a crowd of bored and irritable teachers, he was genuinely passionate about his job, in love with what he taught to the point Adam had often caught himself accidentally listening to his lessons from the hall, drawn in by the sheer enthusiasm the other put in every lecture. He liked that detail more than he was ready to admit and it was all downhill from there, with his mind all over the place every time their eyes met. Something that happened every often, with a scheduled appointment every tuesday and friday, when Lynch’s class ended and his began, one after the other, in the same room.

Sometimes, as he shamefully marinated into his embarrassing adult crush, Adam seemed to notice something different about their brief exchanges, he other man’s gaze lingering on him a bit too much, his expression slightly changing. He immediately dismissed it as his brain playing tricks on him to help him cope with his feelings, since they barely spoke except some obligated courtesies or a brief and funny comment about this or that situation from time to time. Of course, nothing stopped him from actually trying to get to know him or even ask him out, but something about Lynch seemed just too cool and intimidating to leave space for someone like him, no matter how nice he sounded from outside the classroom door. Or maybe it wasn’t.

It started a month after the beginning of the year. The first time he didn’t even thought about it, when he saw the words written in chalk over the black board.

ille mi par esse deo videtur,

ille, si fas est, superare divos,

qui sedens adversus identidem te

spectat et audit

dulce ridentem, misero quod omnes

eripit sensus mihi*

Poetry and literature were part of the scheduled program, Catullus was one of the first authors in every literature book, he had studied him too, back in school. It was nothing out of the ordinary, he thought he was probably analysing the poem, as the complicated geometry of circled and underline words easily suggested, so he didn’t try to link anything to the sly smile Lynch had showed him when they exchanged a quick greeting outside the classroom door.

Same was for the week after, or the one that followed: he was a passionate teacher, maybe that was his favourite author, it made sense.

It got weird after the fourth one, when he entered the class and Catullus’ words were there again, in the same elegant writing, no mark or translation. The words were simply there without a reason, barely a decoration.

soles occidere et redire possunt:

nobis cum semel occidit breuis lux,

nox est perpetua una dormienda.

da mi basia mille, deinde centum,

dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,

deinde usque altera mille, deinde centu.**

His Latin was a bit rusty, after all those years, but that was another obvious one. He couldn’t help letting out a nervous chuckle, before he went on with his lecture, a bit more distant than usual, distracted by the peculiar idea of Ronan Lynch writing about love and kisses on the same board that was sitting behind his back. It didn’t feel like a coincidence anymore, it never did again.

Week after week, he kept finding quotes every time the other left. Sometimes there was just one verse, sometimes a whole poem, without any sign of analysis, like they had been written just for him. Lynch always smiled a different smile when they crossed path before he found them, like a mischievous child that had just gotten away with something.

Did he think Adam hadn’t notice? He was a science teacher, but that didn’t make him incapable of putting two and two together. Maybe he just thought he didn’t understand, which was actually comprehensible, since it had been a while since the last time he actually sat trough a Latin class. But Adam had a history as an extremely diligent student, he just couldn’t forget certain things.

Still, he never said anything to his face, never mentioned it, the brief expression he showed him during those moments the only proof Ronan was even aware of what he was doing. Maybe he wasn’t meant to find out, he realized. Maybe the other just liked to dance around the idea of pursuing him, without the proper intention to make a move. But Adam wasn’t one to beg, so he didn’t either: that was a battle he intended to win.

Then, one day, it was too much. He didn’t always recognized immediately the poem, but that was a different thing. Ronan couldn’t know it was his favourite one.

huc est mens deducta tua, mea Lesbia, culpa

atque ita se officio perdidit ipsa suo***

It was just a slap in the face. Too beautiful, too misused. He couldn’t ignore it.

He looked at the students, like the answer to that ridiculous situation had been written into their faces. Of course, they didn’t care, those were barely translation exercises for them.

So he gave up, excused himself for a moment and rushed trough the hall, to catch that mess of a Latin teacher before he could go elsewhere.

“Lynch.” he called, panting after he’d ran through the entire floor and slightly pissed off.

Ronan didn’t flinch, perfectly sound under what he probably thought to be a linguistic armour.

“Parrish.” he answered, his demeanor calm in a way that made him want to punch him. What a straight-faced fucker. He wasn’t even nervous anymore, just eager to get one step ahead of him.

Adam caught his breath for a moment, then showed him a cocky smile.

“ut iam nec bene velle queat tibi, si optima fiās,/ nec dasistere amare, omnia si facias.****” he iterated perfectly. Again, he didn’t know many poems by memory, that was just an unfortunate coincidence. “You know, you could just ask me out for coffee, if what I do destroys you so much.”

Ronan’s smile dropped, his expression shocked in a way that was pure bliss. He didn’t even try denying it or even undermining it.

It was so satisfying that Adam didn’t even think about the implications, about Ronan Lynch showering him in love poems and actually being interested in him.

Big miscalculation, on his part, because he was caught off guard right back.

Ronan shrugged, letting his lips slightly curl on one corner. One of those charming, mischievous smiles of his.

“I’ll wait for you after class, then.”

*He seems to me to be equal to a god,

he, if it is permissible, seems to surpass the gods,

who sitting opposite again and again

watches and hears you

sweetly laughing, which rips out all senses

**Suns may set and rise again;

for us, when once the brief light has set,

an eternal night must be slept.

Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,

then another thousand, then a second hundred,

then yet another thousand, then a hundred

***At this point [my] mind is so broken down by your doing, my Lesbia,

that it destroys itself by its own devotion

****so that it can no longer wish you well, even if you should become the best,

nor can it stop loving you, no matter what you should do.

#adam parrish #ronan lynch #pynch #pynch fic #trc #the raven cycle #teachers!au #latin teacher!ronan #science teacher!adam #latin quotes #ronan being corny and romantic #both of them being stubbord and cute #mine

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autumnmanor · 3 years ago

Text

Violence

Hi, Tumblr. I’m coming back. I’ve decided that from now on I will give my Tumblr a name: One keyword per week. I will choose one keyword to tell a story (not every week, it depends on my status). The keyword can be either the hot search on the internet or something that really impresses me in my real life. I usually post on Saturday, so Sunday should be treated as the start of the week.

The hot issue of the week may be related to the 94th Academy Awards Oscar. At this such popular event, Best Actor winner Will Smith smacked comedian Chris Rock for insulting his wife - Jada Pinkett Smith. Towards this action, someone says ‘Yes’ and someone says ‘No’. It depends. Comedians often aim at bringing people happiness. However, they shouldn’t turn the humorous into the graceless and the rude things. Everything should have limits. The slap is a 2-edge knife. It shows protection and violence as well. Everyone has people to love and protect. Nevertheless, if this action is praised, because of the popularity of the event, someone can take it as a defending-justice reason to hit someone else. As a pacifist, I don’t like using the punch to deal with anything unless it’s legitimate defence. Actually, there’s never been any case in real life. How lucky!

Suddenly I realised that I’ve not started this week’s story yet.

The story is about school scandal. The main character, the witness of the case, is called Vionine (VIOlence + Nine). Why nine? Because she’s in grade 9. With almost students at this period, it’s a milestone in their life. Which high school they will attend is an important question to them as well as their parents. They, the students, may not care much about this matter, but their parents don’t think so. Some want their children to go to the famous schools which people can see easily on TV and on the internet during that period. This “depression” period is named 10th grade entrance exam.

Yes. The story happens in this such significant time. It’s a nice sunny summer day. The sun rises on the east and soon people can feel its “scary” heat. In the morning, birds still sing their songs as usual. Unlike human, songbirds are capable of making two sounds at once via independent muscle control. It seems I little stray here. Anyway, it’s no more no less a regular day. The first subject of the day is literature. Oh, it promises to be a “dozy” day. Due to the exam, the lessons are reviewed repetitively and boringly. Both teachers and students may get fed up with the analysis of poems, memoirs, stories and prose. Some are truly defeated by words, falling asleep despite their great efforts. Everyone expects a drum sound. Whoof … whoof … whoof. Yeahhhh. Break time. Wait a moment. Have I forgotten something?

Yes. Our heroine. The narrator has not brought up anything about Vionine. She is the monitor of the class. Appearance? Chubby. Her appearance doesn’t play an important role in this story. So, come on. Educational background? Good, of course, but not excellent. Experience? She has kept this position for 8 and a half years, although she is only a figurehead, saying without being heard. Friends? Many classmates, but not a best friend. Oh, it sounds boring, I mean her childhood.

There’re 2 essential characters in this story. Who? 2 powerful female warriors. The first one is taller and seems stronger. She is called Diana. Do you know Wonder Woman? Another looks faster. Her name is Wanda. Do you think of Scarlet Witch? They both have the same feature: long hair.

OK. Introduction ends here. Let’s move to the main war.

After the drum sound, everyone becomes more excited. Break time lasts 20 minutes. Some go out to play and some have a chat in the class. Vionine is one of the latter. She sits alone at her desk and does some English exercises. Doing homework in the break time is her habit because she has no one to talk to at school and there are many things to entertain at home. She finds today’s exercises a bit difficult. The reading comprehension part is extremely arduous. A mountain of new words. Flooding in new ocean of words, she suddenly hears a mix of sounds: people cheering, things falling, desks moving, women yelling. She gets used to ignoring everything happening around her. Thus, she hardly pay attention to the crowd behind her. Actually, there is a civil (within class) war between Diana and Wanda. The war results from Wanda’s look, which turns into glance with bad purpose in Diana’s opinion. As a hot-blooded warrior, Diana makes an initial attack by rushing to pull out Wanda’s hair. Wanda seems to be surprised at first, but in this situation even a worm will turn. She also grabs Diana’s hair as a counterattack. While people around are cheering up, 2 warriors are struggling to wait until someone lets go of hand first. However, no one tends to give up. Diana doesn’t stop yelling with hot face, whereas Wanda says nothing with emotionless face. When hearing the shrill scream of Diana, Vionine turns head back and sees the crowd behind. She stands still and looks at the mess, doing nothing. Not long after, there are some male students as the guardians, jump into the war and try hardest to separate 2 warriors. The monitor watches them carefully. There’s no blood in the war, but it’s a notable scandal. The war may be the predictable consequence after a long oppression. There’s no smoke without fire. And Vionine may be the one who understands the most thoroughly. Diana is Vionine’s cousin. Because she doesn’t want to explain much before Diana’s parents, she chooses to not care much about Diana’s wrongdoings. Actually, Diana is 2-year older than everyone in the class and so, taller than most of students. Therefore, she easily becomes the boss of the class, and many classmates are scared of her. She makes others to do the homework for her, buy her snack and so on. Someone who doesn’t want to listen to her would be threatened. Vionine doesn’t feel remorseful for not stopping Diana because she knows that she even doesn’t have a voice in the class. She only wishes she could be braver to say what she likes and live the way that she wants.

The scandal, of course, becomes infamous among students and teachers. 2 “warriors” have to write the statement about the “war” and their parents are invited to have a cup of tea with the headmaster. After that, it’s strange that nothing changes. Everyone tries the best to overcome the exam and attends different high school.

There is plenty of mess in this 2 weeks of my life. I hope that everything will be better for not only me but everyone next week.

Sunset has its own beauty.

#academy awards 2022 #relaxation #violence #school #autumnmanor

0 notes

lindaenvision · 1 year ago

Link

#emotionalbaggage #envision #improvement #lettinggo #planning #transformation

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ruminativerabbi · 4 years ago

Text

Frost and Snow

Of our great American poets, Robert Frost was the one who was held up to me as a young person on the edge of adolescence as the ideal, as the paragon, as the American poet par excellence. Walt Whitman was deemed too much—and in more or less every way—for adolescents, not to mention pre-adolescents, to digest. (In that, our English teachers were probably more right than even they knew.) William Cullen Bryant and his enormous and magnificent oeuvre was unstudied and unnoticed, his very name left unmentioned other than with reference to the high school in Astoria named after him. The other greats I later came to know and respect—and foremost among them James Russell Lowell and Henry Longfellow—were mostly skipped past as well. But Frost—he was the one we all watched at President Kennedy’s inauguration in 1960 (I was in second grade, but remember this clearly) declaiming “The Gift Outright” from memory when the glare of the bright sunlight made it impossible for him to read the poem he had written especially for the occasion. He, we were told, was to poetry what JFK was to politics: the apotheosis of his profession, the one to whom all others in the game were inevitably to be compared and no less inevitably to be found wanting.

I mention Frost today because a poem of his came right back to me the other day when we experienced the first winter storm of any consequence we’ve had in several years. As the snow fell and only the contours of what lay beneath the blanket of white remained visible, I felt a surge of…of what? Not exactly nostalgia. Melancholy, even less so. But a kind of wistfulness that I hadn’t felt in a while, a sense that the universe was speaking through the storm and reminding me—or rather, all of us—that all the many, many things in the world that appear to divide us—the number of cars we own or the size of our homes, but also less tangible things like the number of diplomas hanging on our walls or the size of our stock portfolios—that all of those things are purely cosmetic in nature, all details that together constitute the outer shell that, at least most of the time, prevents us from looking at our neighbors and friends, and at each other, carefully, respectfully, and thoughtfully. As the snow fell, the world became quiet. At a certain point, the light began to fade. The air all around, chilly already, became even colder. And still the snow fell, covering the earth with a white blanket of peacefulness and serenity. Joan and I put on our winter boots and went for a walk around the neighborhood. We walked for half an hour and didn’t see a living soul. We might as well have been on the moon. Except that the moon is covered in space dust and grey rock, and Reed Drive was covered, at least for a while, with the whitest of snow.

And then Frost came to call. I expected him, of course. (Whitman, at least with respect to myself, is a purely summertime visitor. Bryant, if he comes at all, shows up in the fall. The others, I hardly ever see at all these days.) But when Frost appeared in the cold air to speak into my ear so that I alone would hear, he surprised me. I was expecting, of course, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” which I actually know by heart. “Whose woods these are I think I know / His house is in the village though / He will not see me stopping here / To watch his woods fill up with snow.” That was the expected whisper, the predictable message. You all know the rest—the horse thinks its queer to stop without a farmhouse near, then “gives his harness bells as shake / To ask if there is some mistake.” And then, the real point—or what I expected to be the real point: “The only other sound’s the sweep / Of easy wind and downy flake.” And there Joan and I were watching the snow fall on Reed Drive and the world really was silent except, as Frost knew would be the case, for the soft whoosh of the wind and the imperceptible, non-sound of new snow falling on already fallen snow. So that was the expected message. But poets, or at least great ones, more or less never deliver the expected message.

Do school children still learn those words by heart in sixth grade? Probably not. But why am I even writing about that poem when Frost was in an entirely different mood and whispered into my ear a poem I once also knew by heart, although I only learned it later on in tenth or eleventh grade. “Desert Places” is a great poem, one of Frost’s best. Written in 1933 and published in 1934, then eventually included in his 1936 collection A Further Range,” there was a time when “Desert Places” was known to all Americans, or at least those who had lately been in tenth or eleventh grade. I learned it then, have occasionally returned to it over the years, but was completely unready to hear the great man himself declaiming it—to me alone, apparently—from his spectral perch just overhead in the white sky.

I should have known better: we were in much the same place when he stopped by to watch the snow fall on Long Island as he must have been when he wrote the poem in the first place. “Snow falling and night falling fast, oh fast / In a field I looked into going past, / And the ground almost covered smooth in snow/ But a few weeds and stubble showing last.” That was just where we both were as the white blanket fell on the world silently, obscuring all we have wrought in this place other than the occasional bush or blinking electric Santa. And that man-in-the-moon (or rather, man-alone-on-the-moon) sense of the world falling away that I felt was surely the poet’s as well.

“The woods around it have it—it is theirs. / All animals are smothered in their lairs. / I am too absent-spirited to count; / The loneliness includes me unawares.”

I’ve written so often to you all about that concept of loneliness and the subtle way it differs from aloneness, solitude, and seclusion. And I’ve mentioned repeatedly in these letters my great admiration for Admiral Byrd’s 1938 book, Alone, in which he wrote openly—and, I think, inspiringly and beautifully—about his experiences living entirely on his own for five months in a one-room shack in Antarctica. There is something threatening but also comforting, he wrote, about being that alone And so did the combination of frozen whiteness, solitude, and almost complete quiet remind me, yet again, that loneliness is something to be cherished when it occasionally comes to call and neither feared nor reviled. I have no specific desire to live on my own for months on end in a hut in Antarctica. But I also know that loneliness—as specifically distinct from mere aloneness—is the only reliable context for true spiritual and intellectual growth I think I have ever really known.

And that snow-inspired message was the poet’s to his readers in general…and the other night to me personally as well. “And lonely as it is, that loneliness, / Will be more lonely ere it will be less— / A blanker whiteness of benighted snow / With no expression, nothing to express. // They cannot scare me with their empty spaces / Between stars—where no human race is. / I have it in me so much nearer home / To scare myself with my own desert places.”

That was where I briefly was the other evening: in my own desert space, in my own wilderness, alone (but also with Joan by my side in a street lined with houses filled with people and with Robert Frost’s beneficent ghost hovering somewhere overhead), not scared by the experience but elevated by it, almost approaching some momentary version of sanctification, of ennoblement, of sublime privacy. And all this on a snowy evening before the neighbors began shoveling their driveways or the sidewalks in front of their homes, before we lit our Chanukah candles, before we fried our latkes or gave our granddaughters their last presents. That was all still before us as we walked in the snow, and a pleasure it all was to contemplate. But before we returned home there was this long moment of almost otherworldly aloneness in a street “almost covered smooth in snow” when a familiar ghost came to call, to share a moment, and to remind me that, for all loneliness may well be the context for all real emotional or spiritual growth, I’m also beyond fortunate not to be alone at all in the world except when I wish to be.

#Robert Frost

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changachino-blog · 4 years ago

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28 february 2018

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45392/ulysses

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45364/the-lotos-eaters

Ulysses and the Lotus Eaters: A Dichotomy Between Life and Living

In two poems, Lord Alfred Tennyson depicts two outlooks of life: the Romanticist view in “The Song of the Lotus Eaters”, and the Victorian ideals in “Ulysses”. More specifically, their views regarding a pause, a lull, in living are in stark contrast with each other. Using imagery, repetition, and simile, Tennyson proves the virtue of the Victorian ideals of his era using both perspectives.

The Lotus eaters and Ulysses are both set in stagnance. The island upon which the Lotus Eaters lay is representative of their sloth, even the air that they breathe is “languid...swoon[ing]”, in a state of perpetual afternoon. This builds on the image of stagnance, with the afternoon representing the transitional state of travel that the Lotus Eaters were mired in; between sun and moon, Troy and home. Afternoon on a tropic island brings to mind stifling heat, adding on to the day’s sun and toil that would wear on these mariners. However, the mariners rejoiced upon this piece of sand, “they sang, ‘Our island home is far beyond the wave...”, celebrating their freedom from weary travel. Using a repeating rhyme scheme at the end of the first choric verse, with the words “deep, creep, weep, and sleep”, he pulls the reader into some sort of a loop, resembling the loop, the trance, the travelers are bound in.

On the contrary, Ulysses has been filled with a dread for his life, as an “idle king, / By this still hearth, among these barren crags…”. Using the words idle, still, and barren, Tennyson establishes the king’s existential malaise within the first two lines of his poem. Ulysses’ life no longer has much of a purpose, after peaking many years before, “Far on the ringing plains of Troy”. This begs the question of whether life is worth living after a definitive peak. Ulysses answers with a resounding YES, exclaiming “How dull it is.../ to rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!”. Stagnancy is death to Ulysses, a dishonorable degradation, a sword not dulled by use, but by its scabbard, betrayed by the respite of his home.

The Lotus Eaters expose the flawed nature of the Romantics, the dreamers and consumers too occupied by the “watch[ing] (of) the crisping ripples on the beach” to advance, to trailblaze, and return home in a wash of glory. They try to rationalize their sloth, preemptively alienating themselves to their homes, wives, children and slaves, figuring that “...all hath suffer’d change..”, but that is a lazy alternative to the truth Tennyson presents through Ulysses. Ulysses has a fervor for life, a chance at another adventure and expanding the self. Tennyson shows us the difference between merely living and having a life, and while the Lotus Eaters indulge themselves in material comforts and absorbing the nature around them, Ulysses delights in burning a legacy in the annals of history, in spite of all of he has already accomplished. Tennyson urges us to expand our horizons, both internally and externally, to fight for another peak in life.

***

11 June 2020

Two years later, this essay is helping fend off the evils that come with stagnancy. As long as one is breathing, one has potential, and it’s a waste of energy and life to live a day in which you don’t try to get better at something.

A paraphrased quote from my AP English Literature teacher at the time, Ryan Miller:

“If you’re on your phone, you’re basically asleep.”

This really redefined the way I view the information age, because it really is a perfect analogy for my experience with content aggregators and sleep. Dreams flit through my mind in little flashes, and only some truly carry any feeling that carries through to the morning, and therefore any memories I have of those dreams are unreliable. In a very similar way, content aggregators (in my case, mainly reddit) flood my eyes with a veritable onslaught of information. Most of the time, I don’t remember what I don’t save to my account or device.

What even is the worth of information without any ability to recollect it?

I typically want to use reddit to distract myself and find fun content that I can share with my friends, but in many cases it seems to become a timesink that gives me loads of impressions, and headlines, and little easily consumable nuggets of information, like well-made gifs, or innovative infographics, which are all tailored to my tastes. It’s a buffet of knowledge, but the problem is simple: you can’t eat like you’re at a buffet for your whole life.

Just like food, information needs proper digestion, reflection, to truly permeate into your memory and become a part of yourself that you can rely on for the rest of your life. In every minute of everyday, we have the opportunity to learn about what is happening to people all around the world, all around our nation, and all around our community. Social media is designed to be addictive, and it works, because it is a very human tendency to want to learn more about the world and connect to more people.

Our brains are not designed to operate on this level of social involvement.

Let’s talk about dunbar’s number.

“According to the theory, the tightest circle has just five people – loved ones. That’s followed by successive layers of 15 (good friends), 50 (friends), 150 (meaningful contacts), 500 (acquaintances) and 1500 (people you can recognise). People migrate in and out of these layers, but the idea is that space has to be carved out for any new entrants.” -linked article

The idea of a hard limit to mental capacity is not novel, and it explains a lot of how the information age has adversely affected the mental health of millions of people. Being a “good citizen” in the age of the internet entails many tiers of communication and information processing as a result of globalization and the current ease of communication:

At the most personal tier would be your loved ones, your immediate family, your closest friends. With distance, the pressure to stay connected is kind of immense, given that it’s so easy to do so, but when life gets busy, people get overwhelmed and need time to charge. Our connectivity adds an unnecessary level of guilt in mild cases of estrangement. As a contrast, my mother’s relationships with her closest friends are built over years, and they personally check in month to month.

The importance of this tier is on par with that of the next, but I think that there is a lot of tacit pressure to catch up with older family members and record their wisdom. The whole point of family and reproduction is to make each generation better, but if this knowledge isn’t captured, it slips away with each death.

The next most personal tier would be your involvement in your community, whether it’s through your protests, sports, college friends/clubs, local charities, or churches. These are your tribes, and as social creatures, we tend to become a blend of whoever we surround ourselves with. The information age already pressures us to be as connected as possible, and I find myself straining to maintain involved in my current communities as I try my best to stay connected with my loved ones.

As I mature more, I’m becoming more aware of my responsibility to get involved with community legislation, and local government. I guess this would fall between community involvement and legislative participation.

As we start to zoom out, the next tier would be our involvement in state legislature, voting on bills and representatives in our counties and states. This is where my citizenship fails, I consider myself a patriot but I haven’t prioritized my right to a vote as a citizen in a democratic republic.

Performing as a national citizen in the United States is also fraught with disappointment and disillusionment in your voice, and bipartisanship has led to rampant tribalism and polarization. Conversations about the administration, especially across people of opposite parties, are rarely nuanced and productive. Mass media on both sides tends to twist words and fails to truly inform. Fear-mongering has always made more money, and gets more awareness, so spreading a more negative depiction of the world is how many media outlets have found their success.

Learning more about international human rights issues, climate justice, and staying informed about our world and affairs is another burden on the mind

I find humor in the irony of privileged internet users reading about unprivileged people’s plights and hurting in sympathy for them, to no net good in the world. The adage that ignorance is bliss is based in reality

We get more and more jaded as we learn about how the world really doesn’t make sense, and as we learn more about how bad humans can be and have been to each other.

Six tiers of investing yourself, your mental faculties, your resources, and your time fall beyond your actual person.

So much of our presence and identity is invested outside of us, that it’s easy to be overwhelmed and forget to love and nurture ourselves. Every piece of trash information that we have to process stands as an obstacle in our path to a better self. Striking the balance between awareness of the world and mental health has been such a complicated task that we all have to juggle. While a quarantine during the information has posed serious implications for mental health, I’m jazzed about the ramifications of this quarantine.

For many people whose lives have been uprooted and tossed around by this pandemic, this is a time of introspection, discovery, and a re-evaluation of what we want to live for. The potential for the my generation is staggering.

As a contrast, I truly felt like I was mired in a time of stagnancy during my depressive spells for the past few months. I felt like I was wasting my valuable time as a young adult, and the added guilt became a positive feedback loop that glued me to my bed for far too long. Writing out and processing my thoughts about what has led to these depressive spells gives me more answers and insights, and I’m excited that this is the first of many essays that seek to alleviate my headspace and free my mind for greater pursuits.

To link my two essays together, here is the main theme I would like to impart to whoever wants to carve their own hope for their future:

A quote from Tennyson’s poem Ulysses:

“How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!”

It’s far too easy for me to grow comfortable in a non-growth-centered way of life, and it’s up to me to leverage the privilege that I have: a loving, financially secure family that feeds me. I must take ownership of my life and make the most of what has been given to me. I owe it to my parents, the universe, and the people I love to lead a life of growth.

“Stagnancy is death to Ulysses, a dishonorable degradation: a sword not dulled by use, but by its scabbard, betrayed by the respite of his home.”

#alfred lord tennyson #ulysses #the lotos eaters #ap lit #information age

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