#the second one with the glasses and top hat really highlights the tear even more :((

[lordzuuko]

I had to record twice so I can have Pinocchio cry in a 3.5 second cutscene with (+ top hat) AND without glasses having his beautiful short grey hair in NG+ XD Was it worth it? Oh, DEFINITELY :')

[whoacanada]

Zimbits - Bartender!Jack + NHL!Bitty AU

Prompt: Retired NHL player Jack Zimmermann takes ownership of a sports bar in Pittsburgh and accidentally falls for the Penguins’ (closeted) new left winger.

A/N - just the start, I’d like to get around to more of this; the basic idea was an It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia AU, but I couldn’t manage to make everyone that terrible so Jack owns and operates a gay sports bar and starts crushing on one of his patrons.

“Can’t believe you’ve owned this place since ’89.” Jack coughs, waving the dust away from his face. “Did you ever come back after we moved home?”

It’d be disingenuous to say Jack had been expecting anything other than cigars and whiskey when his father had invited him on a trip down to Pittsburgh to see Mario and glad-hand some Penguins sponsors. In fact, he’d kind of been looking forward to sulking and getting shit-faced, not limping around a condemned building dodging roaches and rats.

“It was an investment opportunity. That was the trend back then, famous athletes buying up restaurants and clubs — I had big plans for this building. Then your mother got pregnant and I realized I didn’t really give two shits about running a nightclub.”

“Realized you were pretty lazy, huh?”

As Bob laughs, Jack picks at the peeling, lacquered bartop, trying not to imagine how many decades of grime he’s just collecting under his nail, the situation made even more disgusting in such close proximity to the glittering gold championship ring his father had insisted he wear to their lunch meeting with the Penguins front-office suits. Jack flicks the gunk away as Bob levels him with a weighty look, hands braced in the air as if outlining a play and not offering a tour of a cobweb-filled dive.

“Here’s my thought,” Bob says. “The bar. It’s yours.”

Jack leans against the counter, taking some weight off his braced leg, and asks, “What’s mine?”

“This place,” Bob gestures around the room. “The whole building. It’s just sitting here, empty, the bar, the liquor license, there’s apartments and office space upstairs, we’d just need to do some renovations and —“

Jack can’t help himself. He barks a laugh and says, “I’m not moving to Pittsburgh.”

“How many times have you and I talked about opening a sports bar? I’d wanted to get this place fixed up so it’d be ready when you retired, but since the final — you could make it a gay bar, even, if you wanted!” Bob says quickly, offering another awkward olive branch. “A gay sports bar. I wouldn’t care.”

“A gay sports bar. In Pittsburgh,” Jack echoes, reaching for a chirp to defend himself, but he closes him mouth as he realizes a sports bar run by a Zimmermann might not be a terrible investment idea. “The building needs a ton of work,” Jack settles. “I just saw a rat.”

“That was a mouse,” Bob dismisses, not bothering to look at the rat still clearly in view. “Nothing that can’t be fixed. Got a dollar?”

Jack pats his pockets, finds a spare looney and hands it over. Bob doesn’t hesitate, pulling an envelope out of his back pocket to exchange for the coin.

“Congratulations. You are now the proud owner of,” Bob looks around helplessly. “I actually don’t know what they call this place now. A Bar?”

“I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” Jack swallows against the tightness in his throat, holding the deed carefully in his hands. “Thanks, Dad.”

Bob brings Jack in for a loose hug and they both ignore the soft squeaking coming from the backroom.

Five Years Later

There’s a man examining the announcement board in the vestibule, and Jack knows that posture: the forward hip cant, thick thighs, a small but definite bubble butt — guy’s a hockey player, and he has been for some time.

“Hey. Hi.”

Blondie spins around at Jack’s address. Not quite startled, but something close enough that Jack feels a twinge of guilt. “You interested in playing in our beer league? You look like you might know your way around a rink.”

The man quickly looks at his chest, as if expecting to find something displayed, but relaxes immediately. Jack fights a grin, he was once old hat at wandering into public spaces decked out in identifiable team merch.

“Bitty.” The man squares up to offer his hand; his accent is warm and distinctly southern, not at all what Jack was expecting. “You can call me Bitty.”

“Oh, with a nickname like that, you have to play, now, no excuses,” Jack gives Bitty’s arm a firm shake, surprised at how complementary his grip is; not just an overcompensating bro who’s walked into the wrong club.

“If only I had the time,” Bitty placates wryly. “Is this place new?”

“Been here a few years, but not long. How about you? Are you ‘new’? In town, I mean.”

“Moved for work,” Bitty’s smile is timid, eyes darting around the room looking for other patrons, up at the memorabilia and the various pennants. “First year. Slowly learning the area.”

Jack doesn’t miss the way Bitty’s eyes linger on the Pride flag draped from the second floor railing, but Bitty doesn’t mention it, and Jack isn’t in the business of prying.

“Let me be the first to welcome you to The Bar.”

“I saw that outside, do you not have a name?”

“We weren’t creative. The owner didn’t realize he was filling in the wrong line on the business license so we are literally called ‘The Bar’.”

“That’s actually pretty solid,” Bitty laughs, the sound lifting Jack’s mood easily. “I’ll have to make sure I come back and patron your establishment at a reasonable hour.”

“What you aren’t interested at getting sloshed before noon?”

Bitty laughs, and Jack is enough of an adult to recognize he’s got a tiny bit of a crush.

______

True to form, Bitty slowly becomes a feature of Jack’s early afternoons. The first few weeks, he does little more than quietly purchase a single domestic beer before tucking himself away in a corner booth, hunched over his phone, ball cap pulled low for discretion. Jack gives him space, and aside from a few curious regulars, Bitty is little more than another closeted young man seeking quiet sanctuary.

That is, until, hockey kicks up and Mario hooks Jack up with season tickets beside the bench. It’d taken time for Jack to get comfortable with being in an arena again, especially without the ability to step onto the ice himself, but he’s acclimated and learned to appreciate his new lot in life. He can be happy for his success and mourn the end of his career with equal measure.

(Doesn’t hurt he still gets asked for autographs on the regular.)

Bittle, the new forward traded out of Columbus, spins to whip the puck between Lundqvist’s thighs and the score is 3-2 with a minute left in the third. Jack stands to cheer with the crowd as Bittle’s pulled into a celly with his line mates, and the new angle gives Jack a good look at the man’s sunny face, complete with a familiar, bright smile and missing canine. Jack’s heart leaps into his throat when he realizes Bittle is ‘Bitty’, and Jack can’t help but cheer louder.

________

After the game, Jack does his homework. Pulls up stats pages and articles on Eric Bittle. Looking to link the quiet hottie from his bar with the energetic man he saw tonight on the ice. If Jack wasn’t in love before, he absolutely is after watching highlights from Bittle’s time in Columbus.

The next time Jack finds Bitty slipping into the bar, probably between practice and a good nap, Jack makes his move; filling a pint glass, wedging an orange slice on the rim, and adjusting his shirt before striding to the corner booth as easily as one can with a titanium femur.

“On the house,” Jack says, setting down the glass gently. “Choice goal, Tuesday. Great bounce.”

Bitty’s grateful smile falters, turning into something guarded.

“What goal?” Bitty asks, voice steady, and Jack’s immediately alerted to his misstep. Jack casts a careful eye around the room and doesn’t find anyone watching, kicking himself for not thinking this through. He’s used to playing this game with guys who aren’t quite comfortable, who might be visiting with the wrong people, but he hasn’t had to do the closeted-pro-athlete dance in a while.

“You know, I must have been mistaken.”

“Happens all the time. Very sweet of you, though.” Bitty apologizes and pushes away the beer, but Jack waves him off. It’s the least Jack can do for calling the guy out.

“I should have known,” Jack tries to recover. “You’ve still got all your chiclets. But, between you and me, Bittle’s a spitfire, eh? Crazy soft hands. I’d like to meet him someday.”

Jack whistles low, rapping his knuckles on the table before turning back to the bar, moving slowly enough he catches the way Bitty’s cheeks flare pink at the compliment.

About thirty minutes later, Jack, half focused on counting down the till, nearly misses Bitty’s exit. He looks up to offer a parting wave, and Bitty returns the gesture, flashing a shy, incomplete smile; one canine missing on the left side.

________

“Anything new to report? Sales look good, think you might be able to take some time off and visit your poor parents?”

Jack slides open a window to let some air into his bedroom, not for the first time wishing he’d taken the chance to tear out a wall and convert a corner of the top floor into a balcony. There’s still time — his father never seems to wary of giving Jack renovation loans — but Jack loves his condo and hates the idea of relocating again, even temporarily.

“New distillery opened, cut a deal on some local gin. We’re working on drink specials, if you have any ideas for names I’m open,” Jack eases onto the windowsill and looks down at the line of people waiting to get into the bar. “And I met someone. Think he might be a hockey player.”

“No shit? Beer-league?”

“NHL.” Jack corrects, an edge of caution in his tone he knows his father won’t misinterpret. “Started coming around a few months ago, gave me a fake name. Went to a game last week, scored right in front of me.”

“Well, you going to tell me who or am I going to have to guess?”

“He’s keeping to himself,” Jack holds the curtain steady to catch sight of a particularly flashy person in a glittering teal gown, texting Holster to snag a photo for the bar’s Instagram. “Don’t go hunting.”

“Well, if he needs any help you let me know.”

“What could you do?”

“I don’t know. Talk to . . . someone. I guess.”

“I’ll keep that under advisement.” Jack placates, smiling at the saucy photo Ransom texts back immediately of Holster lifting their favorite Drag Race runner-up above his head like something out of Dirty Dancing.

“So.”

“Mmm?”

“Does this mean you’ve got a little boyfriend, again?”

Jack leans out over the railing and tries to see if the universe has blessed him with a sighting of his favorite new Left Winger. Sadly, it’s Saturday evening and the Penguins are in Dallas, so no Eric tonight. 

“Working on it.” Jack offers, rapping his knuckles lightly against the window sill and trying not to think about the way Bittle’s face lights up when he sees that Jack is working. “Think I might really have a shot at something.”

“Well, you know what Wayne always says.”

“I do,” Jack breathes, pressing his forehead against the cool glass, taking in his one-of-a-kind view of the city. “I’ll let you know how it goes. Once he gets back.”

“ — You know, I’ve got the game on right now. I bet you $1000 I can tell who you’ve got the hots for. You have a specific type — ”

“Papa.”

“Okay, I won’t.”

“Thank you.”

“But it’s the kid we just got from the Blue Jackets, isn’t it. Bittle? You always like the fast ones — ”

“Goodnight, Papa.”

[storytellingfandom]

Calculators and Key Changes

Summary: Kazami blew into Republic City High like a hurricane. The students loved her, she changed how the arts program was run and rose it out of the ashes. She got along with most all of the staff, that is, except for one.

Lin would give her props for saving the arts program, but that’s as far as it went. The failed opera singer was obviously looking for what she’d see as an “easy” gig to get her back in the papers and then abandon her students. And she wasn’t going to offer praise for a one trick pony.

But when things shift, when there’s an understanding, can their students push the two titans of the school together to find their own happiness?

A/N: This is a completely self indulgent high school AU. I tried to write it in second person POV, but it didn’t flow well so it is third person with it being Lin x OC. Many props go to @kuvirasbrat for helping me get this shaped though <3

Wordcount: 21,685

Homecoming season at Republic City High meant many things. Mostly, it meant spirit days where both students and teachers made fools of themselves attempting to meet the day’s theme. Today was easy enough, it was a “Going to the Beach!” motif. Kazami dug around in her closet until she finally found the floppy hat that she’d been gifted one year. Putting it on her head, she checked her outfit in the mirror. She’d chosen a bright blue tank top that highlighted her eyes, the straps of swimsuit could be seen just enough. Over it, she wore her black, floral, kimono style cardigan over it to cover herself. Itw as one of her favorites that fell a bit long on her form. Her dark skinny jeans were on point for those trips and she finally slipped into her old sandals to finish it off. Making sure she had her large sunglasses as well, her high ponytail made the hat uncomfortable but it could be fixed at school. She was already running late. 

Running out to her car, she’d have to skip the coffee this morning, but Lin had been surprising her with a coffee on her desk lately. She really needed to remember to thank her properly for that, maybe with some homemade scones. 

Thanks to a dicey streetlight call, really it was yellow and why would you have them there if not to get people through, she made it on time. Opening the choir room door, she moved to throw her purse in the desk drawer again and smiled when she saw not only the coffee but a croissant sitting on her desk as well. 

“Lin Beifong you are a mind reader.” Kazami murmured as she sat back with both the coffee and the pastry. Tossing the hat on the desk for now, she enjoyed the quiet that had enveloped her. 

Finishing the croissant, she got up and opened her classroom doors to let in her students. Parking her sunglasses on the top of her head, she smiled and complimented her students as they filed in with their own beach gear. Bolin of  course outdid them all with his old time full body swimsuit and inflatable rubber duck. 

Sipping the coffee a little bit more, hoping for the caffeine to kick in, she walked over to the piano. “Alright, shall we--” 

“Ms. Ikeda, isn’t that Ms. Beifong’s handwriting on your cup?” Asami asked, taking her normal spot next to the piano. 

“I don’t know Miss Sato, perhaps you’d like to take it down to her and see for yourself?” Kazami raised a brow, fingers pressing into the keys. “And while you’re at it, perhaps you can pass along Korra’s sweatshirt to her.” 

Asami blushed but immediately backed down from the teasing question. Smirking at the student, the older woman threw a hand up and started into their warm ups. 

******

Lin wasn’t the most fond of homecoming, or spirit week. The themes were ridiculous and she was not one to enjoy making a fool of herself. Today’s wasn’t so bad though, she supposed. Slipping into the school, she wore a pair of jeans she had cuffed to her ankles and belted to better fit her waist. Tucked into those pants was a dark green tank top covered by an open, white cotton button down shirt that she had rolled to her elbows. Donning a pair of sneakers, she made quick strides to her classroom to see if the surprise coffee would be there again. 

Flicking the lights on, she smiled when indeed, it was. Grabbing the cup, she smiled when she saw the little message on the cup. 

See you for lunch duty! Enjoy! 

~K 

Grabbing the cup, she sipped it and hummed at the taste of her coffee. Grabbing the graded tests from her bag, she sat in her chair and took some time with her coffee. She ought to find out what Kazami’s coffee order is and surprise her with some. She was sure Kya knew it, the two had gone for coffee with Izumi. Or maybe one of the kids would know. Asami would tell her without too much guff. 

Reaching for her pen, other things that needed to be graded sat on her desk calling to her. Starting in on those she contemplated the choir director. The woman seemed to be genuine in all of her interactions, she ought to look up a video of her performing one of these days. The more she talked to her, the more curious she had become. 

At first, interactions stuck to the lunch room. Cordial comments slowly became banter. Banter became conversations and observations of students. From there it began to move out of the lunch room. It began with little moments of poking their heads in during each other’s office hours, walking each other out at the end of the day, and coordinating to stand around at things together. They bonded over a shared love of enjoyment of obscure books that made them think, and trashy romance novels that made them laugh, old time movies, the fact that neither could stand Raiko as principal but weren’t about to leave their students to him, and the fact that coffee was the superior drink only next to a good aged red wine. 

Humming to herself, she looked up when a knock sounded through her office and she saw Mako standing there. “Hey kid, come on in.” 

“Hi chief, I was wondering if I could get you to explain this again. I’m not getting it.” Mako said, stepping into the room and set his bag down. 

“Sure, You have your book?” Lin asked, reaching for her glasses. The homework could wait a little longer. “Alright, show me where you’re getting lost.” 

********

When Lin strode into the cafeteria, she smirked when she saw Kazami, this time wearing her hat, and her large sunglasses on her face. 

“Now that’s a look.” Lin commented, chuckling slightly at the indignant look Kazami threw back at her. 

“I will have you know I am a peak fashion icon amongst the other teachers. Besides, you need one of these hats worse than I do.” Kazami pointed out, reaching up to pull the sunglasses off for now. 

There they were, there were those damn eyes that seemed to lure her in. “If you say so. At least we don’t have kids coming in just their swimsuits.”

“You must not have had Bolin in your class yet.”

“...please don’t tell me…”

“Oh yes, complete with an inflated rubber duck. The good news is that it’s an older suit so he’s covered.”

“Spirits give me strength.” 

Kazami lost it then, laughing at the horrified look on Lin’s face. A hand reached out to rest on Lin’s toned armed and the grey haired woman smiled at the other. 

“Glad you find it so hilarious.” Lin rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. 

“The look on your face is priceless! Oh, I wish I’d had my camera.” Kazami wiped the corner of her eyes from the tears that had formed. “Your outfit is great though, I meant to tell you. The green does great things for your eyes.” 

Lin felt a blush cross her cheeks, and murmured a quiet thanks to the other as they kept one eye on their students. “Speaking of this homecoming crap, are you going to the big game tonight?” 

“I don’t know, are you?” Kazami asked, looking over at her. “They’re not really my thing normally but if you’re going and want some company I’d show up.” 

“You don’t have to, a couple of the kids in my class asked me to go tonight. I can go on my own though.” Lin shrugged, she’d done it often enough. But a part of her really hoped that she’d go. 

“No, I’d like to go. I can support the band students, a couple of them are in my choir classes as well, and besides, someone has to make sure you don’t get too grumpy.” Kazami teased, nudging her. Digging her granola bar out of her pocket, she handed half to Lin with a small smile. 

Returning the gesture, Lin took the granola bar offered to her and bit into it. It’d become their tradition. One would bring a bar to eat and they’d split it. Hers tended to be nut and fruit based with either chocolate or peanut butter drizzled on it. Lin’s tended to be more protein based, but found herself leaning towards ones that were a little sweeter as they started to share more lunch duties together. 

“Do you want to meet at the school tonight?” Lin asked, finishing a bite of the granola bar. 

“Actually, do you want to meet somewhere? We could grab pizza then head over.” Kazami offered, moving to toss the wrapper for the bar in the trash. “Besides, trying to find anyone at those games is impossible.” 

Lin blinked and felt her heart rate pick up. It wasn’t a date. Was it? No, surely she wouldn’t just drop it that simply if it was. Would she? Shit, now she was taking too long to reply. 

“Sure, that sounds great.” 

“Great! I’ll shoot you an email this afternoon with my number. I definitely want to go home and change into something a bit warmer to sit out in the evening air in.” Kazami beamed at Lin. 

“Here, I have my phone with me.” Lin answered, digging into her pocket for it. Handing it over, she let Kazami put her number in and watched as she called herself. 

“There, that’s perfect.” Hearing the bell sound, Kazami smiled at Lin. Reaching up, she took her hat and put it on Lin’s head and chuckled at the look. “I’ll text you the place. Enjoy the hat.” 

*********

“Did you see that?!” Bolin asked, practically bouncing in his seat. 

“Ikeda definitely gave her number to Beifong!” Korra grinned as the group stood to head to class. 

“I wonder if they’re going on a date tonight.” 

“I doubt it, Beifong promised to be at the game tonight.”

“It’s the weekend, idiot. They could still go out.” 

“Oh my-- she gave her the hat!” 

“Everything is going according to plan.” 

“We’ll have to plan our next moves carefully though.”

“This ship will sail before the end of the year.”

*********

Spirits, what had she been thinking? Kazami sighed and rubbed her face. They were just going to pizza as colleagues, newly found friends. Right? Sure, Lin was attractive, there was no denying that. You’d be stupid not to acknowledge it. She also had a wicked sense of humor when you dug around for it. And apparently a sweet side. But it wasn’t a date. Was it? 

Well, fuck. 

“Just keep it casual.” Kazami muttered to herself. 

Keeping the same dark wash skinny jeans, she pulled on one of the black t-shirts she had in her closet with the gold “Republic City High Choir” printed on it in a not completely terrible cursive font. On the back of it she had “Director” printed. Most of the other kids with this one had their section. It was a whole thing last year. Throwing a dark cardigan over it, she slipped into ankle boots before finally releasing her hair from it’s high ponytail. Running fingers through it, she enjoyed the soft waves that she managed to tease out of it and shook it out. Grabbing a blanket from one of the hall closets, the weather had said it was going to be one of the colder nights tonight, she headed out to her car. 

Lin waited outside of the pizza shot, leaning against the old brick easily. She’d kept the jeans and sneakers on, and she also kept the green tank top, but had pulled on a warmer sweater over it. Seeing Kazami’s  car pull up behind hers, she smiled and pushed away from the building before walking to her car to open the door for her. 

“Why thank you, my good lady.” Kazami smiled and stepped out of the car. 

“I haven’t seen that one.” Lin said, pointing at her shirt. 

“They were for a trip we took last year.” Kazami answered, leading the way over to the building. 

********

Eating pizza, Kazami learned that Lin preferred her pizza spicy if possible and was a meat eater. She also would pair it with a lighter beer, that was unexpected, but fascinated Kazami. She preferred a pizza slice covered in vegetables, and if that wasn’t available, just a simple cheesy slice would always do the trick as well. Following Lin’s example with the beer, the two grabbed a table and dug into their food. Kazami insisted on buying dinner since it was her idea in the first place. 

The topics remained light, after all, they’d be heading out soon for the game. Questions about lessons, when the next concert was and if Kazami needed some help with setting up the choir shell, how the math team was going and were they thinking about cooperating with the new engineering team that met up after school. 

Finishing their dinner, they stood from the table and walked back to their cars. 

“Why don’t you ride with me over? We can come back for your car once the game is over.” Lin offered when Kazami had headed for her own vehicle. 

“That’s not a bad idea, let me just grab the blanket I threw in here for tonight.” Kazami agreed, pulling the door of her car open to grab it. 

Hurrying over to Lin again, she climbed into the car and settled in it. She wasn’t surprised at all with how clean the inside of Lin’s car was. Everything was pristine. Enjoying the subtle eucalyptus and lavender smell she’d picked for it, Kazami settled and held the blanket close to herself. 

“So do you go to this game every year?” Kazami asked, looking over at her. 

“Almost. Usually have a student or two that asks me to go and support them.” Lin shrugged, easily easing them into traffic. 

The radio played something quietly, a soft jazz if Kazami was picking it up right. Enjoying the easy quiet between them, she hummed along with the different instruments until they pulled into the parking lot. 

********

Kazami had no idea what was going on while watching the game. All she knew was that she was cheering when Lin did, leaning over when she tried to explain things. She ended up with the band around half time, chuckling and speaking with the band director, hugging her kids that were also in choir. 

The green eyed woman watched Kazami and felt herself smiling. The woman had no idea what was going on with the game but supported the students all the same. She made sure to see her students who played in the band, in her element and talking about the music that would be played for the halftime production. But she also made sure to get back to Lin before being gone too long. 

“How’re they holding up?” Lin asked looking over at her. 

“They’re great! The show is going to be great, I’ve seen them rehearse a couple of times.” Kazami answered, plopping down in her spot. 

“I was going to go down to see my students, they’ve got the longer half time with the whole court thing. You mind if I go down there?” Lin asked, pulling her jacket closer to herself. 

“Not at all, I think I’ll get us some tea actually. I’ve got a stash back in my classroom, and some honey. You want some?” Kazami asked, offering Lin a smile. 

“That would be great, if you have jasmine I’d take some of that.” Lin answered, moving to stand. 

“I do, and I’ll meet you back here.” Kazami answered , leaving her blanket to save their spots. 

Tucked away in her classroom, she hummed to herself, filling her kettle and turned it on. Digging around in her cupboards, she managed to come up with two mugs. Dropping tea bags into them, she waited until the water boiled before pouring it in. Squeezing some honey in, she grabbed both of them before making her way back to the stadium. 

Kazami made it back to their spot first and huddled on the bench. Smiling, she watched Lin talk with a couple of the kids before wrapping the blanket around herself. Setting Lin’s tea down, she brought hers up, holding it between both hands and took in the warm chai smells before taking her first sip. 

When Lin returned to the bleachers, she took the tea herself and held it with a relieved sound. “Spirits it’s getting cold out.” 

“There’s a reason I brought this along.” Kazami pointed out, watching Lin a moment before offering her one end of the blanket. “Come on, it’s warmer under here.” 

Lin hesitated a moment before scooting closer and took the other side of the blanket. Their sides pressed together, it really was warmer. Her heart thudded gently as Azami’s light floral perfume hit her nose.

“You trust me?” Lin asked suddenly, looking over at Azami. 

“Well that question worries me, but yes.” Azami answered, a confused look crossing her features. 

“Come on.” Lin said, standing and reached to help her up. 

********

Leading her through old staircases and up the older side of the building, Lin finally pushed a door open and led Kazami out onto the roof. The sun was going down, deep reds and pinks streaked across the golden sky as dark purples began to poke through as well. 

“Lin...this spot is incredible.” Kazami said, turning to look at her. 

“I used to come out here with Aang, back when I was their age.” Lin answered, coming to join her. Sitting down, Lin let her legs dangle off the edge, a hand reaching up to help Kazami down to sit next to her. 

“I always forget you knew and grew up with that family.” Kazami said, settling next to Lin and offered her the blanket again. 

They sat in companionable silence for some time, drinking their team and watching as the sky began to transition from the warm day into what appeared to be a cool night. Watching the kids, Kazami fell into the trap that sitting on a roof seemed to hold for people. She began to confess. 

“I never wanted any of this you know.” Kazami murmured, staring out at the sky. 

Lin frowned and turned to the other woman. “What?” 

“I never wanted to be an opera singer. I enjoyed music, and singing, but I never wanted to spend my life doing that.” Kazami murmured, setting her mug aside, she pulled the blanket closer and sighed softly. “My mother wanted to go into it, but she didn’t have the voice for it. My grandmother sang and it was just...expected. When she found out I could sing...I was forced into lessons when I was five. I wasn’t allowed to go out often because I had lessons.” 

“You were just a kid though.” 

“And my mother didn’t care.” Kazami answered, a shrug coming from her. “I didn’t have siblings, and my father locked himself in his study. When I wanted to go outside and play, or attend things like prom instead of a recital, I was guilt tripped. How could I not accept this, after all the effort she put into this. By the time I was old enough to realize it, I was trapped. I was signed up with a company. Hiding who I was because opera singers have doting husbands. They let their male counterparts woo them and their managers walk on them.”

A hand reached over for Kazami’s slender one. Lin squeezed her fingers between her own. “What did you want?”

Smiling, she leaned into Lin and sighed gently. “I wanted to own a bookshop. I would fill it with trinkets and maps from all over after I traveled. A safe space for all, with a little bakery.” 

“I can see you in that, exactly like that.” Lin murmured, moving to lean her head against Kazami’s. “Why’d you go into teaching? Why not open your shop?” 

“Being in the professional world...I saw so many kids like me. Trapped in a world of music that they didn’t want. That didn’t want them as they were. I wanted to give them that safe space. To be themselves, to love music, to give them the option to go into it long  term, or just have a place where they could sing and have a break from other classes. As much as I wanted that shop I wanted to also help those kids.” Kazami answered, closing her eyes as she enjoyed the warmth and the comfort the other woman offered. “I didn’t want kids to break down like I did. To fall so deep into their own darkness to the point that they hated their craft.” 

Lin had heard about the breakdown. About how Kazami had simply stopped in the middle of a production, walked off the stage, and closed the door on the auditorium. Her mother had publicly announced Kazami was dead to her. Disowned and written out when Kazami confirmed she was gay. She’d heard her talking to kids about the depression she’d suffered where she hadn’t been able to get out of bed. How confused she’d been about her own identity away from music. Who was she if she wasn’t an opera singer? And yet, here Lin sat with a woman who bent over backwards for her students and her friends. Who tried to do so much for everyone and be there for anyone that needed her. 

And Lin understood so much of that story. 

“You know who my mother is. Everyone does. She was a single mom raising us and I get that she was busy. My sister and I both understood it. The only difference is that nothing I did was ever enough. I was valedictorian, I was captain of our sports team, I went straight into college.” Lin murmured and sighed, shaking her head. “Suyin was the one that skipped school. Did anything that she could to get attention.”

“Well, good to know some things haven’t changed.” Azami said, before she could realize it. Suyin had started at the school around the same time she had. Needless to say, while she tried to be polite, she really wasn’t too fond of Suyin. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“No, you’re definitely right.” Lin said, a bitter chuckle escaped from her. “I was dropping something off at school and caught Suyin trying to skip class and smoke spirits knows what. Tried to go after her and catch her but she threw a branch or some piece of metal she’d been holding, I didn’t pay too much attention to it, but it happened so fast and it sliced into my face. Mom took me to the hospital, nothing was written into Su’s file, she was sent to the grandparents who spoiled her. Mom quit at the end of the year. Neither one ever mentioned the event. I haven’t spoken properly to them since.” 

She waited for Kazami to turn to her, to tell her that she should make things right with her family. That she should just forgive them at this point. But she didn’t. Instead, Kazami squeezed her hands and interlaced their fingers together. Instead of a pitying look, she offered her one of understanding and acceptance. 

“Well, you’re not on your own anymore.” 

The statement hung in the air, whether she meant it as friends, or something more, neither of them knew, but in that moment, as the game ended and they stayed up on the roof to continue to bear their souls to one another. Laughing quietly, huddling together, as the thread of the universe began to tie their fates together in a neat bow.

[pongpalace]

it’s a word, not a sentence (chapter 1/2)

jack zimmermann x eric “bitty” bittle, alternative meeting, photographer jack, single parent bitty, terminally ill child character

inspired by that one tumblr comic  

Jack’s had a long day.

Most of his morning was spent arguing with a client who didn’t like the way her daughter’s birth pictures turned out because Jack didn’t photoshop out the redness in the newborn’s cheeks to make her look as doll-like as possible. Then he had what had to be the longest photoshoot he’s ever had because the dad thought that one photography class at Micheal’s made him an expert on how to light Jack’s set and would make changes as he saw fit. Bouncing between trying to keep the eight-year-old’s attention so he wouldn’t strip naked—again—and fixing what the dad did without outright calling the man an idiot was exhausting and because of it, Jack worked through his lunch to edit the pictures he needed for the magazine shoot he’d done weeks before. He wasn’t happy with the results so in between his afternoon sessions, he’d open up his laptop and poke at it right up until he needed to send them off to the editor.

Squinting at his computer screen, adjusting colour balances and saturations made Jack more tired than being behind the camera so he’s feeling the long day now that he’s sat down at the front desk, without anyone else to worry about in the studio. He should be answering emails and double checking he has all the backgrounds and costumes he’ll need for his big pregnancy shoot tomorrow morning but Jack can’t bring himself to do more than stare at the clock as it counts down the fifteen minutes until he locks the door and gets to go home.

It’s a testament to how tired Jack is because he watches the clock for five whole minutes before he remembers that he’s his own boss and he technically can close his own photography studio any time he wants and no one will yell at him.

He’s just pushed himself out of his chair when the bell above the door rings, signalling someone coming in. Jack bites back a curse, but he can feel the glare on his face when he looks at the blond man and his son who just came in, bundled in their winter jackets and stomping off snow that must’ve come down sometime in the last hour.

The man approaches the front desk. “Hello, um, I know it’s almost closing time, but I have a really big favour to ask,” he says.

Jack stares for a beat, vaguely wondering what someone with a southern accent is doing this far north, in the middle of a Boston winter no less. The man colours under Jack’s stare, wrinkling his nose and in any other setting, Jack might’ve found him more than a little attractive considering his messy blond hair, freckles, and big, dark brown eyes check off everything on Jack’s list. As it is, it’s been a long day and Jack wants to go home.

“Any inquiries about bookings or appointments are usually better done over the phone, during the day,” Jack says, giving the standard response to walk-in clients and letting his voice fall flat. He doesn’t mention that the current waiting list for a shoot is at least six months.

The man winces. “Yeah, I um, I know that. I saw your website.” He pauses and looks around the studio, taking in the wall that showcases the portraits Jack’s most proud of, the series of geese postcards that Jack worked on with Lardo, and the vintage camera equipment that he has on display because it makes him happy to look at.

The man bites at his lip while he looks at the wall, and Jack is about to remind him of the studio’s hours, but then the kid peaks out from behind their dad’s legs and Jack’s heart goes into his throat.

He’s going to be staying a little bit longer.

The kid is small. His puffy jacket hangs off a thin frame, hands lost in the too-long sleeves, though he keeps pushing one up so he can hold onto his dad’s hand. He wears a bright red toque, pulled all the way down his forehead. No hair peaks out from underneath, but Jack doesn’t think it’s because they’ve tucked it up into the knit fabric. The boy and man have the same big brown eyes, matching all the way down the deep bruises underneath, though the boy’s might be a shade darker. There’s a tube taped to the boy’s cheek, feeding into his nose, the other end tucked around up into his hat before it disappears into his collar. It’s clear that the boy is very sick.

The man clears his throat, and Jack guiltily looks up from where he knows he’s been caught staring.

“Gavin saw your postcards in the hospital gift shop,” the man says. “He loves geese.” Gavin looks up and smiles big at his name, nodding as much as he can without dislodging the tube. He unzips his jacket and Jack’s heart clenches to see that he was wearing a big hoodie underneath the jacket and still looks so tiny. Gavin shoves his hands into the hoodie pocket and pulls out a folded piece of cardstock. He unfolds it carefully before standing on his tiptoes to reach the counter and push it towards Jack.

“The babies are the best,” Gavin says. His voice is rougher than any child’s voice should be, sounding like it hurts him to talk, but he’s smiling the whole time Jack looks at one of his postcards. It was one of the last shots he got that day, after having crouched in goose shit for hours to get pictures of the adults interacting, he managed get a shot of a gosling using the toe of his dirty yellow runner as a pillow.

“Yeah,” Jack says softly, looking at where he has it posted on the wall across from him. Gavin follows his gaze, grin widening when he sees it, tugging at his dad’s jacket to point it out.  

“The woman who works there says you had other things up in the hospital so on one of our good days, we went on a search and found some of your other pictures.” The man swings back around once he looks where Gavin wants.

“I like the unicorn,” Gavin says, again standing on his toes to see over the desk. He stretches to take his postcard back, almost losing his balance, but the man steadies him with a hand on his back easily.

Jack can’t think of a picture session he’s done with a unicorn, or even with the unicorn background he has, but most of what he’s given to hospitals are the landscape photography that he was really focused on while working towards opening his own studio.

“There’s a picture of a horse near the cancer ward and the shadow makes it look like a unicorn,” the man explains, smiling down at Gavin. He puts a hand on Gavin’s head and gently tugs at the toque, huffing a laugh when Gavin bats him away. He steps a little closer to Jack’s, voice lowering as he continues. “Look, I did go on your website and check for appointments and I know that y’all are booked solid for the next six months or so but-” His voice breaks. Jack’s stomach drops; six months might be too long for Gavin to wait for an appointment.

Jack looks around his desk, searching for the box of tissues he knows he keeps now that everyone has the sniffles in the cold weather. He finds them and passes the box over to the man, who takes a couple to press roughly to his eyes. Gavin reaches up and pulls on the man’s elbow until he drops his hand so Gavin can reach it. Gavin takes it and the man lets out a water breath.

Jack clears his throat, once, twice, to get past the lump he’s suddenly developed. He probably needs a tissue of his own but he blinks rapidly instead.

“Well, luckily, there’s a special promotion going on for people with these postcards,” Jack says, talking through the hoarseness in his voice that always comes when he’s feeling emotional. He leans forward over the desk to pass the postcard back to Gavin. Gavin takes it, looking up at his dad with big eyes. “I’ve been waiting all day to take pictures of someone who has one.”

“You have?” Gavin asks. He bites at very chapped lips, brow furrowed like he’s trying to figure Jack out. The directness of his stare is startling, his eyes the brightest point amongst the purples and blues of deep bruises and sharp cheekbones that don’t belong on a child’s face.

“I have.” Jack nods. “Now why don’t you take your dad back there,” Jack points over his shoulder, towards the studio he uses for kids’ portraits. “and I’ll meet you there to pick out what you want to wear in a second.”

There’s an entire wardrobe of different sized costumes, ranging from princesses to hockey players to doctors and everything in between that goes along with his extensive collection of backgrounds. It’s not as organized as it usually is when he has a session with a kid, but Jack’s more than happy to let Gavin go and chose what he wants. He might not get many more chances.

Jack locks the door while Gavin takes the man’s arm and leads him to the doorway. He’s chatting a mile a minute to his dad, but the dull roaring in Jack’s ears means he doesn’t catch any of it as he flips the lock so they’re not interrupted. He rests his forehead on the cool glass of the door, breathing in and out and in and out, while he takes a minute to compose himself. He’s not sure his bursting into tears would be productive for anyone tonight.

“Thanks for doing this.”

Jack jumps, knocking his head against the glass at the voice. He turns, feeling guilty for some reason, to see just the man leaning out of the studio doorway, eyes big with a concern Jack doesn’t feel like he deserves. He steps into the hallway.

“I’ll be right there, sorry,” Jack says, rubbing his forehead. The skin is warm to the touch, even after being pressed against the cool glass and Jack hopes he didn’t lose track of time.

“You’re apologizing for me scaring you on top of making you stay late?” The man raises a blond eyebrow.

“Er, yeah?” Jack says. He drops his hand from his forehead, and hopes he doesn’t look as stupid as he feels. The man came in here with his obviously very sick child and Jack is the one who can’t keep it together.

The man shakes his head, looking more bemused than annoyed. “Well, thank you. Seriously. This is gonna be the highlight of Gavin’s year.” He’s still smiling when he finishes, but it looks a little pinched around the edges.

“Uh,” Jack clears his throat. “Of course.” He stares at the man and the man stares back.

“I’m Eric, by the way,” the man says, suddenly. “If you wanna know who’s extended your work day.” Eric chuckles slightly, a little self-deprecating.

“Jack,” Jack replies, taking the hand Eric offers. His palm is dry but warm and a little rough. He squeezes Jack’s hands for a beat before letting go.

“Yeah,” Eric says and Jack flushes, realizing Eric must’ve known his name right from the start if he’d been able to google his website.

“Right.” Jack nods. “Er, should we?” He gestures back over Eric’s shoulder, following when Eric steps back inside the studio.

In the studio, Gavin’s found the building blocks on the low table in the corner. He’s still wearing his jacket, but he’s pushed the sleeves up to his elbows. Despite all the time Jack spends around children, he’s not great with telling kids’ ages, though it’s pretty obvious even to him that Gavin’s wrists and arms are too small for his age. He struggles for a moment to move most of a completed rocket ship that Jack’s earlier appointment left behind.

“Now I know Mr. Jack didn’t say come back here to play with the blocks.”

Eric’s voice makes Gavin jump and look guilty at his dad.

“Sorry,” he says, eyes wide. He puts the rocket down, though not before tweaking the nose slightly so it sits straighter. Jack bites back a smile.

“C’mere,” he says, gesturing over at one of the overflowing wardrobes along the back wall. The doors aren’t completely closed, different colours of tulle make it over stuffed and the bane of Jack’s existence to keep clean, and Gavin lights up when he catches sight of it fully open. “Let’s pick some things out to start with.”

With practiced hands, Eric helps Gavin tries on every single one of Jack’s costumes, guiding limbs through arm and leg holes, careful not only of the tube on the side of Gavin’s face, but also of the toque on Gavin’s head. Gavin grins at his reflection each time, twirling and running his hands over any silky fabric, before standing in front of Jack’s camera and posing like a superhero or a ballerina or whatever strikes his fancy. Jack makes sure to capture each pose. It’s the easiest photoshoot of a kid that Jack has ever done; Gavin must be the politest, most well behaved kid he’s ever met. When he says as much to Eric between costume changes, Eric snorts.

“He’s just trying to impress you so you’ll let him take some photos,” Eric says lowly. Jack twists from where he was watching Gavin pick out a princess dress by touching all the tulle to look at Eric.

“Geese are his favourite animal,” Eric repeats, shrugging. “And because photography let you get close to them, he thinks he should be a photographer to get close to them. I can’t wait till he learns about zoo-keeping.” Eric grins wryly.

It’s a challenge for Jack to tear his gaze away from Eric’s smile, somehow still the brightest thing in the room despite everything Jack knows it’s been through, but he turns away to adjust the tripod.

“What’re you doing Mr. Jack?” Gavin’s come over dressed in kid’s sized Providence Falcons jersey that still falls to his knees. He’s strapped elbow pads on over top, and is dragging the smallest hockey shorts behind him. They look giant beside Gavin.

“Making this the right size,” Jack answers, pointing at the tripod. Gavin’s brow furrows and he looks between Jack and his dad. Jack’s not sure what Eric’s doing behind him, but Gavin still looks suspicious as he takes another step towards Jack.

“Why?”

Jack crouches down to check that the tripod is level and won’t fall on Gavin.

“Can I tell you a secret?” He drops his voice into a whisper. Gavin’s still looks confused but he comes to stand right beside Jack so he can hear, still dragging the hockey pants.

“Your dad just told me that he wants his picture taken,” Jack says, whispering loud enough for Eric to hear as well. “But I’m afraid I won’t be able to do a good enough job… Do you wanna try?”

Gavin’s eyes are as big and as wide as Jack’s seen them all evening, and for a moment he just looks like an excited kid, bouncing on his toes, tubes and tiredness completely forgotten.

“Can I?”

Jack nods and turns to make sure the the tripod is properly locked in place. Satisfied nothing is going to fall, Jack beckons Gavin over and when he’s in place behind the camera, Jack points out where to look and what buttons to click.

Gavin listens and nods seriously at Jack’s easy explanation, beaming at the viewfinder screen after he takes a couple of practice shots of the empty background, a dark sparkly blue that Gavin had picked out to go with his firefighter costume.

“Look dad!” Gavin says, pulling back from the camera and almost knocking Jack in the nose in his excitement. Jack sits back on his heels to dodge anymore stray limbs, knee walking even further back when Eric comes to crouch beside Gavin too. Gavin explains everything that Jack just told him, and even though Jack is sure that Eric was listening the first time around, he nods and makes understanding sounds every time Gavin pauses for breath.

“We’ll frame some of these for Great Moomaw, what d’you say Gav?” Eric asks. Gavin blinks and thinks about the question.

“Can we print some for my room too?” he asks. “I want to see you for always.”

Jack’s lost count of the amount of times his heart has clenched painfully this evening, hating the fact that now he’s picturing Gavin’s small body in a hospital bed, but Eric hardly blinks before he answers.

“‘Course sweetpea.”

Gavin nods, satisfied.

“Let’s take some with someone in them too though, eh Gavin?”  Jack says, as he finally stands up from his crouching position, brushing dust off his knees.

“Do you want to pick out a costume for me?” Eric asks. He gently pushes Gavin back up onto his feet from where he’d been leaning back against Eric and stands, making small steps towards the row of costumes. There’s probably not much there that’ll fit him, but there’s something to be said for dads who’ll stretch a child’s costume across their shoulders to see their kid happy.

“No, I wanna remember you like this,” Gavin says, matter-of-fact like. Eric freezes, holding a pair of rainbow wings. Jack bites his tongue to keep from audibly reacting, and finally Eric’s smile breaks.

“Well, alright then,” he says softly, turning his face away from Gavin and into the closet. “Lemme just hang these back up.” He clears his throat, once, twice, and Jack has no camera to fiddle with when Gavin’s still happily taking pictures of the background, and a clear view of the first tear that falls onto Eric’s cheek. He feels absolutely helpless as Eric closes his eyes and rubs a hand roughly across his face.

Even with his eyes closed, Eric looks tired, like he’s been carrying the weight of the world for far too long on his shoulders. And he probably has, Jack realizes. He doesn’t have kids sure, but he’s still haunted by the broken expressions on his parents’ faces when he woke up in the hospital, like their whole world was on the verge of collapsing before he opened his eyes. And just from watching Eric and Gavin interact, it’s not much of a stretch to assume that Gavin is Eric’s whole world.

Jack’s heart breaks for them both.

“Daddy?”

Eric’s eyes snap open and if he catches Jack staring at him, he doesn’t say anything, twisting towards Gavin, who’s looking over a little impatiently.

“I’m coming Gav, sorry!” Eric hangs up the wings and sets himself up in front of the camera. “How d’you want me?” He poses dramatically, jutting a hip out and pouting his lips. Gavin giggles.

“No, dad,” he says. “Just smile!”

Eric straightens out of the pose. “Alright sugar,” he says, and he smiles wide, any and all traces of his earlier tiredness gone. Gavin nods and presses the shutter down. He doesn’t pause to look at the viewfinder before he takes another one and then another one. Eric’s smile doesn’t waver, in fact growing softer and more natural the longer he watches his son. Jack finds himself mirroring the expression.

Jack has no idea how many pictures Gavin takes, but when Gavin starts to flag a little—the pauses to yawn between squeezing one eye shut and pressing the other to the view finder dragging on a little longer each time—Jack pushes up his sleeve to check his watch. His eyebrows go up when he sees it’s already almost 7:30, two and a half hours after Eric and Gavin first came into his studio. Eric must be paying more attention to Jack than he thought, because he’s got his phone out and looks just as surprised as Jack feels at the time.

“You just about done Gav?” Eric asks, sticking his phone back in his pocket. He takes a step towards Gavin.

“No,” Gavin says around another yawn. He snaps a picture of Eric mid-snort but lets himself be corralled over to the costumes.

“We’ve taken up enough of Mr. Jack’s time, hey sweetpea?” Eric says. Jack wants to say that he doesn’t mind, that he’d be happy having them around for as long as they’re willing to stay, but now that Eric’s said something about the time, Jack can see how hard Gavin was fighting his sleepiness, rubbing his eyes now. He yawns so widely that Jack sees his tonsils. Eric guides Gavin’s arms out of the Falconers jersey he’s been wearing, movements still practiced and careful not to dislodge the tube under Gavin’s nose as he pulls it over his head. Gavin droops forward, resting his head on Eric’s shoulder once he’s free.

“Long day?” Eric asks, expertly balancing keeping Gavin upright and stretching to get Gavin’s sweater and jacket. He mouths “thank you,” when Jack hands them over. Jack feels warm.

“You were there, daddy,” Gavin replies, managing to sound admonishing despite speaking mostly into Eric’s shirt.

“Oh that’s right.” Eric gets both their jackets on and stands, scooping Gavin up with one arm and holding the Falconers jersey in the other. He looks between the jersey and the hanger still on the ground, brow creased, and makes to bend over again.

“I’ve got it,” Jack says quickly before Eric can move. Gavin’s little fingers grip onto the back of Eric’s collar and he’s pressed his face to Eric’s throat as best he can, blinking slowly. Jack knows what an exhausted child looks like, and that’s without factoring in how sick Gavin might be so Jack takes the jersey and throws it over his shoulder, kicking the hanger out of Eric’s path.

“Are you sure?” Eric looks around reproachfully at the tutus that are still sticking out of the closet, the props that make the prop box hard to close, and the backgrounds still leaning against the wall, ready for whatever Gavin’s next chose was going to be. Eric winces when he sees the elbow pads around the tripod that Gavin stripped off and dropped on the floor at one point.

Jack nods and tries not to blush under Eric’s scrutiny. Gavin yawns loudly in his ear.

“Alright,” Eric sighs, running his free hand over Gavin’s back. It makes a swishing sound against the puffy fabric.“Gav, what do you say to Mr. Jack?”

Gavin picks up his head. “Thank you for taking my picture, Mr. Jack,” he says, managing to hold off yawning until the end. He blinks tiredly at Jack.

“And?” Eric prompts after a beat.

Gavin turns suddenly to look at his dad, almost hitting Eric in the face in the process. He squints at Eric until Eric whispers, “taking pictures,” in his ear.

“Oh! Thank you for letting me take pictures too. It was—” he yawns. “—was really cool.”

Jack smiles. “Anytime, Gavin,” he says, holding out a fist. Gavin’s whole face brightens as Eric’s falls, but Jack doesn’t think Gavin sees the expression when he touches his little fist to Jack’s.

Jack follows Eric out of the studio, closing the door behind him and deciding to deal with the little mess tomorrow. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t have an immediate need for a clean kid’s studio, but he’ll double check later. He goes behind the desk to grab a pen and paper.

“So, if you wanna leave your email address here, and I’ll send you a link when I’ve done the edits and have uploaded them,” Jack explains, putting the paper on the counter. Eric shifts Gavin over to his left hip so he can write with his right hand. He pauses before picking up the pen, making sure Gavin’s toque is on. Gavin makes a noise in his throat, but his eyes stay closed.

“Um, do you have to edit anything?” Eric asks quietly. He sounds tired.

Jack clears his throat. “No. I can leave everything untouched.”

“Thank you.” Eric writes down his email address and then shifts Gavin again. It takes Jack a second to realise he’s reaching for his wallet.

“What are you doing?” Jack asks.

“Um, paying,” Eric says. He gives a Jack a funny look and tries to hand over his card.

“No,” Jack says. “Absolutely not.”

“What? No, you stayed late, you did so much,” Eric protests. “I know how much your shots are listed for, please charge me for that.”

“I’m not taking your money,” Jack says again, stepping back from the counter. It’s not like he’s lost any business letting Gavin take the pictures, so he can’t bring himself to put a price on the time he just spent with Gavin and Eric.

“This is a terrible way to run a business,” Eric huffs. “What’ll your boss say?”

Jack shrugs. “He’s a pushover.”

“Jack,” Eric says. He bites at his bottom lip.

“Eric, don’t worry about it. Honestly.”

Eric frowns at Jack but puts his card back in his wallet. “What’s your favourite dessert?”

That’s not what Jack excepts. “What?”

“When I have a minute, I’ll make you something.”

“Uh.” Jack looks at Eric, who’s looking back, expectant and completely serious.

“Do you like pie?” Eric asks.

“Yes?” Jack answers.

Eric nods, satisfied. “Good. I make really good pie.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jack says. “Honestly, it’s fine.”

“When I have a minute,” Eric repeats. “I will make you the best pie you’ve ever tasted.” He bounces a little, getting a better grip on Gavin. Jack doesn’t think about why or when that minute will come.

“Okay,” Jack says slowly. “I’ll uh, get those pictures up and send you the link as soon as possible.”

“Thank you Jack,” Eric says. He looks down at Gavin’s sleeping face. “Seriously. Thank you so much,” he says softly.

Jack just nods and unlocks the door so they can leave, a lump in his throat as he returns Eric’s wave after he puts Gavin into his carseat. He watches Eric walk around the car, wave one more time before getting and driving and Jack hopes with his whole heart that he sees them both again.

He locks the door and turns away from the window, hoping that he does get to see both of them again, and feeling sick at the thought of why he might now. Jack doesn’t blink away the tears this time.

[pipesflowforeverandever]

Legacy

I think it’s about time you guys actually met Gingie Joey, huh? He IS the Joey in my AU after all. Here’s a drabble about the father-son type relationship he and Henry have in my story. Oh by the way, the location here is a real one called Mackinaw Island, a wonderful vacation spot I’ve been blessed to have visited a few times.

(As a side note, I want to state that my Henry is Asian-American. These things don't really pop up opportunistically when I write, so might as well just let you guys know. even if it’s not super relevant here).

Henry could hardly see through the slits his eyelids made, fighting almost in vain to keep them open at all as wind and his bangs whipped about vigorously. His stomach ached as it rammed into the railing with the bouncing ferry. Whose idea was it to ride to the island on the upper deck of the ship? Joey, of course; Henry had planned on sitting in the peaceful inner chambers, sketching the waves as they lapped up towards the window. Henry supposed that was a good representative of the distinction between he and his business partner, the contentment of serenity as opposed to jumping in the eye of the storm.

Not that Henry wasn’t enjoying himself anyway, of course.

He let a smile creep his lips only to fall as he heard a shrill, familiar yelp. The young man turned his head to investigate. What is that over there, a large cloud-?

His eye was besieged once more by a flash of cream accompanied by a soft but firm blow. Fortunately, the rail of the upper deck prevented a flailing Henry from tumbling overboard, but he felt his raised hand graze against something. Instinctively, fingers clasped down and met a texture firm yet smooth like cloth. His poor, poor eyeballs eventually gathered the might to open once more and inform him it was exactly that- cloth.

A hat, to be precise, and its owner was standing in front of him, grin as wide as its brim.

“Joey, what made you think that wearing this on a boat would be a good idea?” Henry really meant the question, but it was one inevitably soaked with the care and amusement of the most substantial friendship he ever had. As such, Mr. Drew simply let out an enthusiastic chuckle, the wrinkles near his eyes more prominent as the corners of his mouth pushed upward. The marks of decades of laughter had imprinted themselves upon the cartoonist’s face, proof that some people only grow more beautiful with age.

“Good catch, my boy!” Joey’s voice rang, muted like bells clinking in a wind tunnel as it struggled to be heard. How utterly ridiculous the studio director was, Henry realized once again. Mr. Drew was an individual of short stature- even shorter than himself, and Henry wasn’t exactly what Americans considered to be tall. His usual “public” attire was replaced by what could only be considered its vacation counterpart, wrapping around his figure with the breeze. It was a light peachy-pink suit, brown and cream highlights in the tie and pocket handkerchief reminiscent of shells. But if it was a suit meant to match their nautical circumstances, it certainly wasn’t working. Definitely much more to fit whimsy than function.

A playful glint shone from Joey’s gaze as his hat returned to his head, informing Henry that this was exactly what he wanted.

“I knew what I was getting into, Henry! It’ll be worth it!”

Ah yes, Henry would have to continue to trust his friend till the end with this. He had been asking himself the whole time why he didn’t ask Joey more than a few questions about where he was taking them and why; it probably made sense to assume that- well- Joey would just say so. But Joey wasn’t like other people, was he? Henry’s almond eyes squinted just a bit more as he let out a soft exhalation of a laugh. He should have known. Just as Henry was a little too passive, Joey was a little too adventurous, but neither of them seemed to mind in the end.

And that’s why they were on a ferry this moment, an island in the distance beginning to sharpen in focus if one could see past the mist sprayed at the boat’s side. A grasp fell upon Henry’s shoulder as the old man approached, encouraging him to look back over the railing with him. Finally came the slightest of explanations:

“You’re going to love this, just you wait! I can’t wait to see how it’s changed over the years!”

Ah, so Joey had been here before after all.

They were the last to step off, shoes clicking onto the wooden dock as luggage came in hand. Speaking of luggage, all Henry had known up till this point was that he would need it- a weekend’s worth to be precise. Where were they going, anyway?

The gentle sigh of the lapping water below filled Henry’s ears, black hair tickling his forehead as it swayed to and fro. Henry closed his eyes for a second and let the lake air drift into his nose until he could taste it in the back of his throat. He was a city boy, born and raised, but not necessarily by choice; he was hardly an adult after all, and finally he was taking in the world as he always wanted. Never expected it to be so soon early in life, though.

The man it was all thanks to soon interrupted this peace, and Henry felt a hand at his back trying to push him forward.

“Come on, my boy, it’s just this way, just this way!”

Admittedly, Joey was eccentric, delighted, and most of all, excitable. But even so, this was unlike him. He was a man of aesthetics, someone who wasn’t afraid to stop in his steps as quick as a dime just to turn his chin up and appreciate where he stood. And they were truly in a place worthy of such admiration. As Joey grabbed his free hand and began to pull to the front of the dock, Henry did his best to take in the sights.

A cloudy sky, but not so cloudy that the bright blue didn’t shine into their eyes, running over colorful rooftops like a fairy tale. On the shore was a shop with rows upon rows of bikes, waiting on a long slab of cement a foot or two above the waves. He let himself look straight ahead past the obscuring view of his older friend’s top hat, but not much could be seen; once they finally moved through the last gateway, an arch overhead was weighed so heavily with shadow that the light at the end was blinding all in front of them.

What came to be was truly a fairy tale after all.

Flowers, flowers everywhere, their fragrance surrounding them the moment they entered a realm backwards in time. They were in the trees, in the railings, in the windows of every home. He had never heard the clip clop of horseshoes hitting pavement before, at least not so close. The carriages they pulled were striped like circus tents, touting the names of inns and restaurants, assumed to be the short buildings that lined the street with pastel signs and windows full of-

No way.

His head turned and turned and turned. This was impossible. He counted.

One. Two. Three.

…Six?!

His feet took a mind of his own. Eyes wide and emptied of all but disbelief, Henry began to walk down the street, shoulders brushing past those of other tourists. He looked and kept a tally, triple checking he wasn’t repeating any one.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

And another and another and another.

Finally, he reached a point where the shops ended. He stood at the last one, a light pink and brown shack somehow both untidy and obviously cared for. It was much more evident now that the perfume of petunias was tinged with something else. A different sort of sweetness. Its source sat right on display through the glass of the shop, just like all the others he counted.

“Seventeen fudge shops!”

One of the ginger man’s arms wrapped round Henry’s side while the other was thrown up into air, thinking nothing of dropping his luggage to do so. His youthful companion blinked, finally able to tear his eyes away from literally piles of candy. An isle of fudge shops?!

“…And you found the right one,” Joey answered more quietly. Henry knew this gentleness. It was familiar. It was the one that always came alongside a smile as warm as the sun, its light matched in the glint of half-closed eyes.

And certainly, there they were to look back at the boy now.

“…The right one?” Henry replied in a tone matched in all but Joey’s confidence. The cartoonist nodded in reply, dimples deepening even more.

“This is the place.” And before Henry could even ask, Joey once again read his mind. “This is the place it all started.”

The bells of the shop door tingled in song, a small but chirpy “hello!” ringing from the counter. A teenaged girl stood there with a tired, wary gaze. Her dark eyes widened just a touch at the sight of these two men- or surely just the one that looked like the cartoons he made.

“Hello!” Mr. Drew answered for the both of them, “I’ll be sure to buy something in just a moment but give me a second!” With the last word, he rose and fell from the tips of his toes and a point of the finger to the sky; the point soon fell in front of his nose, however, as his sight squinted, making a panorama from corner to corner.

“Joey-”

The point rose once again, accompanied with nothing but the silence he demanded. Henry rolled his eyes until they fell on the worker, a shrug from his shoulders and a grin that screamed “whaddaya gonna do, huh? That’s just Joey Drew for ya.” She kept her unattached demeanor, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. These guys were certainly different; that much was something to appreciate.

Especially when one of ‘em looked like he lived in this shop in the first place.

“Oh, of course!” And suddenly they were dashing to the front counter, a glass display at the girl’s left side. His fingertip finally found its destination, touching just above-

“The Mama Melt Forever Chocolate Center Cookie!” he yelped like finding buried treasure, “Exactly how mama used to make it!”

A half scoff, half laugh came from the corner.

“You mean like how mama used to make it,” the girl quipped, “That there is a secret recipe.”

“I know,” Joey returned with just as snarky a tone, “My mother made it.”

And she was either too flabbergasted to reply or felt too sorry for a crazy old man to argue, simply letting a “pfff” buzz through her lips as the redhead asked for two.

Soon they were outside once more, one hand for a bag of clothes and one hand for a cookie each. The clouds had grown heavier and just as they stepped underneath them, a drip fell on Henry’s nose.

Joey commented how the island was crying because it missed him so much.

“Come on!” the gentleman said with an encouraging wave five times younger than he, “It’s time to go home!”

“Home?” Henry blinked once more. “You mean the uh- the hotel, right?”

Joey’s shoulders drooped in playful exasperation and his honey irises met eyelids as he looked up at comrade. “Hotel- home- same thing! Same thing when you’re on vacation! Get into the spirit, my boy!”

And so at his best friend’s heed, Henry allowed an eyebrow to raise and his own smirk curl. “Fine, Joey. Tell me where home is.”

He couldn’t believe it.

He still couldn’t believe it.

The Grand Hotel. Literally so grand that it was the! Grand Hotel.

And they were not only inside it. Not only staying there.

The sun was setting and the rain had left them, and Henry’s suitcase fell along with it to the porch floor, radiance kissing his dark locks and pale skin till it was lined with fire. The highest room in the best hotel on all this magical island, the summertime equivalent of a penthouse apartment. His back was turned to the inside of the room- twisting, golden architecture fit for royalty. That alone was enough, but this…-

Henry twitched his head a little to see if it was a dream, but the sunset over an endless lake remained, an ocean of candlelight underneath a sky shifting from orange to indigo. Geraniums teased the bottom corners of this sight, planted at the balcony where Henry stood.

Where they stood.

“Isn’t it something?” came a sigh. It was steeped in…hm. Joy? Whimsy? Memory. “We made it,” Joey continued in quiet victory. He looked to his partner. “And we made it again.”

Henry’s brow furrowed, and he studied the man with hair that matched the sky. No, he’d need help to solve this riddle.

“Joey, this is all spectacular but- but-…” He shrugged once more in defeat. “You gotta tell me what’s going on!”

Something in his peripheral. Henry looked down and saw a rosy hand, a circular thing slipped in thin paper between its fingers. Ah, he’d forgotten about the cookie.

“Good?”

Henry had hardly taken a bite when his shoulders pulled up like a marionette. “Amazing!” he gasped in a rare moment of verbal excitement, “It’s still gooey in the middle but- but it’s been hours. How- How did they-?”

Joey’s own brow flicked up and down in a split second of humor. “It’s hers.” He somehow grew…gentler. “It was Mother’s.”

And soon the old man’s elbows were leaned over the railing, his gaze leaving Henry to look not at the tide ahead but simply towards it, as if the quickly darkening sky above now projected his reminiscences.

And with the way Joey talked, Henry could almost see it, too.

“She invented it. The cookie with a chocolate center that never ever got hard. Always fresh. Always melted.” One of his hands absentmindedly curled his thumb and index finger together in a point, as if explaining to someone ahead that wasn’t there. “That was her creation.” His shoulders lifted in a silent sigh. He missed her. He may have been a middle-aged man, but that could never stop a boy from loving the woman who raised him. Eventually, strength returned to him, and eyes sparkling with fairy dust and passion fell back upon Henry. “We have our creation, too.”

Henry’s blue-grey collar skimmed against his neck in a tickle, wind suddenly but tenderly rustling again as if that word was a summoning. He didn’t have anything to say though; not yet. He knew there was more that’d come from Joey.

And he was right.

“She-” Joey coughed just a little, almost bashful at this next statement, “she made a lot of money selling the recipe, you know. And this was the first place they took it to. Test run, you see. And we followed right along with it to celebrate. Wouldn’t have had the money otherwise, of course.”

Ah, so that’s how he knew this place. He had an awareness that Joey came from a poor family, so Henry had always wondered how he came to start the studio in the first place. Who’d guess it’d be such a story to tell?

“…Henry.”

The man whose name was called was taken aback. This tone was different. Mr. Drew was a genuine man, certainly.

But vulnerability was a beautiful thing indeed.

Stars started to twinkle in the sky behind Joey, like sprites playing tag as the breeze toyed with his hair, and his round glasses were slicked in growing moonlight. The man himself was certainly enveloped in an aura, Henry surmised. The young artist wasn’t a religious or spiritual sort, per say, but Mr. Drew? Mr. Drew made it seem like anything you believe can be seen.

And that was how he felt this very moment, only the slightest of smiles laid across his face.

“She gave me her legacy, Henry. When she died she- she gave it all to me. ‘Be magical,’ she said,” And there was a flash of something deeper on Joey’s expression, something words couldn’t describe. “’Be magical, my dear, sweet boy. There’s enough inside you to fill the whole world.’”

His smile grew and suddenly his gaze was no longer mindless but truly directed at the boy in front of him.

“And I think you and I can do just that,” he confessed in the softest voice Henry had ever heard.

It was then Henry noticed that either Joey’s hand had never stopped reaching out to him or that he had put it back between them once more.

“If I have a legacy…I want it to be not mine but ours. Bendy is-…really something. Marvelous. Spectacular. He’s- oh, I can’t describe what you’ve made, son-!”

Both men blushed a bit as they realized one called the other his son.

…No.

No, that wasn’t a mistake, was it?

“H…Henry…”

For once the great spellcaster Joey Drew was at a loss for words. Good thing he didn’t need them.

Henry was the one to clasp hands this time, the one to assure, the one to be bold. Tension in Joey’s knuckles, and then release.

A handshake of partnership unfolded into a hold of commitment. It had been without description all this time, how they were two lost souls that never felt quite in place, never felt quite like someone understood till the other came along. They were polar in many ways, yes, but they both wanted the same thing:

“Let’s make the world a more magical place.”

And that was the day Henry began to feel like he was really his son, that he had a dad who loved him after all. And finally, finally Joey knew he wouldn’t be left alone anymore. They’d be separated over his dead body.

[sneakyseventeen]

DANCE PRACTICE ❧ MINGHAO

Member: Minghao

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 1.3k+

Another day, another stupid car ride. You loved the fact that you had just got your liscence, you could go anywhere; to the park, mall, movies….. but that also meant you had to drive your younger sister to dance. Every. Single. Day after school.

It was annoying to say the least, you loved her, but you hated that her studio was more than 60 minutes away.

▪     ▪     ▪     ▪     ▪     ▪     ▪     ▪     ▪    

The first week was miserable, but you eventually got used to it. At least your mom was paying for the gas money. The second week, (thanks to Google Maps) you had found a nice coffee house close enough where you could walk and get most of your school work done. Although it was very small, it had a nice, cozy feel to it. Not to mention the workers were very kind, One by the name of ‘Jun’, who had shamelessly try to flirt with you many a times, being a little too kind. You could remember nearly every detail about the coffee house, but the thing you had trouble remebering was your sister’s dance studio number, causing more than enough awkward encounters with people.

On Thursday, you took a way wrong turn, and went room #8 instead of #18. You froze as you realized you had walked into the wrong room, a boy who looked a little older than you wearing black pants and a tank top with a black hat and grey mask on. As the song he was dancing to came to an end, he did an incredible flip sort of thing almost knocking you in the face, as he still hadn’t noticed your presence. When the music stopped, he was breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his forehead. He took off his had and mask and placed them down. You were staring at him, probably with your mouth wide open, in shock at how good he was at dancing. You’d seen good dancers in your life going to a high school based around The Arts and all, but never this good. You turned to leave to avoid the apology but something beat you to it. A hand overlapped yours on the handle as the boy looked at you. He blushed a fair ammount and simply said, “Hi.”

“I-I’m sorry I walked I was trying to find room eighte-”

“Well I’m glad you didn’t.” Was he fLIRTING OH GOD.

“So, how was it?” He asked with curiousity in his voice.

“The dance? I think its great.”

“Thanks. I still have a lot to work on. Not much time though, I’ve been here for at least 5 hours.”

“In the last week?”

“No, today.”

“What?! Why? How close is this event your preparing for?”

“I’m hoping to win this dance competition coming up… I’m not sure though. Come here.” When you finally looked over to him, he was sitting up against the wall, one leg out with the other bent, as he patted the place next to him. You sat down awkwardly, not too close to him, with your hands in your lap. “Why are you dressed like that?” The words came out of his mouth so abruptly you imminently felt self conscious. A look of distress came over your face ad you looked for a stain, a hole, a rip, anything. “I-”

“Oh nonono not like that!!” The boy looked worried, just as you had. “I meant….. you don’t look ready to dance.”

“Oh,,, no, it’s ok. I’m just here cause my younger sister takes ballet classes.” The time on your wrist read 6:07. “I’m suppose to get her at 6:15.”

“Ah I see. Her class starts at 4 correct?”

“Yeah.”

“So you……… drive her? And your here every day? How come I never see you?”

“I normally just stay in her room, or walk around from store to store over here.”

“Awww that sounds boring. You can always come in here.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah! You seem really nice, and I need someone to help me with my dancing.”

“Ok, sounds cool.”

“Alright,,, uh,,, what’s your name?”

“Its Y/N.”

“Cute. I’m Minghao.”

“Ok well, Minghao, I have to get going, but, it was nice meeting you.”

“You too, I hope to see you tommorrow.”

“I’ll be there.” You started leaving when Minghao screamed, “Oh wait, Y/N!”

“Hmh?”

“I forgot to tell you….. your also, like,,,, really, pretty. I’ll see you tommorrow.”

▪     ▪     ▪     ▪     ▪     ▪     ▪     ▪     ▪    

The time leading up until 4PM on a school day was agony. Seeing Minghao was the highlight of your day. It was adoring how he gave it his all, and tried so hard every time you came to sit and watch. He was so hardworking, and dedicated to dance, you sometimes worried about him and his health. You brought him water and food as often as you could, scolding him to give his body a break, but he wouldn’t do it.

One day he broke; you walked in the rather quiet studio, it normally blasting with music, and found him curled in the corner, sobbing his heart out. The sight broke yours. You had never seen this side of him. He was normally so energetic and awake, wanting to have fun and be happy.

Who was this?

▪ ▪ ▪ ▪ ▪ ▪ ▪ ▪ ▪

Aftef being too afraid to confront Minghao, you came back the next day with a whole essay of apologies. Today was the day he had been planning for, and boy was he excited. You helped him get ready, the scent of the back room giving you nostalgia.

“Minghao I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m proud of you.”

“What?”

“Thank you for comming in every day to watch me. It feels nicer when someone is there.”

“No problem. I’ve loved every second of it, and about that,,,, I was late the other day, and,,, I say you were crying.”

“Oh…. that. I guess…. the stress got to me. It’s hard juggling that and school sometimes. I just broke. But I’m fine now.”

“All of Its gone away. Its nothing because of you. Thank you.” He gave you a warm hug before leaving to preform, and you hurried to the audience.

Wow, was the only word you were left with after the preformance. It was amazing how Minghao could make all this coregoraphy and do it effortlessly. Even after watching him for days, he still impressed you everytime. The moment you had been anticipating, the winner. There were good dancer up on stage tonight, but all the judges agreed his was the best. He was exstatic. When it ended, you ran outside the venue where Minghao said to meet up after, the both of you running towards each other. He took you in a big hug and you felt your shirt become damp, his head in your sholder. After what felt like hours, Minghao finally pulled away, his face blushed and teary. It was your turn to pull him into a hug, you holding onto his head like he was made of glass.

“You won.”

“I know… I-I cant beli-” Minghao only got so far in his sentence before breaking down in tears again.

“Hey hey….shh.” yoy giggled.

“Good job, Hao. I’m very proud of you.” You pulled Minghao’s shirt towards the ledge you two were now sitting on.

It took him a few minutes, but he wiped away his remaining tears and smiled at you.

“I still haven’t gotten what I wanted after all this.”

“What do you mean? You won.”

“Yeah but-”

Minghao picked you up as he stood, pulling you closer towards him.

“After a couple days of you being there….. I never wanted to win the trophy. I just wanted to win you.

I love you.”

“I love you too idiot. Come here.” Your lips locked with his, the heat coming off of you two making the cold night warmer. Who knew a dumb thing your sister was doing would end like this.

[71tenseventeen]

Shelter-(20)

Here it is. I hope I did them justice.

Next chapter will be an Epilogue.  

Geno calls several times a day for the first two weeks.

Sidney never answers but he cries every time it rings.

By the time a month has passed, the calls have tapered down to once a day.

It hurts.  Sidney knew it would.  He did this for a reason.

Everytime he reaches for the phone, he reminds himself of that.

–

Sidney lands a job doing janitorial work at the rink.  The hours are more regular than at the diner and he gets paid a little bit more.

Then Taylor gets the flu and a double ear infection. Sidney misses too many days during his probationary period and gets fired.

He gets fired from the grocery store when he oversleeps after staying up for most of three nights in a row with a teething Taylor.

He eventually gets hired back on at the diner.  

He tries hard not to think about how much Mom would hate that.  Taylor has to be taken care of.  

There’s no one else left to do it.

–

Geno tries to call four times on Sidney’s birthday.  He’s the only person who remembers.

–

In August Sidney hides all the mail he ever got from University of Pittsburgh in a box in the closet so he can try to forget about it.

Some days he thinks it’s close to working.

–

By September, Geno’s only calling once a week.

–

At the beginning of October Sidney splurges on a $5 costume for Taylor at the thrift store.  He wants to take her trick-or-treating this year like Mom always did with him.

The next day the car blows a tire.

The first Pens game of the regular season is a couple of days later but Sidney pawned the TV to help pay for a new tire so he doesn’t have to worry about accidentally seeing Geno on TV.

There’s no money left for Thanksgiving dinner but he buys a pack of sliced turkey.  He and Taylor have sandwiches and peas.

–

Sidney takes Taylor trick or treating and can’t stand the sympathetic looks he gets from every single neighbor’s house they go to.

He lets her eat too much candy and she gets sick all over him in the middle of the night.

–

Geno doesn’t call at all in November.

Sidney puts away all the pictures and reminders of Geno that he can find.

He takes off the necklace and tucks it away with the ring.

He wishes he didn’t still cry every day. He wishes it didn’t hurt so much.

–

Sidney can’t bring himself to set up the tree and lights in December.  There’s no money for presents and even if there was, no one’s around to give them any anyhow.

–

A few days before Christmas a box arrives. It’s from Geno.

It contains a wrapped box for Taylor and a sealed card for Sidney.  He swallows his pride and opens the box with Taylor.  There are several warm outfits, a couple of hats and some toys for her.  

Sidney is so sick of crying.

He tucks the card away in a book without opening it.

–

On New Year’s Eve Sidney cuts up a bag of newspaper confetti.  Taylor falls asleep by nine. Sidney throws the bag of confetti in the trash and goes to bed.

–

In early January a car pulls into the drive. Sidney instinctively knows who it is.

He wonders when he got released.

He meets Troy at the door.  “What do you want?”

Troy frowns.  “Trina at work?”

Sidney feels like he’s been punched but he lets out a huff of laughter.  “No.”

“Look, Sidney, I’m really not in the mood for-”

Sidney cuts him off by shoving a copy of Trina’s funeral program into his hands. Troy looks back and forth between it and Sidney a few times before he finally reads the text and looks up, shocked. “Is this a joke?”

“Fuck you.”  Sidney makes to shut the door but Troy stops it with an outstretched arm.

“Sidney, I didn’t know.” To his credit, Troy looks completely dumbfounded.

“Well now you do.”

“What happened?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Troy furrows his brow. “What do you mean, none of my business?  She was my-”

Sidney cuts him off again. “What? She was your what?  Not your wife—you divorced her and left us when I was a baby.”

“You don’t know anything about what happened between us.”

Sidney shakes his head. “It should have been you.”

Troy freezes. “What did you say?”

“I said it should have been you.” Sidney glares hard at Troy and fights tearing up with every fiber of his being.

Troy looks like he’d like to say any number of things, none of them particularly nice, but in the end he just sets his jaw and shakes his head before he walks away.

–

Bye week is coming up again.  Sidney knows because he hears rumblings, people speculating whether Geno will spend it in town again. Every customer he waits on seems to know that Sidney and Geno were best friends and he’s constantly being asked how Geno is doing, if Sidney will visit him in Pittsburgh sometime, if Sidney can get them an autograph.  

Sidney is so tired.

–

Geno comes into the diner and, of course, sits in Sidney’s section.  

Sidney can’t ask someone else to take the table—they would know something’s up so he takes a deep breath and goes.  “Hey.  Specials today are Patty Melt with Onion rings, Turkey wrap with steamed veggies and Chicken Pot Pie.”

“Sid.”

“$6.99 a plate for the specials.”

“Sidney.”

“We also have peach pie and banana pudding on the dessert menu today.”

“Sid.”

Sidney takes a deep breath.  “What, Geno?”

“We not together so you act like you not even know me?”

“It’s not…that’s not what I’m doing.”

“Seem like it to me.”

Sidney sighs. “Why are you here?”

“I call and call, you never answer. I think maybe I go to house, you not answer door so I come here.”

Sidney feels his cheeks flush because, honestly, Geno is probably right about that. “Geno, I have to work. I can’t—I can’t just stand here and talk to you.”

“Fine. Patty Melt, no onions. Curly fries instead of onion rings.  Two sides of macaroni and cheese, order of poutine and side of baked beans with bacon.  Strawberry Lemonade and two glasses water.”

Sidney looks at him incredulously.

“Play hockey, Sid! Middle of season, always hungry,” Geno says, sounding a little defensive.

“Okay.  I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

“Sid, wait.”

Here it comes, Sidney thinks, and braces himself for what Geno has to say next.

“Diner still have honey butter?”

That isn’t what he was expecting. “Uhh, yeah?”

Geno nods. “Add basket of rolls and honey butter.”

“Okay, Geno.”

He’s hit with a split second of intense fondness before reality intrudes and he remembers Geno isn’t his anymore.

Sidney wonders if it will always hurt this much.

Each time he goes to the table, Sidney braces himself for whatever Geno wants to say to him but Geno eats (and eats and eats) and then orders and eats dessert (two slices of peach pie) and he still hasn’t said anything.  

When Sidney brings his check over Geno finally touches his wrist gently and looks up at Sidney, eyes full of hope.  “Family leave early this morning for trip to Russia.  You think about come over tonight? We talk?”

“You know I can’t do that, Geno.”

Geno sighs and gives Sidney a sad smile. “Okay. I leave tomorrow at six for airport if you change mind.”

“Geno…” Sidney’s heart hurts.

Geno stands and looks down at Sidney with sad eyes. “Doesn’t matter if today, tomorrow, a year, ten years from now, Sid.  Will always be here when you ready.”

Sidney watches him leave the diner and then looks down at the table. There’s a (huge) tip and an envelope that just says “Sid” and “Please read” on it.  Sidney swallows down the lump in his throat as he stuffs it all in his pockets.

–

Becky’s late for her overnight shift and Sidney has to work over until she gets there so it’s late when he finally gets home and retrieves a sleeping Taylor from Dorothy next door. He eases her into her crib and wants nothing more than to faceplant in bed himself but Geno’s envelope has been burning a hole in his brain all night.

He makes himself shower first before he settles on his bed and turns it over in his hands. It’s crinkled and bent where Sidney had to fold it in half to fit into his pocket. It’s not overly thick but Sidney can tell there’s probably a handful of pieces of paper in it.

He takes a deep breath and opens it.

The first thing is a pamphlet from University of Pittsburgh with the words “Student Parents” and pictures of what are apparently students with their small children on the front.  Geno has highlighted various things in the pamphlet like the section on campus daycare facilities, online classes and other resources available to students who have small children.  There are a couple of notes written in Geno’s messy scrawl.  Things like, “Offer at least 7 class for your major online,” and “Meet with teachers of one year old babies and they answer all my question but maybe you have more. Question on yellow paper.”  

Sidney shuffles the papers and plucks out a slightly crumpled paper torn from a legal pad.  On it there are—Sidney’s eyes go a little wide.  There are twenty seven questions listed out and notes all over the paper about the answers Geno got to those questions.  Things like “bring own diapers,” and “can bring own food or eat daycare food,” and “good security.”  

Sidney swallows hard and puts the pamphlet and papers aside.

The next is a printout from the University website about their student parent housing options with a note scrawled across the top.  “For if Sidney want to live on own with Taylor.”

After that is a long list that Geno has compiled of activities, book stores and places to go with toddlers in Pittsburgh.

The fifth and final piece of paper is information about internships with the Pens for physical trainers.  The note at the top says, “I talk to trainers and they say they give bigger chance for friend of player.” On the bottom of the paper, Geno has written, “Sid-Whether you be with me or not, want you to follow dreams.  Love, Geno.”

Sidney drops his head into his hands and cries for a long time.

Eventually he gathers up the papers and tucks the envelope carefully into his nightstand.  While the drawer is open, his eyes fall on the little box that he keeps the necklace and ring in.  He pulls it out and runs his fingers over it, leaning back against the headboard.  He spends a lot of time thinking before he can finally drift off to sleep.

He jerks awake sometime in the early morning hours and looks at the clock.  It’s just a couple minutes after five.  Sidney is laying there wondering why he woke up when he realizes it’s really cold in his room.

He throws on some socks and a hoodie and checks to be sure there isn’t somehow a window open and then goes to check the thermostat.  It’s set at 72* but the inside temperature is only 52.

“Fuck!”

He dashes to the closet where the heating unit is and yanks open the door.  It only takes him a minute to figure out that it’s not on and it’s not going to turn back on.  It’s -8 outside and the heat just went out.  Sidney doesn’t have a dime to fix it.  

He sinks to the floor and drops his head on his knees, crying for the second time in 6 hours, feeling crushed by the weight of everything that’s happened. It’s below freezing outside and they don’t have heat.  The car has been making a strange noise for the last week and their microwave quit working a month ago. This is it, he thinks. This is what I have to look forward to.  

He’ll always have something horrible to struggle with—broken down cars, blown tires,  broken heating systems and he will never have enough money to deal with it it.  He’ll never make enough to take care of Taylor the way she deserves.  He’ll always be living with the fear of Troy showing up again.  He’ll always be alone, will never be able to look at someone else without thinking of Geno.  

Geno who loves him so much that he went and interviewed teachers to see if they were worthy of Taylor.  Geno who loves him so much he gathered all of this information and wanted Sidney to have it even if he decided not to be with Geno.

Sidney gasps out a sob because of everything that’s crashing down on him, that’s the worst.  He loves Geno and Geno loves him and he pushed him away.  In that moment he knows it’s the biggest mistake he’s ever made, knows that he doesn’t have to do this alone— he never had to He’d been so stupid that he let the only person in the world that he’s ever been able to truly count on go.  In less than an hour he’ll be leaving again for Pittsburgh and—

Sidney jumps up.

There’s still time.

The call goes straight to voicemail.  Geno’s phone isn’t on.

He crams his feet into shoes before running to gently pull Taylor out of her crib.  “I’m so sorry, Tay.  We have to go.  We need to go see Geno, okay?”  

He dresses her in layers and then puts her snowsuit and hat on over all of it.  She’s not thrilled.

He yanks on his own hat, gloves and coat and then grabs a fleece blanket for Taylor for good measure before hustling out to the car.

It doesn’t start.

Sidney tries and tries but it just makes a clicking sound and he bites back his tears as he pulls an increasingly cranky Taylor out of her carseat and bundles the blanket over her in his arms.  It’s just three blocks, they can make it.  He’ll run if he has to.  

He gets there at 5:48 but there’s no car in the driveway and his heart sinks.  He rings the bell.  When no one answers he rings it again.  And again.  By the third time he knows no one will answer.  He waited too long.

Geno is gone.

It takes him longer to trudge home but he tries to keep a quick pace, if for no other reason than to get Taylor out of the cold, not that it’s much warmer in their house. He wonders what will happen to them if he can’t figure out a way to fix the heat. Probably nothing good.

Tears track down his cheeks as he apologizes softly to her while he carries her home. “I’m so sorry, Taylor.  I’m so sorry. I was too late. I messed up and I was too late.  He loves us and he would have taken care of us.  We would have been a family and I blew it.”

Sidney is devastated.

He turns the corner onto their street and freezes when he looks up.

There’s a car parked behind his in the driveway.

Geno.

Sidney runs the rest of the way, despite Taylor’s protests and bounds up onto the porch where his front door is hanging open. “Geno?”

Geno dashes out of the hallway to the front door. “Sid!  Where you go? I come here, think try one last time and your front door open, car door open.  Can’t find you.  You and Taylor gone and I’m so scared!”  He moves close and grips Sidney’s cheeks. Sidney doesn’t pull away.

“Sid what wrong? What happen? Why you out in cold with Taylor? Why you cry?”  Geno looks so shaken and Sidney doesn’t know how he ever could have pushed him away.

His lip quivers as he speaks. “You said you were leaving at six and I just, I wanted to see if…if it’s not too late…”

Geno’s eyes open a little wider.  “You mean, Sid? You want?”

Tears are spilling over again as Sidney nods and rasps out, “I’m so sorry, Geno.  I love you. I miss you so much.  You are the best person I’ve ever known and I’ve been so stupid.”

“Oh Sid.  I tell you already. Never too late.” And then Geno kisses him and the weight of the world is gone from Sidney’s shoulders.

A few hours later, the three of them board a plane to Pittsburgh.

[himbowelsh]

I'm not sure if you still take those so you can totally tell me to fuck off, but I have this prompt idea for winnix (cause of those cute baby Dick pictures): Canon or Modern, Nix spends Christmas with Dick and his family. Dick's Ma tells him all her favourite stories about little Dick and shows him pictures from his childhood. Nix tries very hard to suppress his heart eyes. They share a room and it's fluffy and warm and christmasy and Nix never felt so good during holidays.

AN: irl dick’s father died not even a year after he got back from the war, in june ‘46. he was out in nixon at the time, and rushed home as soon as he heard the news. since i want to keep this happy, in this story dick’s father’s gonna still be around. (fiction -- it’s a magical thing.)

He’s not really sure what he’s getting himself in to when Dick invites him home for the holidays.

They’ve been back home for over a year now, and most of that time has been spent in Nixon, New Jersey. Dick took the job as personnel manager in January. Since then he has met the family, won rave reviews, and proven himself to be Lewis’s father’s favorite son. His father’s new (much younger) wife flirts shamelessly with him; and Lewis’s sister thinks he’s a great guy. Dick is getting used to life in Nixon and finding his rhythm at the company.

In the midst of all of this, Dick has still taken several opportunities to go back home -- his home, all the way in Lancaster. He’s reunited with his family. He spent Easter and Thanksgiving with them, and celebrated his sister’s birthday. Lewis was asked to come, of course, but he turned the invitation down each time.

Dick is better off spending holidays there. Those are his people, the type of family who cooks Christmas dinner together and eats it around a warmly lit table. Nixon holidays are a rush of glitzy, alcohol-fumed parties. Dick wouldn’t fit in there. Hell, he would hate it. He’s much happier celebrating back home, and Lewis is glad for it.

Dick has his place, and Lewis has his. That’s what he swore by up until Dick presented him with a neat, cream-colored envelope five days before Christmas.

Lewis’s first thought is that it must be a gift. “You shouldn’t have,” he says; then he sees that it’s postmarked from Lancaster. “You really shouldn’t have.” His fingers fumble as they tear open the envelope, revealing the letter inside written in open, spidery print. “Dick, you got your mother to write me?”

“She wants you to come down,” Dick replies. Smugness exudes from his voice, barely masked by that boyscout charm that makes everything he says sound so genuine. “It would make her very happy.”

He can say no to Dick all he likes, but there’s no way Lewis can turn down an invitation from his mother. He knows it, Dick knows it, and he’s bet his stash of VAT 69 that Mrs. Winters probably knows it too.

Lewis sighs, sets the letter down on the table, and turns to Dick. “Well,” he says, “Guess I can look forward to a Pennsylvania Christmas.”

Edith Winters is, in many ways, very much like her son. She is tall and long limbed, with a long face and bright blue eyes. Her features are more delicate than her son’s, however, and instead of being red her hair is a mass of blonde curls fading to grey in places, pinned up on her head in a loose bun. She greets Dick with a warm embrace and a kiss on the cheek before turning to his travelling companion.

“You must be Lewis,” she says. Her smile is almost an exact mirror of Dick’s. Suddenly it doesn’t matter that they’re standing on the middle of a train platform out in Nowhere, Pennsylvania, and that Lewis can feel his eyeballs freezing inside of his skull. He feels warm, and for the first time in a long time realizes he’s excited for Christmas.

“That’d be me, ma’am,” he replies, and accepts her tight embrace. His surprise must show in his expression, because Dick chuckles over his shoulder. Lewis shoots him a glare, but there’s no fire in it. If this is what a Mom Hug feels like, his own mother ought to take notes.

“Take it easy on him, Mom,” Dick pipes up. Lewis thinks he’s taking pity on him for one second before his friend’s lips quirk up. “He’s still got to meet Ann.”

That’s the moment Lewis realizes he has no idea what he’s getting into.

By the time Lewis is settled in at the Winters’ home, he understands and appreciates Dick’s insistence that they both get some rest on the train ride over. If he hadn’t had the extra sleep, he doubts he’d be able to begin keeping up with the lively, warm home atmosphere that is so completely different from what he knows.

He’s heard a lot about the Winters family. Dick never shared his hesitance to talk about his home life during the war; in fact, he was the exact opposite. He enjoyed reminiscing, and would often take quiet moments to look back on his roots. Lewis thinks he knows what to expect from the Winters home -- a nice rural homestead, with a barn and small stable in the back. In a lot of ways, he isn’t wrong. Dick’s house sits on a lengthy expanse of land. There’s a tire swing hanging from a tree in the backyard. The farmhouse looks almost stereotypically domestic, painted white with a warm glow emitting from the shuttered windows. They’ve got a trellis, real chickens -- they have a white picket fence, for christ sakes.

If Lewis feels a bit like he’s stepped into an alternate universe, it’s nothing compared to actually meeting the family.

Dick’s father doesn’t say much aside from greeting him; he is even more laconic than his son, and at first glance seems serious enough to make Lewis uncomfortable. Ann Winters more than makes up for her father’s reticence, however. Lewis only has to look at her bright red hair and lively blue eyes to know that she’s a chatterbox.

In fact, Ann hasn’t left him alone since he walked in the door. She pelts him with questions about everything from his life in New York to the war, and he can barely answer one question before she’s launching off with some anecdote, joke, or a new question all over again.

“Dick took me into New York City a few years back! We got to see Sons of Fun, and stayed at this really nice hotel. He even let me have breakfast in the dining room all by myself! I ordered pancakes, and fruit, and they put powdered sugar on it and everything --”

She talks more than his father’s second wife, and is a lot harder to ignore. Lewis’s head is spinning.

Even so, he loves her. She’s like a tiny, spunky version of Dick, and though she’s nothing like his own younger sister Lewis feels a sense of fraternal affection towards her almost immediately. Dick has spoken of her so often that it doesn’t feel like Ann is a stranger at all. He practically knows her already, and will tolerate her endless questions just to see her (and Dick, out of the corner of Lewis’s eye) smile.

Dinner itself occurs not long after they’ve arrived at the house. Lewis has never seen so much homecooked food in his life. The array of turkey, stuffing, beans, potatoes, cornbread, and vegetables could hardly rival the splendor of Nixon family dinners, but it’s obvious how much time and effort was put into making it all. Everything is delicious, of course; but the real highlight of the dinner is conversation. The Winters’ banter back and forth with a lighthearted ease. Stories and jokes flow here like alcohol back in Nixon, and Lewis (his own glass filled with water -- Dick’s entire family doesn’t drink, and Lewis made a point of respecting that) feels like a fish tossed into a completely different ocean.

It makes him sad, for a minute, because this has never been something he’s had before. How often had he longed for this as a child? How many holidays did he spend yearning for this warmth and easy familiarity?

Then he looks at the happy faces around him, and his heart feels light once again. It’s yet another of the many differences between him and Dick, but this is something Lewis can be a part of now. This is a Christmas present (there’s no better word for it) and he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He thinks nothing can top dinner, but inevitably he’s proven wrong. Afterwards, when everyone is gathered in the living room by the light of the Christmas tree, she does what is potentially the most Mom thing imaginable.

She takes out the baby photos.

“This is one of Dick when he was no more than a year old. The cowboy hat was a gift from his uncle.”

Lewis’s eyes flash to the grown-up Dick, glistening with glee. He can only look away from the picture for a second, however. He wants to memorize every last detail of all of them. This is a side of his best friend he never imagined he’d get to see, and it’s absolutely amazing.

“What a darling,” he comments appropriately, and Dick’s mother beams with pride.

“And this one --” She pulls out a school photo, showing a middle school-aged Dick with a truly regrettable haircut. “This was around the time Ann was born.

“He was thirteen when we had Ann, and she couldn’t handle mother’s milk -- it was too much for her stomach, you know, milk still is -- so we had to make her her own formula. Dick watched me like a hawk while I’d make it. Then the day came when he insisted upon making it himself. Wouldn’t you know, he did a very good job. After that he wanted to feed Ann, of course, and he did that well too, so he became officially in charge of feeding the baby from that day on.” His mother covers her mouth with her hand as she chuckles. “He was so proud of himself!”

“Less proud when Ann would spit up on me, though,” Dick pipes up from where he’s lounged on the couch, leaning into Lewis’s side. From her seat under the Christmas tree, Ann makes a disgruntled noise. “It’s true!”

“I don’t do that now, of course,” Ann hastens to amend, sounding very self-important.

Her father raises an eyebrow. “I should hope not. Please don’t start, or we can make you very comfortable sleeping in the barn.”

Lewis snorts, and doesn’t bother covering it up. It turns out that Dick’s father is as funny as him, in that same quiet, unexpected way. They have the same sense of dry humor, though Nix has discovered the elder Winters’s unexpected proclivity for puns. For such a serious-looking guy, it’s completely unexpected. Lewis loves it.

Dick’s mother flips to another photo, and Lewis feels his heart catch in his throat. Dick can be no more than five in this one, sitting on his front porch with his elbows braced on his knees. There’s an impish grin on his face, revealing a gaping hole where his front tooth ought to be.

“Dick, what a little cad you were,” he remarks. Dick elbows him in the side, hard enough to make Lewis chuckle and nudge him back.

When he leans over to take a look at the picture, Dick’s chin winds up resting on Lewis’s shoulder. “Oh, I remember that! We tried everything to get that stubborn tooth out. The apple, the towel, and --”

“The doorframe,” both of Dick’s parents chime at the same time. Ann snickers, and Dick’s face flushes a charming red. “We remember.”

“Blood everywhere,” Dick’s father says. “It was awful.”

Ann perks up. “Sounds neat.”

“Awful,” her father reiterates, not seeming at all surprised by his daughter’s interest. “Dick cried for an hour --”

“It wasn’t a hour,” protests Dick, sounding disgruntled. Lewis has to stifle a laugh when he realizes that his friend is actually pouting.

“He was a crybaby,” Ann sing-songs. “Even after I was born. I never cried half as much as him.”

“I wasn’t a crybaby!”

“You were, darling, a bit,” Dick’s mother replies -- and presses a kiss to his temple before he can protest. “It’s alright, you were a very sensitive child! There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Lewis has never had this -- the easy affection, the teasing, the childhood pictures and stories looked back at with such fondness. That familiar melancholy returns to him, but it is mixed with something warm. It is impossible to feel alone in this environment. Dick grew up in the loving household Lewis never knew. Compared to a farmboy, the son of a millionaire is privileged in many ways; but it’s obvious that in this area, Dick is the one who struck gold.

Lewis couldn’t imagine a nicer way to spend Christmas. He presses a bit closer into Dick’s side, hoping his friend can understand how grateful he is to have been invited here.

If the tiny smile on Dick’s face is any indication, he understands.

[danschkade]

PAGE x PAGE ANALYSIS — ‘THE SHADOW STRIKES!’ #13 (1990)

PUBLISHED: DC Comics, October 1990

SCRIPT: Gerard Jones

PENCILS/INKS: Eduardo Barreto

LETTERS: John Workman 

COLORS: Anthony Tollin 

EDITORIAL: Brian Augustyn

THE SHADOW STRIKES! is high on my list of favorite ongoing series ever. As far as I’m concerned, of the many four-color iterations of The Shadow, this is the one that truly gets it right. The Shadow of STRIKES! is a lurking, manipulating hybrid of The Phantom of the Opera and John Wick, the action of the series playing out mainly through the perspectives of his agents and his criminal quarry. This book is tight, hard-edged, and restrained; it avoids a lot of hacky pulp comics pitfalls because it understands that the original Walter Gibson Shadow novels weren’t “trying to be pulpy” — they were trying to be lean, lurid action thrillers. This is almost entirely down to writer Gerard Jones, but it works better than anywhere else in the issues drawn by the artist that defined the look and feel of the series — Eduardo Barreto. STRIKES! sometimes suffers from being the type of lower budget 80’s/90’s DC book where the fill-in issues can be sloppy to unreadable and the truly great issues mainly succeed by virtue of being the product of creators who weren’t really being watched that closely, but that doesn’t mean I’m grading on some kind of a curve when I say the truly great issues are truly great. 

Today, we’re looking at one of those issues — the second installment of an amazing four-part storyline that sees The Shadow, along with his most trusted agent Margo Lane and the begrudgingly complicit Inspector Cardona, taking his private war on crime from their habitual New York haunts to the streets of Chicago. In this analysis, I’ll be looking at how tightly Barreto’s pencils and inks hew to Jones’ script, and how the diligence of colorist (and Shadow historian) Anthony Tollin actively facilitates the near-seamless transitions between the plot’s many storylines. This is a full comic that never feels crowded, a dense comic that keeps light, and a very comic booky comic book that never loses sight of the emotional reality of what it’s depicting. 

THE SHADOW STRIKES! #13 and all characters contained therein are property of DC Comics and/or Conde Nast Publications, reproduced here solely for educational purposes.

COVER

I love how conceptually simple this cover is. Graphic, understated buildings. A mostly obscured main character. Smoke and mist wafting around for a little atmosphere. There’s only one thing that’s clearly rendered — a tommy gun, unfired. The Shadow is usually depicted using handguns, so him holding this universal visual signifier for “MOB STORY” immediately lets you know what you’re in for. And that’s even without the blurb at the top. You wanna see The Shadow fight the Chicago Mob? I know I wanna see The Shadow fight the Chicago Mob.

PAGE ONE

Something THE SHADOW STRIKES! does particularly well is maintaining the balance between mainstream comic book sensibility and HBO subject matter without making either seem out of place. We open with a prime example — the hand acting in panels one through four clearly conveys uncomfortable reality of a woman having sex she doesn’t enjoy with a man she doesn’t like. This transitions to her reaching over to grab a cigarette and light up in panels five and six (along with the barb “what was even quicker than usual” for those in the back). This establishes her as our POV character for the scene, something every scene going forward will have in some form or another. The point of this opening scene is to establish bad guy mobster Anthony ‘Half-Step’ Sbarbarro as a detestable macho prick in his personal as well as professional life. By identifying with this woman, we share her lack of fulfillment and, soon, her ongoing victimization. We quickly learn to hate Half-Step by seeing him through her eyes. We also see a hint of a gun in a shoulder holster, in case you didn’t realize what kind of comic you’re about to read.

PAGE TWO

This page validates the bad feeling we got about Half-Step on the previous page. Not only so we establish the leg injury that gives him his nickname, we show how petty and violent he is. Note how loose his fingers are as he strikes her in panel four — it’s a casual, low-effort act in between tying his tie and pulling on his pants, and it absolutely demolishes her. Half-Step is a powerful man who callously uses that power to abuse those weaker than him. The scene ends on her, leaving us stewing in the emotional trauma Half-Step leaves behind him. Imagine a version of this scene that focuses on him instead of this nameless woman; his hands on the first page instead of hers, him walking out into the hall in this last panel instead of her crying into her pillow. One version of the scene encourages you to identify with Half-Step, or, jesus, maybe even thrill in his violent savoir faire. This other version shows him for the monster he is by humanizing the people around him.

PAGE THREE

Chick Heck — a dynamite name — catches us up on the events of the previous issue and shows us pictures of the main players so we’ll recognize them when we see them later. While Joe O’Hara is mainly just a quippy mannequin to help Chick with the recap, there’s some great staging between him and the showgirl in the first couple panels. She’s way too smart for him, and even though she’s constantly placed in positions of power in her panels (larger than him in panels one and three, walking past/in front of him in panel two) he just keeps checking out her legs with the unearned confidence of a white man with a little hair.

PAGE FOUR

More concise, well-written recapping, which Barreto livens up even further with a variety of camera angels and some cool lighting and drapery. We see Half-Step (who I keep accidentally and only quasi-understandably calling “Johnny Stomp” before correcting myself) near the end of the page, connecting this scene to the last and reminding us how much we would like for somebody to kill him. Chick does us a final narrative solid by setting us up for the next page with a great dramatic line.

PAGE FIVE

And now, after getting to know the distinct personalities and motivations of five characters across four pages, we get our title page. The Shadow stretches out onto the scene, speaking like goddamn Dracula and dressing the part. Between Barreto’s smoky effects* and Tollin’s icy, atmospheric coloring, The Shadow really feels like a different kind creature than anything else in the book. Also worth mentioning is John Workman’s great work on the issue’s title, with the rigid ‘B’ adding extra viciousness to the sketchy, violent ‘UTCHERS.’

*I was curious how exactly Barreto achieved this affect. I consulted with Jesse Hamm and Lukas Ketner, and the consensus is that Barreto probably drew these pages on coquille board, using graphite or lightly-applied colored pencil for the smaller areas of texture and watercolor sponge with white gouache, or possibly even just correction fluid, for the large smokey areas. If any collectors or collaborators of Mr. Barreto know otherwise, please let me know. I’m still curious. 

PAGE SIX

This page does a great job of immediately changing the focus of the scene from The Shadow to old man Romanowski. The Shadow is a non-character who will never learn anything new about himself or struggle with a decision, so the drama of the series usually centers around how ‘normal’ people react to him. In this case, it’s the equally resolute Romanowski, whose whole motivation is neatly laid out in the first three panels. “And I will owe NOTHING... to NOBODY...Not even YOU,” Mr. Devil-Man With A Gun. 

There’s a nice leftward motion as Romanowski tries to hustle this intruder out of his house, followed up by the overwhelming rightward motion of The Shadow as he silences the old man and makes his final pitch. This panel’s layout, its placement on the page, and even Tollin’s blue coloring all loosely mirror the Half-Step slap on page two; I think this is the first instance in the issue of the creative team setting up parallels between the two men. The Shadow also possesses a frightening degree of physical power, but he uses it carefully. He’s scary, but not dangerous. Or at least less dangerous. He’s not actively a woman-beater, how about that. The two panels in question, so you can draw your own conclusions:

Continuity note: the money on the floor in panel two carries over from the previous issue — Tad came to his father asking for money to pay out his gambling debts, and Romanowski, enraged at his son’s weakness, grabs glass jars containing his savings and smashes them to the floor, yelling “take it! Take it!” He uses jars because he doesn’t trust the banks — having his own money during the stock market crash was what allowed him to grow his business to what it is today. This goes further toward establishing that Romanowski sees himself as a man who doesn’t owe anything to anybody. This scene here doesn’t rely on that information, but it’s useful garnish, no?

PAGE SEVEN

Tad’s brief show of spine on the previous page immediately melts once The Shadow leaves — Barreto keeps him wobbling and weak while his father is still and resolute. The scene transitions from being about Romanowsky the senior to being about Tad, tears in his eyes as he speeds away. The last panel switches it again to the Shadow, watching silently from high above. Note how Barreto makes liberal use of the graphite shading, but leaves The Shadow’s hat and Tad’s car flat, highlighting them by omission. And man, how insane is this angle? We somehow see the train and the car at the same time without it feeling forced. The complexity of the El Tracks The Shadow’s hanging on might at first seem punishingly complicated, but I think it’s actually the parallel beams of that structure that makes the warped perspective visually legible in the first place. Using something difficult to depict something impossible. Eduardo Barreto. I tell ya.

PAGE EIGHT

This page gives us what I like to call ‘an artificial action beat.’ The Shadow catching a ride on this train is hardly a conventional action set piece, but it’s a splashy, physically extraordinary Thing That Is Happening and it breaks up a couple of dialogue-heavy scenes. It also gives us a private moment from The Shadow, helping us like him as our macroprotagonist by seeing him successfully doing something difficult. How do we know it’s difficult? The acting in his face in panel two, plus the fact that he loses his hat. On some level we know he can’t fly or teleport, but seeing him actually have to put effort into getting around helps us identify with him, without sacrificing too much of his mystery. 

At the bottom of page: the return of shaky Tad. Jones does a good job of keeping small NPC type characters around, like the singer in panel four, making their Chicago feel full. It’s easy for large-cast crime comics like this to start to feel like the only people in the world are the people involved in the case in question; bizarrely, this can actually serve to make the case seem less important. What’s so bad about bad guys if there’s no society at large to be threatened by them? 

PAGE NINE

Georgie Katomeris’ office (containing Georgie, Tad and Half-Step) and Frank Nitty’s drawing room (containing Nitti, Jake Guzik, and Half-Step again after some passage of time) are indistinguishable from each other as Barreto draws them, but are still kept distinct by three things. One is Jones’ dialogue — the ellipsis in that precedes Nitti’s panel three dialogue indicates a jump in time. Another is Nitti’s smoking jacket — he wouldn’t be going out in it, so we must have changed locations from the office to his private residence. The last and most effective is Tollin’s coloring — the grey of George’s office gives way to the green walls of Nitti’s drawing room. I admit this transition felt abrupt to me at first read, but these three clues let me easily find my footing again.

PAGE TEN

We spent the first two pages of the issue showing Half-Step to be detestable; now we show him to be truly dangerous. His patience and planning further draw him into parallel with The Shadow — having him tell a story that essentially ends with “I could have killed the President of the United States but didn’t want to because of my deeply held principles” does a great job of showing us his crazy ego and, more importantly, his ambition. The point of the end of this scene is clear: this is not someone who’ll willingly stay in a subordinate role forever. But he’s not just going to throw his weight around. He’s going to be smart about it. Note how he goes from very small in panel five, cut off by the top of the panel, to large in panel six, crowding Nitti into the corner. 

PAGE ELEVEN

Half-Step dominates his half of the page. The heavy shadowing on his face in panel three indicates there’s something dark going on in his mind. The other half of the page is all about The Shadow. We finally have the two of them in the same location here, with the Shadow placed in a position of power — the low angle of his glory shot in panel five, the fact that Half-Step doesn’t know he’s being watched. They’re even sort of almost facing each other down, with Half-Step facing left in panel three and the Shadow creeping in towards the right in panel five. But like Half-Step, The Shadow won’t just smash in guns ablaze— he’s playing a longer game. This page really sets them up as worthy enemies, with a lot of good, or at least better, people caught in the metaphorical crossfire between them.

PAGE TWELVE

Here we finally catch up with Inspector Cardona, Brenda Shield, and Margo Lane, who Chick Heck introduced us to by proxy in his earlier scene. This page has what for my money is the only real misstep this issue makes; although Margo and Cardona are both name-checked on this page, Brenda is not, and it’s been so long since the Heck scene that it’s asking a lot of the readers to remember her by sight — especially since there isn’t really much going on with her design to visually distinguish her, big polka dot bow or not. That said, this page does still somehow manage to give us that cool, spacious three-panel sequence of Cardona walking away from the ladies only to be waylaid by The Shadow while still leaving room for a nice big ‘Identify With This Character Please’ shot of Margo in the penultimate panel. Jones also manages to give us clear ideas of both Margo and Cardona’s characters, their dynamic with each other, AND their individual dynamics with the Shadow while he’s at it. Lastly, I like Tollin’s choice to give Margo a Green color scheme, making her instantly as visually distinct in the issue as the Shadow in his blacks and reds. For a page that makes the issue’s one arguable mistake, it sure does a hell of a lot right. 

PAGE THIRTEEN

Half-Step is back, haunting the plot just like the Shadow does. Seems to be a theme of men preying on women in this issue — let’s keep an eye on that going forward. Note how much real estate on the page is given up, letting the panels float around; this is used in the top half to separate Half-Step from the other guys in the car, painting his “Like I’m gonna break this city down” line as an unthinking quasi-crazy utterance, as well as to separate Margo and Brenda from the gossiping nightclub crowd in the bottom half.

PAGE FOURTEEN

Here we explain Brenda’s stakes in this scene. Even if you don’t empathize with her high-society worries, it’s worth noting that Jones has made clear through action and dialogue that every character in every scene has something they want, need, and/or fear, and Brenda is no exception. Tollin draws attention to the dreaded encroachment of gossip in the last panel with a change in background color from a neutral yellow to a threatening orange. 

Now, bear in mind, Margo might be genuinely supportive here, but all of what he’s saying about herself is a lie. There is no Dick. She's never met the Hartes. She’s working Brenda as per the Shadow’s orders — she and her fellow agents are basically Ocean’s Eleven if Danny Ocean decided to start dressing like Doctor Sax and fighting crime, and if that means pulling a hustle on a pie-eyed heiress, then I guess that’s just what's on the agenda for the evening. 

(Fun personal trivia: This comic came out the month my girlfriend was born. She also sort of has the face Barreto gives most women he draws. Coincidence? One wonders.)

PAGE FIFTEEN

Margo is the only person in this issue who gets an internal monologue, which she uses here to reveal the way her charade chafes, but also the freedom she feels from being anonymous, from being unconnected to her past mistakes. So, of course, enter: the man who knows all her secrets, here to spoil her reverie. This scene takes place in the ladies room — another example of a man trespassing against a woman, except that while our gangsters are doing it for personal gain, the Shadow (here unsexed and dehumanized to the point of being almost a silhouette) does it in service of his theoretically higher calling. He dominates panel four, almost encircling her. Margo’s body language tells it all — not afraid, but very uncomfortable. We keep the scene in her perspective by cutting from the Shadow in panel five to Brenda in panel six, both more or less in her literal point of view. Note again how Barreto employs negative space above and below the final panel to create a zoom-in effect on Brenda’s eyes. 

PAGE SIXTEEN

More Big Sister Margo; see how she controls Brenda’s body in panels one through three. Half-Step is inside now — I think we’re supposed to infer that he’s responsible for loosing the rumor that’s upsetting Brenda. A slightly abstract example of a man invading a female space? I might be reaching, there. 

Barreto does a great job of changing locations by making panel five a round panel with poor Joe Cardona on the right of the frame, contrasting with Half-Step’s leftward placement in the square panel opposite. Tollin helps with a cold color shift. The last panel might not seem like it does a lot, but it actually sets up two things for later in the issue: One is that it makes for the second time we see The Shadow and Cardona together, so when we see them together again at the end of the issue it benefits from a satisfying ‘rule of threes’ thing. The other is that it sets up one of The Shadow’s later appearances — I’ll touch on why this was necessary when it comes up.

PAGE SEVENTEEN

A great falling line of action as Tad stumbles and falls across the top four panels. Employing steadily lengthening panels like this is something Barreto does so well, and here it has the side benefit of giving Half-Step room to really loom over Tad in panel four. Meanwhile, I’m glad Half-Step’s poor, mistreated girlfriend had a good lay. She deserves it.

PAGE EIGHTEEN

Barreto is so good at clothing and drapery that you start to take it for granted — and then you remember it all over again when he draws a disheveled suit like the one Tad’s stuffed into. As soon as Nitti shuffles Tad out of the apartment, Half-Step’s attention turns to the woman. We get super close to him, the rendering becomes denser, meaner. Tollin even gives him an angry rage-flush. He’s huge in panel four, crowding her to the edge of the frame. His dialogue transverses panel five into panel six, implying he’s following her as she tries to get away from him. The final panel puts us back in her shoes, as Half-Step’s rage is directed straight at us.

PAGE NINETEEN

Panel one to panel two is the kind of cut we don’t see much in comics, despite it being incredible effective. We get the point of her abuse without — man, I guess the phrase I want to use is cheapen it by showing it explicitly on the page. Clearly implying something and then cutting away can be even more effective than showing it outright. If we were to see this scene play out, we’d still know in the backs of our heads that this is, essentially, a superhero comic, and that it’d be possible that when we turned the page, The Shadow might show up to save this woman. When the scene is over and the hero never appears, we might be left wondering, “Christ, then what was the point of seeing all that?” This method here conveys what happened with a haunting finality, but without any creepy exploitation.

On a characterization front, the thread that culminates in this scene is massive. Half-Step treats this woman like an appliance, but claims he’d kill any man who touched her. He actively entraps her into this weird “gotcha” self-cuckold and then punishes her for falling for it. This shows us so much about the depth of his bizarre self-loathing, his warped pride, the outright evil of him. And yet, again, staging these as events in her life keeps her from being just a prop to let us know how super duper bad this story’s bad guy is. She has an internal life outside of him. This all actually makes these displays of his violence more effecting because we’re seeing its effects on a “real person,” not just some Real Doll who doubles as a speedbag. 

Note also how well panel two and the butcher hanging up the cow in panel three frames the interaction between Romanowski and his debtor, Karl. Size continues to equal power as we get the huge foregrounded gangster (rendered into one monotone shape by Tollin’s colors) making the bright, full-figured Romanowsky look smaller and more vulnerable than he realizes.

PAGE TWENTY

The empty room in panel one gives us a moment to breathe as we head into a tense scene. At the same time, we know we’re getting close to the end of the issue, so an entire panel dedicated to an empty room makes us slightly nervous — we’re aware we’re running out of time. Which, by design or by happenstance, is the Shadow’s point at the end of the page. Tad is consistently rendered in a clear, clean comic book style, while The Shadow is rendered in planes of light and darkness, making him seem elemental, powerful, spectral.  

PAGE TWENTY ONE

This is the best page in this comic. I lost my mind when I saw this page. It’s AWESOME. Look at how well rendered Romanowski is in panel one. The oppressive dark architecture in panel two, drawing the eye to the small, bright Romanowski. That unnecessary but oh so cool-looking graphic black-out in panel three. The hatching on Romanowski in panel four. The callback to Half-Step’s leg injury, set up nearly twenty pages ago. The cascade of action across those last three panels. Tollin’s colors across the whole damn thing. I love this page. This page is why they have comic books.

PAGE TWENTY TWO

Look at Romanowski’s face in panel one, highlighted by the falling glasses. The FURY. The reveal of Half-Step is so pat, so understated. The little throw-away line to himself further cements him as a bona fide evil psycho criminal — one more reason we want to see him go down. The circular panel inside the square field of panel five, a technique I can’t ever remember seeing before, gives the impression that a notable amount of time has passed since the glasses fell — glasses that Barreto made sure to pointedly re-establish as a visual signifier for old man Romanowski in these last few pages. 

So, The Shadow shows up late. This is why it was important to set up The Shadow’s intent to see Romanowski in that panel at the end of page sixteen; to have The Shadow appear too late would come off as arbitrary, or even as an intentional delay on his part, if we hadn’t established The Shadow’s intentions beforehand. Or, put more simply: in order to show a character failing at something, you have show they were trying to accomplish that thing in the first place — especially when so much work has gone into conveying that character’s competence.

PAGE TWENTY THREE

The Shadow respects Romanowski’s principles. Of all the characters in this story, the two of them are the most alike in that regard. But while Romanowski was a stubborn old butcher and easy prey for Half-Step and his guys, The Shadow is an unkillable psychic murder man.

Panel two is full of space, both geographic and negative, giving us another much needed moment of breathing room. All the gangsters present have distinctive color cues, easily letting us get a feel for the size of the gathering as opposed to an amorphous clutch of same-colored “GANGSTERS (tm),” which often happens in comic book scenes depicting groups of men in suits. They can become like zebras if you don’t take the time to make him distinct, as they are here. Half-Step’s buggy zooms into panel four from beyond the page, a nice way to emphasize that the vehicle is coming at them from out of nowhere.

PAGE TWENTY FOUR

The tommy gun EXPLODES through panel one, dissolving the panel border itself. Those carefully color-coded mobsters from the previous page all catch bullets, which wouldn’t mean as much to the reader if they weren’t distinct from one another. “A bunch of gangsters got shot” becomes “several men were brutally murdered by machine gun fire.” Said gunfire chases Guzik from left to right in panel three — note the diagonal line that tracks his presence in panels two, three, and four, making his plunge to the ground in panel four seem like an extension of his movement in the other panels, even though the they happen on radically different parts of the page. Barreto keeps the same angle on Guzik in panels four and six, cementing him as the lone survivor of this drive-by and the default POV character for the scene. Or, to put in visually:

This is some seriously solid craft. 

PAGE TWENTY FIVE

The Shadow is HUGE on this page. This drawing of him the biggest thing in the entire comic — the same size as he is on the cover. He bookends this story, dominating it. Cardona’s fear and uncertainly help sell the terrifying finals words of his boss, seen here in full on What-If-Hannibal-Lecter-was-Batman mode. This drive-by was easily the biggest act of violence in the issue, and the heavy blacks of The Shadow on this last page emphasizes him as this dark presence bringing doom to the Chicago mob. This page cements what we can expect from the next issue: The Shadow’s done his ground work. He’s ready to start making some moves.

FINAL THOUGHTS

Despite having three more pages than your typical modern comic, the page for page action is always dense and well-paced. Every scene feels necessary and the story never lingers long on any one place or character, and yet it never feels overstuffed or rushed. It takes time for some impressive visuals to break up the action, but never to the point of self-indulgence. There’s always something happening, even in a scene that basically boils down to ‘Two women go a club and a third woman talks shit.’ I talk a lot about Barreto — and I would, he remains one of the best artists of all time — but I don’t think enough can be said for Jones’ masterful pacing and lean yet conversational dialogue. These are two creators at the top of their game, with a solid coloring/lettering/editorial team backing their play. Almost thirty years after its publication, there’s still a lot to learn and even more to admire in these pages. This is definitely the kind of read that makes me want to up my game. 

When possible, I’ll be placing links at the end of these so you can buy better copies of the comics I’m analyzing with out my words getting in the way. 

Retroactively, here’s Comixology links for the comics I covered in my first two reviews:

BATMAN: GOTHAM ADVENTURES #17

PETER PARKER: SPIDER-MAN #13

As far as I can tell, THE SHADOW STRIKES! has never been collected in print, nor does Comixology doesn’t carry it, so I’ll link to another great Shadow story by someone else who really understands the material: Matt Wagner’s GRENDEL vs THE SHADOW, with Brennan Wagner on colors. I’ll also throw in a link to another Eduardo Barreto DC comic I’ve always dug, written by this issue’s editor, Brian Augustyn: BATMAN: MASTER OF THE FUTURE.

As always, feel free to check me on any mistakes I might have made, add your own commentary, or share similar examples of good comics done well. I’ll be back next week with a different comic to peruse. 

[readbookywooks]

5 R-i-i-i-p! I grit my teeth as Venia, a woman with aqua hair and gold tattoos above her eyebrows, yanks a strip of Fabric from my leg tearing out the hair beneath it. "Sorry!" she pipes in her silly Capitol accent. "You're just so hairy!" Why do these people speak in such a high pitch? Why do their jaws barely open when they talk? Why do the ends of their sentences go up as if they're asking a question? Odd vowels, clipped words, and always a hiss on the letter s. no wonder it's impossible not to mimic them. Venia makes what's supposed to be a sympathetic face. "Good news, though. This is the last one. Ready?" I get a grip on the edges of the table I'm seated on and nod. The final swathe of my leg hair is uprooted in a painful jerk. I've been in the Remake Center for more than three hours and I still haven't met my stylist. Apparently he has no interest in seeing me until Venia and the other members of my prep team have addressed some obvious problems. This has included scrubbing down my body with a gritty loam that has removed not only dirt but at least three layers of skin, turning my nails into uniform shapes, and primarily, ridding my body of hair. My legs, arms, torso, underarms, and parts of my eyebrows have been stripped of the Muff, leaving me like a plucked bird, ready for roasting. I don't like it. My skin feels sore and tingling and intensely vulnerable. But I have kept my side of the bargain with Haymitch, and no objection has crossed my lips. "You're doing very well," says some guy named Flavius. He gives his orange corkscrew locks a shake and applies a fresh coat of purple lipstick to his mouth. "If there's one thing we can't stand, it's a whiner. Grease her down!" Venia and Octavia, a plump woman whose entire body has been dyed a pale shade of pea green, rub me down with a lotion that first stings but then soothes my raw skin. Then they pull me from the table, removing the thin robe I've been allowed to wear off and on. I stand there, completely naked, as the three circle me, wielding tweezers to remove any last bits of hair. I know I should be embarrassed, but they're so unlike people that I'm no more self-conscious than if a trio of oddly colored birds were pecking around my feet. The three step back and admire their work. "Excellent! You almost look like a human being now!" says Flavius, and they all laugh. I force my lips up into a smile to show how grateful I am. "Thank you," I say sweetly. "We don't have much cause to look nice in District Twelve." This wins them over completely. "Of course, you don't, you poor darling!" says Octavia clasping her hands together in distress for me. "But don't worry," says Venia. "By the time Cinna is through with you, you're going to be absolutely gorgeous!" "We promise! You know, now that we've gotten rid of all the hair and filth, you're not horrible at all!" says Flavius encouragingly. "Let's call Cinna!" They dart out of the room. It's hard to hate my prep team. They're such total idiots. And yet, in an odd way, I know they're sincerely trying to help me. I look at the cold white walls and floor and resist the impulse to retrieve my robe. But this Cinna, my stylist, will surely make me remove it at once. Instead my hands go to my hairdo, the one area of my body my prep team had been told to leave alone. My fingers stroke the silky braids my mother so carefully arranged. My mother. I left her blue dress and shoes on the floor of my train car, never thinking about retrieving them, of trying to hold on to a piece of her, of home. Now I wish I had. The door opens and a young man who must be Cinna enters. I'm taken aback by how normal he looks. Most of the stylists they interview on television are so dyed, stenciled, and surgically altered they're grotesque. But Cinna's close-cropped hair appears to be its natural shade of brown. He's in a simple black shirt and pants. The only concession to self-alteration seems to be metallic gold eyeliner that has been applied with a light hand. It brings out the flecks of gold in his green eyes. And, despite my disgust with the Capitol and their hideous fashions, I can't help thinking how attractive it looks. "Hello, Katniss. I'm Cinna, your stylist," he says in a quiet voice somewhat lacking in the Capitol's affectations. "Hello," I venture cautiously. "Just give me a moment, all right?" he asks. He walks around my naked body, not touching me, but taking in every inch of it with his eyes. I resist the impulse to cross my arms over my chest. "Who did your hair?" "My mother," I say. "It's beautiful. Classic really. And in almost perfect balance with your profile. She has very clever fingers," he says. I had expected someone flamboyant, someone older trying desperately to look young, someone who viewed me as a piece of meat to be prepared for a platter. Cinna has met none of these expectations. "You're new, aren't you? I don't think I've seen you before," I say. Most of the stylists are familiar, constants in the ever-changing pool of tributes. Some have been around my whole life. "Yes, this is my first year in the Games," says Cinna. "So they gave you District Twelve," I say. Newcomers generally end up with us, the least desirable district. "I asked for District Twelve," he says without further explanation. "Why don't you put on your robe and we'll have a chat." Pulling on my robe, I follow him through a door into a sitting room. Two red couches face off over a low table. Three walls are blank, the fourth is entirely glass, providing a window to the city. I can see by the light that it must be around noon, although the sunny sky has turned overcast. Cinna invites me to sit on one of the couches and takes his place across from me. He presses a button on the side of the table. The top splits and from below rises a second tabletop that holds our lunch. Chicken and chunks of oranges cooked in a creamy sauce laid on a bed of pearly white grain, tiny green peas and onions, rolls shaped like flowers, and for dessert, a pudding the color of honey. I try to imagine assembling this meal myself back home. Chickens are too expensive, but I could make do with a wild turkey. I'd need to shoot a second turkey to trade for an orange. Goat's milk would have to substitute for cream. We can grow peas in the garden. I'd have to get wild onions from the woods. I don't recognize the grain, our own tessera ration cooks down to an unattractive brown mush. Fancy rolls would mean another trade with the baker, perhaps for two or three squirrels. As for the pudding, I can't even guess what's in it. Days of hunting and gathering for this one meal and even then it would be a poor substitution for the Capitol version. What must it be like, I wonder, to live in a world where food appears at the press of a button? How would I spend the hours I now commit to combing the woods for sustenance if it were so easy to come by? What do they do all day, these people in the Capitol, besides decorating their bodies and waiting around for a new shipment of tributes to roll in and die for their entertainment? I look up and find Cinna's eyes trained on mine. "How despicable we must seem to you," he says. Has he seen this in my face or somehow read my thoughts? He's right, though. The whole rotten lot of them is despicable. "No matter," says Cinna. "So, Katniss, about your costume for the opening ceremonies. My partner, Portia, is the stylist for your fellow tribute, Peeta. And our current thought is to dress you in complementary costumes," says Cinna. "As you know, it's customary to reflect the flavor of the district." For the opening ceremonies, you're supposed to wear something that suggests your district's principal industry. District 11, agriculture. District 4, fishing. District 3, factories. This means that coming from District 12, Peeta and I will be in some kind of coal miner's getup. Since the baggy miner's jumpsuits are not particularly becoming, our tributes usually end up in skimpy outfits and hats with headlamps. One year, our tributes were stark naked and covered in black powder to represent coal dust. It's always dreadful and does nothing to win favor with the crowd. I prepare myself for the worst. "So, I'll be in a coal miner outfit?" I ask, hoping it won't be indecent. "Not exactly. You see, Portia and I think that coal miner thing's very overdone. No one will remember you in that. And we both see it as our job to make the District Twelve tributes unforgettable," says Cinna. I'll be naked for sure, I think. "So rather than focus on the coal mining itself, we're going to focus on the coal," says Cinna. Naked and covered in black dust, I think. "And what do we do with coal? We burn it," says Cinna. "You're not afraid of fire, are you, Katniss?" He sees my expression and grins. A few hours later, I am dressed in what will either be the most sensational or the deadliest costume in the opening ceremonies. I'm in a simple black unitard that covers me from ankle to neck. Shiny leather boots lace up to my knees. But it's the fluttering cape made of streams of orange, yellow, and red and the matching headpiece that define this costume. Cinna plans to light them on fire just before our chariot rolls into the streets. "It's not real flame, of course, just a little synthetic fire Portia and I came up with. You'll be perfectly safe," he says. But I'm not convinced I won't be perfectly barbecued by the time we reach the city's center. My face is relatively clear of makeup, just a bit of highlighting here and there. My hair has been brushed out and then braided down my back in my usual style. "I want the audience to recognize you when you're in the arena," says Cinna dreamily. "Katniss, the girl who was on fire." It crosses my mind that Cinna's calm and normal demeanor masks a complete madman. Despite this morning's revelation about Peeta's character, I'm actually relieved when he shows up, dressed in an identical costume. He should know about fire, being a baker's son and all. His stylist, Portia, and her team accompany him in, and everyone is absolutely giddy with excitement over what a splash we'll make. Except Cinna. He just seems a bit weary as he accepts congratulations. We're whisked down to the bottom level of the Remake Center, which is essentially a gigantic stable. The opening ceremonies are about to start. Pairs of tributes are being loaded into chariots pulled by teams of four horses. Ours are coal black. The animals are so well trained, no one even needs to guide their reins. Cinna and Portia direct us into the chariot and carefully arrange our body positions, the drape of our capes, before moving off to consult with each other. "What do you think?" I whisper to Peeta. "About the fire?" "I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine," he says through gritted teeth. "Deal," I say. Maybe, if we can get them off soon enough, we'll avoid the worst burns. It's bad though. They'll throw us into the arena no matter what condition we're in. "I know we promised Haymitch we'd do exactly what they said, but I don't think he considered this angle." "Where is Haymitch, anyway? Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?" says Peeta. "With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame," I say. And suddenly we're both laughing. I guess we're both so nervous about the Games and more pressingly, petrified of being turned into human torches, we're not acting sensibly. The opening music begins. It's easy to hear, blasted around the Capitol. Massive doors slide open revealing the crowd-lined streets. The ride lasts about twenty minutes and ends up at the City Circle, where they will welcome us, play the anthem, and escort us into the Training Center, which will be our home/prison until the Games begin. The tributes from District 1 ride out in a chariot pulled by snow-white horses. They look so beautiful, spray-painted silver, in tasteful tunics glittering with jewels. District 1 makes luxury items for the Capitol. You can hear the roar of the crowd. They are always favorites. District 2 gets into position to follow them. In no time at all, we are approaching the door and I can see that between the overcast sky and evening hour the light is turning gray. The tributes from District 11 are just rolling out when Cinna appears with a lighted torch. "Here we go then," he says, and before we can react he sets our capes on fire. I gasp, waiting for the heat, but there is only a faint tickling sensation. Cinna climbs up before us and ignites our headdresses. He lets out a sign of relief. "It works." Then he gently tucks a hand under my chin. "Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!" Cinna jumps off the chariot and has one last idea. He shouts something up at us, but the music drowns him out. He shouts again and gestures. "What's he saying?" I ask Peeta. For the first time, I look at him and realize that ablaze with the fake flames, he is dazzling. And I must be, too. "I think he said for us to hold hands," says Peeta. He grabs my right hand in his left, and we look to Cinna for confirmation. He nods and gives a thumbs-up, and that's the last thing I see before we enter the city. The crowd's initial alarm at our appearance quickly changes to cheers and shouts of "District Twelve!" Every head is turned our way, pulling the focus from the three chariots ahead of us. At first, I'm frozen, but then I catch sight of us on a large television screen and am floored by how breathtaking we look. In the deepening twilight, the firelight illuminates our faces. We seem to be leaving a trail of fire off the flowing capes. Cinna was right about the minimal makeup, we both look more attractive but utterly recognizable. Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you! I hear Cinna's voice in my head. I lift my chin a bit higher, put on my most winning smile, and wave with my free hand. I'm glad now I have Peeta to clutch for balance, he is so steady, solid as a rock. As I gain confidence, I actually blow a few kisses to the crowd. The people of the Capitol are going nuts, showering us with flowers, shouting our names, our first names, which they have bothered to find on the program. The pounding music, the cheers, the admiration work their way into my blood, and I can't suppress my excitement. Cinna has given me a great advantage. No one will forget me. Not my look, not my name. Katniss. The girl who was on fire. For the first time, I feel a flicker of hope rising up in me. Surely, there must be one sponsor willing to take me on! And with a little extra help, some food, the right weapon, why should I count myself out of the Games? Someone throws me a red rose. I catch it, give it a delicate sniff, and blow a kiss back in the general direction of the giver. A hundred hands reach up to catch my kiss, as if it were a real and tangible thing. "Katniss! Katniss!" I can hear my name being called from all sides. Everyone wants my kisses. It's not until we enter the City Circle that I realize I must have completely stopped the circulation in Peeta's hand. That's how tightly I've been holding it. I look down at our linked fingers as I loosen my grasp, but he regains his grip on me. "No, don't let go of me," he says. The firelight flickers off his blue eyes. "Please. I might fall out of this thing." "Okay," I say. So I keep holding on, but I can't help feeling strange about the way Cinna has linked us together. It's not really fair to present us as a team and then lock us into the arena to kill each other. The twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle. On the buildings that surround the Circle, every window is packed with the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol. Our horses pull our chariot right up to President Snow's mansion, and we come to a halt. The music ends with a flourish. The president, a small, thin man with paper-white hair, gives the official welcome from a balcony above us. It is traditional to cut away to the faces of the tributes during the speech. But I can see on the screen that we are getting way more than our share of airtime. The darker it becomes, the more difficult it is to take your eyes off our flickering. When the national anthem plays, they do make an effort to do a quick cut around to each pair of tributes, but the camera holds on the District 12 chariot as it parades around the circle one final time and disappears into the Training Center. The doors have only just shut behind us when we're engulfed by the prep teams, who are nearly unintelligible as they babble out praise. As I glance around, I notice a lot of the other tributes are shooting us dirty looks, which confirms what I've suspected, we've literally outshone them all. Then Cinna and Portia are there, helping us down from the chariot, carefully removing our flaming capes and headdresses. Portia extinguishes them with some kind of spray from a canister. I realize I'm still glued to Peeta and force my stiff fingers to open. We both massage our hands. "Thanks for keeping hold of me. I was getting a little shaky there," says Peeta. "It didn't show," I tell him. "I'm sure no one noticed." "I'm sure they didn't notice anything but you. You should wear flames more often," he says. "They suit you." And then he gives me a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me. A warning bell goes off in my head. Don't be so stupid. Peeta is planning how to kill you, I remind myself. He is luring you in to make you easy prey. The more likable he is, the more deadly he is. But because two can play at this game, I stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. Right on his bruise.