#the way i spent years of my life thinking the first stanza was the entire poem and then.....anyway eternally forever and always

[soracities]

Yannis Ritsos, “The Meaning of Simplicity” (tr. Kimon Friar)

[bewitchingbooktours]

Obedience by Liza Snow #RomanticSuspense

Obedience

Ties That Bind Series

Book One

Liza Snow

Genre: Romantic Suspense

Date of Publication: April 4th 2023

ASIN: B0BXJZFW6S

Number of pages: 617 pages

Word Count: 155000

Cover Artist: MiblArt

Tagline: He’d searched a lifetime for the perfect student. She’d always dreamed he'd be her teacher. Together they’ll soar in the silks.

Book Description: 

Cassandra

Growing up, I was mesmerized by a man soaring the skies.

The greatest silk aerialist in the world, Chandler Moreau.

He was once my lifeline, the dream I clung to after my parents died. I’ve always believed he was my destiny. To join him at the Dreamers Academy. To perform for him.

To soar with him.

He’s more than I ever imagined. Far more than a mentor. When I am high in the silks, turning, flying, falling, he’s my lifeline once again. Twisting my heart and my body into knots like the knots of his beloved Japanese rope bondage, Shibari.

I don’t want to live without him. With each lesson, each touch, I crave more. Only he can satisfy me. And only he can destroy me…

But I must keep him safe from the past that relentlessly follows me.

Chandler

She is my protégé, the student I’ve been waiting to take under my wing for my entire career. Someone with whom I could share my lifelong journey in my family’s circus, Cirque du Lys.

I never intended to fall in love with the student I was supposed to protect—from myself and the demons that lurk in my shadows. But sometimes fate has other plans.

Cassandra, my beautiful butterfly. I know she’s off limits. Forbidden. Still, I want her in my life. My heart. My bed.

My grandfather's taunting words still linger.

Mieux vaut plier que rompre.

Adapt and survive.

It’s what we must do. Cassandra and I share a history that entwines us more than the silks we’ve spent our lives mastering ever could.

There are secrets from the past that must never be told. And truths that could destroy what we’ve just begun…

Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/6oKPIEIwyAk 

Amazon: https://amzn.to/3JBCeaA 

More to Love

In addition to the paperback, Obedience is also available in a full-cast narrated audiobook, starring Daniel Zbel and Rapunzaroo, along with a cast of additional voiceover actresses. 

Brought to life in the way the story is meant to be told, and it will be the best audiobook you listen to this year—possibly for a very long time.

You’ll love listening to the two voices of these iconic characters. And don’t forget to read along with them and enjoy a fantastic, immersive experience. You’ll need the paperback copy to fan yourself off from some of the narration!

Listen to An Audio Excerpt Here: 

https://bit.ly/3yzdb1t

Excerpt:

I hadn’t needed to prompt her. She began, pulling herself upward, drawing those silks around her small frame as she went. Climbing high into the air as the two women began their duet. The French lyrics pulled me in every time. It was perhaps one of the reasons that while I simply tolerated most opera songs I’d heard, I adored this song.

Every time I heard it, every time I got lost in those little nuances of the language, it brought me back to summertime in Melun, France. Playing on the hills overlooking the city, lost in the grasses filled with wildflowers. Climbing into Meme’s apple trees. Perhaps the time in my life when it had felt so simple. All there were, were the memories of when I’d been happy.

And if there was any place I wanted to be, as I watched Cassandra ascending above me, knowing in seconds I would be right beside her, it was in those memories again. Bringing her with me.

The first stanza finished, and my mind immediately centered. My hands had already been wrapped in the silks without having to think about it. She paused, and I saw her attention drift downward. We fell captive to one another, and it was all I needed to see. I knew it was my turn to go to her. She was waiting for me.

In the same fashion she had moments earlier, I began my way up the silks beside hers, which had been a deep royal purple color. The entire time I made my way high into the room, I immersed myself in the French lyrics, the strings complimenting every rise and fall of the two women’s voices. Some moments, I’d lose myself in what I was doing, taking careful note of all the little adjustments my body was making. Other times, my attention drifted upward. Until finally, I was just beneath Cassandra.

When I paused again, I took a few deep breaths, steadying myself. Focused entirely on the beautiful woman above me, who was just as attentive to me. I nodded to her, signaling I was ready, prepared to follow her in whatever she had thought to do next.

At the precise moment when I had met her, she had already begun moving herself into a sailor pose above me, legs splitting, and much to my satisfaction, every single part of her in perfect position. All the small details I’d shown her the first lesson we’d had together were as pristine as when I’d helped her myself.

I would have taken more time to truly enjoy how proud of her I felt if she hadn’t twisted downward, dropping her torso straight toward me in a graceful fall. Before she’d completed it, I knew what she’d done. A Rainbow Marchenko. A famous move of Jeanne’s for many years. But watching her as she settled into it, I would have thought it was hers alone.

Cassandra’s hands dropped, releasing the silks. Dangling inches away. The only thing holding her in the air was the precise folds of those green fabrics wrapped around her legs.

Looking into her eyes as she hung there, waiting for me to act, all I could do was smile. She’d been focused, lost in her own world, but she’d come back to me. We were together again in the very place I had wanted to be with her ever since I’d seen her flying through the silks at her audition. I had dreamt about it every time since, every lesson we had, every time I’d watched her from the shadows of the theater while she practiced.

I had taken her to those fields in Melun with me, high in the trees. Trapped us both in those treasured memories, made all the better knowing she was there.

“I’ve got you, Cassandra,” I called out to her, gently. Steadying myself, my body locked in place. Breathing slow and rhythmic and calm. I watched her take the same breath as I had, waiting for the little drop in the lyrics before the next few lines began.

The moment their voices bellowed into the theater again, she let herself drop in a salto. In a gentle sweep of my body, I caught her gracefully into my arms. Twisted us together, letting the silks take hold of the two of us as we swung across the room, dozens of feet above the stage below us. Falling like two feathers locked together, dancing into the wind.

When the fabrics released us, I swung us outward. Our bodies drifted apart again as she spun around me, both of us still descending toward the floor. As beautiful as she looked, circling outward away from me, the moment she had, I wanted her back. I used my legs to give myself enough momentum to swing forward, latching on again once she’d appeared.

Cassandra had been so close I’d felt her breath against my face while we dangled above the stage. I got lost in the way it felt to be tangled up with her, a mess of bodies and fabric. Consumed by it. Convinced I might never let go of her again.

As we’d traversed the rest of the way back to the stage, I didn’t. The two of us descended together as a singular unit, just her and I and the fabrics. Improvising the graceful fall we were doing, finding little tricks and motions to carry out, all the while never leaving her side.

We’d both reached the floor, perfectly in sync with one another. I heard a gentle thump as we landed. Followed by the sound of both of our light, audible breaths. Steadying ourselves back on the ground.

Even having left the air, the silks still wrapped around us. Neither of us had freed ourselves. Cassandra was still in my arms, something I realized, when I hadn’t been so caught up in what we were doing all those feet above us, was happening for the very first time.

The sweet smell of oranges overwhelmed me. Her beautiful hazel eyes, those captivating flecks of grays and greens and browns, drowned out the world around us. I watched her breathing softly, holding her to me and those silks holding me to her.

And in those next few moments, every single solitary thing keeping me from her since the day we had met no longer existed in the little reality we were trapped in. Every fear I had, every reservation, disappeared. I tightened her to me, my hands capturing the sides of her face in a gentle sweep, as elegant as every other thing we’d done those last few minutes.

Our mouths fell together, and I lost myself in her. Trapped in those profound and so unbelievably relieving seconds in which the things that had stood in our way no longer mattered.

I hadn’t thought anything could have surpassed the experience the two of us just shared.

Undeniably, it had been the best minutes I had ever spent in those silks in my entire career. As simple as it had been. And we had barely started. This was only the beginning.

But this moment now was just as wonderful. As perfect as I could have hoped.

About the Author:

A bestselling independent author from Florida, Liza has been putting romance books into her readers hands for over a half decade and has loved every minute of it.

Liza lives with her husband, her two dogs and her cat, ten minutes from the beach. When she isn't writing, you can often find her walking and enjoying outside, with a coffee and a book in hand. 

Website: http://www.lizasnowauthor.com 

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/lizasnowauthor   

Instagram: http://www.instagram.com/lizasnowauthor 

Newsletter: http://bit.ly/3yBrJhm 

a Rafflecopter giveaway

[panda-noosh]

lost in translation {draco malfoy x reader}

words: 11.8k 

summary: draco finds a notebook filled with beautiful, painful words. he keeps it for himself. he promises he’ll give it back to the rightful owner when he eventually finds them. 

genre: angst

notes: support my writing or ask about commissions! - masterlist - i literally don’t know what plot is any more okay. also i listened to i love you by billie eilish on loop whilst writing this so feel free to put that on if you want. 

---

    draco sees the words every time he closes his eyes.

   repeated stanzas, never leaving him alone. a mouthful of words no mind should ever be able to conjure. a haunting imagination capable of driving even the sanest people out of sanity.

   he found the book on a winters day at hogwarts. christmas time was just round the corner, meaning most of his friends had already fled the castle in favour of homes, somewhere out in the muggle world, where they could spend the holidays with families who cared for them as families often cared for each other.

   draco decided to stay at hogwarts.

   he didn’t want to - not really. his father was just being difficult, and he wanted to face the man even less than he wanted to spend the holidays with people like potter and teachers who didn’t like him because of his family name. 

    he is entirely on his own this holiday season, and it depresses him more than he would ever be willing to let on.

    because, you see, the thing with draco malfoy is, weakness has been a taboo subject amongst his family for as long as he can remember. his father drilled  into his conscience that malfoys always have their heads held high, that they must be able to cope entirely on their own in any circumstance, because that’s what strength is. needing no one. fending only for yourself. living life to get what you want without worrying about anybody else.

   this is why draco doesn’t sit with the other students during the christmas feast. instead, he finds himself traipsing through the library, poking at spines of books so old the writing has been smudged and worn, the contents made up of words once spoken in england, now lost to time.

    the place smells dusty. it makes him sneeze, and he grimaces when he pulls his finger away from a shelf to see it coated in a thick layer of dust which he hastily wipes on his already gravy-stained robes. his stomach grumbles with the reminder of the christmas feast waiting downstairs for him - all he needs to do is pull a chair up and dig in. none of the teachers will mind. the students might be a bit iffy, but when has draco ever cared about what they think?

    instead, he slumps against the wall, pulls a book into his lap and starts to read.

    he’s so engrossed in the old text that he doesn’t hear the library door opening. he doesn’t hear peeve’s taunting cackles until they’re right over his head, peeves pointed toes very nearly scraping his slicked back hair.

   draco’s head snaps up. above him, the poltergeist laughs, throwing his head back. 

    “peeves!” draco scrambles to his feet, swatting at the poltergeist. “oh, for christ’s sake, do you ever give it a rest?” 

    “all alone for christmas, are you, malfoy?” the poltergeist taunts. “surely daddy can afford you a way home with all that money the dark lord’s been shovelling into his pockets!”

   draco’s face burns. “go away, you annoying little roach, before i get the hoover!”

    peeves only laughs harder. “what a threat that was! wait till i tell the headmaster about that one.” and before draco can say anything else, peeves has grabbed a single, tiny book from the edge of a bookshelf and dropped it on draco’s head. 

    it crashes against the crown of his skull and bounces to the floor unceremoniously, flipping open upon the carpet. draco makes to yell, his fury bubbling over, but his voice is lost to the sudden emptiness of the room as peeves does what peeves does best and disappears.

   draco groans through gritted teeth, rubbing the spot the book bounced from. it aches a little bit, which is surprising considering the size of the book. not a textbook. not really anything any of his teachers would ask him to check out of the library. instead, it’s spiral bound, the words not typed, but handwritten in sloppy scrawl, like the author was in a rush when transferring their thoughts onto paper.

   draco frowns; why should a book such as this be in the schools library? 

    he picks it up by the corner, as if afraid the book might bite him - it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. the book, however, makes no strange movements. draco feels no strange, magical pull coming from the pages. in fact, if he were to use his common sense, he would believe the book to be straight from the muggle world.

   that alone should have been enough to deter him, but his father isn’t here, so he opens it and starts reading.

    the first few pages are awkward poetry. awkward essays, a person’s thoughts and opinions filtered with the fear of someone reading over their shoulder, perhaps. draco can tell the author was holding back, but the further he flips, the looser said author seems to become. they start using words. just words, so beautiful and magical and heartfelt that draco finds himself enraptured with every one. he struggles to put the book down, curling into his tiny corner in the library, enamoured by such language. he wonders for the brief moment he is able to take his eyes off the page if perhaps the book has been cast under a spell, if perhaps there is a spell in this world that puts heaven and hell into words and has transferred it to the very book he holds in his hands.

    draco has spent so long getting lost in the talents of wizards that he sometimes forgets muggles have talents and hobbies, too. there are creatives in the world who can create emotions from such small things. there are people outside the world of magic and wizardry who can do magical things, too.

    he has the evidence in his hand.

   ---

    he keeps the evidence in his hand all throughout the year. 

    he comes back to it after particularly stressful classes to remind himself that not all is bad; that’s the magic these poems and essays have on him. he could probably recite each one word for word, but he never does, because they belong to him now. he’s claimed them as a comfort blanket, something he needs to get through the day. he’s found an addiction within these words that he can’t let go of, not just yet, not until he figures out who wrote them.

    and that’s really all it boils down to - he wants to put a face to the mind that created the world he so desperately wants to share. 

    it’s a tuesday afternoon in feburary when blaise asks him about the book. 

    “are you ever gonna share what’s in that notebook you keep carrying around?”

   the question startles draco. he thought he was being so subtle. he hardly ever brings the notebook out to face the light of day, only ever reading it behind the curtains of his poster bed in the dorms.

    nonetheless, he doesn’t deny it’s existence. he doesn’t want to sound stupid. 

    he pokes at the vegetables on his plate and, without looking up, mumbles, “not really any of your business, is it?”

    blaise scoffs. “alright, be like that then. you carry that thing around like a little girl and her secret diary.”

    “are you trying to tease me, blaise? because you just sound stupid.”

    blaise rolls his eyes; he’s one of the few people that don’t get properly offended when malfoy fails to bite his tongue.

    “and anyway,” draco continues, “i don’t carry it around. it stays in my bed.”

   “oh, really?”

   “yes, and that’s where it’s staying.”

    “so is it yours, or did you take it from someone?”

    draco pauses. “it’s mine.”

    “i’ve never seen you write in a notebook before. not even in class.”

   draco shrugs; he hasn’t got a very good answer to that, because the statement is true. he tends to get others to write his notes for him when he can get away with it.

    blaise sighs. he leans back in his seat, folding his skinny arms across his chest. “so are you a poet now? some kind of shakespeare?”

   draco raises a brow. “some kind of what?”

   blaise waves a dismissive hand. “it’s a muggle thing. just answer the part you understood.”

    “i’m not a poet,” draco grumbles. “the poems in the book aren’t even mine. i found it when i was in the library a few months back, and thought it was interesting.” he shrugs like it’s no big deal, like this notebook has always just been a background prop in his everyday life. “it’s stupid, really. muggle stuff.”

   “so why are you so obsessed with it?”

   “i’m not obsessed!” draco’s grip tightens on the edge of his chair; he’s tired after a long day of quidditch practice, and honestly, he doesn’t want to deal with his friends bullshit any longer than he has to. “now, blaise, can you start minding your own business before we have some issues?”

   that shuts blaise right up. together, they eat the remainders of their dinners before draco excuses himself and leaves the table. his mind is reeling, heart thumping both with embarrassment and annoyance; he knows he’s popular amongst the slytherins. in a way, he asked to be centre of attention when he started mouthing off about the importance of the malfoy household all those years back, but it’s frustrating that he can’t even do a bit of light reading without getting asked about it. he thought he was being so subtle, keeping the curtains closed every time he read, never taking the notebook from the confines of the dorms, never uttering a word about it to-

    his shoulder crashes into yours.

   “shit.”

   draco stumbles back, catching himself on the wall. he’s too dazed to say anything, but his anger is rising, and he’s prepared to start yelling-

   but then he opens his eyes and sees you there, fumbling with a pile of posters that have spilled across the glossy corridor floor. draco blinks, glancing from you to the posters and back again.

    “i’m so sorry,” you mumble. “so sorry. i knew the pile was too high, but hermione had to go to-”

    “why don’t you just-” draco flicks his wand. immediately, the posters gather in a whirlwind and fly into his outstretched arms, a neat little stack, good as new.

   you look up, dazed. your eyes are gorgeous, plagued with evidence of exhaustion, but riveting nonetheless. draco recognises you only vaguely, and the few memories he has of these quick glimpses have never left him dissatisfied.

    “oh,” you say after a moment. “right. spells. magic. i forgot about that.”

   draco narrows his eyes. 

   you stumble to your feet, wiping trembling hands on your robes. it leaves a streak of dirt against the black, and that’s when draco sees the red and gold lining of house gryffindor.

    “sorry,” you repeat. “i mean, thank you, for - like - helping me. i completely forgot i could just-” you swish your hands in a mock gesture of wand-movement before laughing awkwardly. “weird, right? that i would - uh - forget that in a school of magic. when i’m a wizard. ha ha.”

   draco nods, because he really has nothing to say. he can’t keep his eyes off you, your awkward movements, the way you don’t even flinch at the sight of him. most gryffindor’s would be hurling insults at him by now - hell, he would be hurling insults at the gryffindor’s, too, but his words are caught in his throat and he can’t even properly function.

   so he looks down at the pile of posters in his arms.

    “CREATIVE WRITING 101!”

    you snatch the first poster off the pile as if that will stop draco from reading it. “it’s nothing. something stupid, really.”

   he looks at you again. “you like creative writing?”

   you shrug.

   “that’s such a muggle hobby to have. where’s the fun in it?”

   and for the first time this entire meeting, you scowl. you hastily snatch the posters out of draco’s arms, struggling to keep them neat and tidy in your own, but when draco raises his wand to help you out a second time, you swat his hand away and say, “i don’t need your help.”

   “you’re going to drop them again-”

    you’re already backing away. “you don’t need to come, you know. me dropping these in front of you wasn’t a bloody invite.”

   draco blinks. “i didn’t mean it like-”

   you run a hand through your hair, nearly stumbling over your own shoes yet again. draco lunges forward in his attempts to catch you, but you yell something incoherent in his direction, apologise profusely to a first year you nearly elbow in the nose before you turn on your heel and head back the way you came.

    draco stares at your retreating form, unable to fully comprehend what he did wrong. he doesn’t think he said anything offensive, let alone anything that would prompt you to nearly wipe yourself out in your attempts to get away.

    but then again, he isn’t really sure why he cares.

    ---- 

    it’s weird how - after one brief meeting - you suddenly appear at every corner draco takes.

    he never noticed you in his potion’s class before, but now he can’t avoid you. you sit at the back, a pen lodged between your teeth, brows furrowed together; despite your eventful meeting with draco only a few days prior, you don’t seem to have nearly as much interest in his sudden presence as he has with yours. he keeps glancing at you, not-so-subtly turning in his chair every now and then just to make sure you’re not some kind of illusion. nobody in the classroom is acting like anything is out of place, so maybe you have been his classmate for a while, and he just never noticed.

   he finds that a little hard to believe, but he has to take reality as it comes to him, or else he’ll go insane.

    he doesn’t talk to you for nearly a week, because he’s a little afraid of what you’ll have to say. he’s a little afraid you’ll say nothing at all, that you might have forgotten who he is entirely. 

    it’s you who makes the first move.

   it startles draco nearly out of his skin. he’s packing up his stuff, ignoring goyle’s ramblings to his left, when you slip your hand in his robe pocket. he jumps, spinning around just enough to dislodge your grappling fingers, and he’s seconds away from whipping out his wand to hex you when he freezes, eyes meeting your own, heart immediately plummeting into his stomach.

    you smile, wide and polite. “hello, old friend.”

   “can you get out of my pockets?” draco hisses, swatting your hand away when you make another attempt to dive into his robes. “what do you want?”

    “a pen,” you reply. “i broke mine.”

   “i don’t have a pen.” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his quill. “i have a quill.”

   “aaaah, my bad.” you snatch the instrument from him before grabbing his hand. he yelps, stumbling a little bit. he beams bright red when the noise he just made actually registers in his head, and he makes a mental note to scold goyle for snickering behind him.

   “what are you doing?” draco demands. he tries not to get too flustered at the height difference between you - your head could very easily rest in the crook of his neck, and he hates that he kind of wants to experience what that feels like.

    you scribble words into his palm. “this is the time and place for the creative writing clubs first meeting.”

   draco blinks. “what?”

   “time and place for the-”

   “why do you want me to go?”

   you scowl, not once looking up from the jagged lines of draco’s palm. “i don’t, but hermione’s asked me to gather as many people as i can find, and i think you kind of owe me one after being so rude the other day in the hallway.”

   draco falters; so you remember.

   “i wasn’t being rude at all,” he grumbles. “you’re just sensitive.”

    “maybe.” you drop his palm and shove his quill back in his pocket. “if you want to come, be my guest; it’s going to be a lot of fun. lots of - uh - writing and stuff, i can assure you.”

   draco scowls. “i won’t be going.”

   “okay.”

    “so this entire conversation was pointless.”

   you fold your arms over your chest, as if challenging him. “okay, draco. i’m not forcing you to come if you don’t want to, but - you know - i’ll save you a seat or whatever.”

   and draco doesn’t understand why that is the promise that tears him down, why that is the thing that makes his mind up for him. even as he gives you no solid answer, he knows he now has plans automatically built into his schedule to see you again, no matter how much he dreads the thought of it. 

    he looks down at the writing on his palm, and his heart stops.

   just for a second. a brief moment of death, before life is pushed back into him when his brain kicks into overdrive and he’s certain he’s going to pass away for real with how fast his heart is suddenly beating.

   he blinks rapidly. goyle is saying something, and the students are filtering out, but draco is lost, lost, spiralling as he recognises the messy scrawl, smudged even though it shouldn’t be, messy but coherent, familiar and amazing.

    he’s read heaven written in this exact same handwriting. he’s read heaven, and hell, and earth, and space, and the moon, and the stars, and he’s experienced an entire new existence written in this very handwriting. it’s the same handwriting that covers every single page of his sacred notebook, hidden in his pillow case back at the dorms. it’s the same handwriting that gives a form to the aches and pains and anxieties of the person who has just walked away from him, the person who’s brain draco has lived in since christmas.

    ----        

   “you’re actually going?”

   “it’s the least i can do.” draco fixes the collar of his robes, ruffles his hair a little bit. “i did nearly wipe them out in the hallway a few days ago.”

    “that was an accident.” pansy throws herself across draco’s bed, as she often does when she wants the attention he has never given her. he simply glares at her reflection through the mirror, silently willing her to get up and leave so he can set off for the history of magic classroom in which the creative writing club is meeting tonight.

    pansy, however, doesn’t take the hint.

   “i just think this y/n person is trying to get in your head,” she continues. “your head, your bed, all of the above...”

    draco’s face warms. “you can think whatever you want, pansy, but i’m going whether you like it or not. in case you’ve forgotten, you have absolutely no say in the way i live my life.”

   pansy rolls onto her stomach, tugs on the back of draco’s robes. “oh, you’ve made that very clear, malfoy. don’t come running back to me when you show up to this stupid muggle club and get ostracised for being who you are.”

    draco clenches his jaw, stepping out of pansy’s reach all without turning round. he knows she’s right, of course - there is no doubt in his mind that he is going to show up tonight, only to be met by the usual hostile glares he gets from everybody outside the slytherin house. he brought it upon himself, and he knows that - but he’s trying to fix it. he’s trying to prove himself as a good person to you.

   to the world. not just you.

    he swallows and turns. pansy stares up at him, hands curled beneath her chin, that sleezy little smile on her face. draco grimaces, points to the door and says, “the girls dorms are up the other staircase.”

    pansy’s smile falls. she scowls, stands up and leaves without another word. draco doesn’t care that he’s pissed her off - pansy, in recent months, has become a little bit too much. he’s given her the most wiggle room he can provide, and she has done nothing but bombard him further.

    he shakes the thought of his friend from his mind as he walks over to his bed and digs around in his pillow case. inside, he finds the poetry book he so desperately cares for, flicking to a page he has marked; he’s highlighted a few passages, and he reads them over as he steadies his breathing. this is such new territory for him. if his father finds out what he’s up to right now, he’ll be getting a very stern speaking to, possibly even a back-hand to the face if his father is in a particularly bad mood.

   but then draco remembers your expression, your hand digging around in his pocket, your stumbled words that somehow manage to pull together so beautifully when you want to express yourself.

   he has to see you tonight, whether it’s in a creative writing club or not. he’ll take just running into you in the hallway again, but to reach that point, he has to actually leave the dorms.

   he stuffs the book back into his pillow case, flattens a particularly frustrating strand of hair, and walks out the door.

    ---

    the history of magic classroom is dimly lit. 

   draco has seen pictures of muggle poetry readings before; they kind of remind him a little bit of exorcisms, and the set-up he’s currently walking into is no exception. 

   there’s candles lit upon every desk, the lights dimmed to create some kind of ambience that draco doesn’t understand. people are sat in a circle - people in every colour of robe, though draco is the only slytherin, it seems. this makes him a little nervous, and he hovers in the doorway, eyes tracing the scene in desperate search of you.

   he spots you in a matter of seconds. you’re leaning over a candle, frowning into the flame like you can’t quite understand why it’s flickering like that.

   draco makes a b-line for you.

   you look up only when he’s by your side, and immediately your expression brightens. those eyes of yours widen a little bit, a smile adorning your face. you straighten up, grab draco’s arm, and he’s certain he’s going to explode.

   “you made it!” you exclaim. “i can’t believe you actually came, mate; full of surprises, you are.”

   draco frowns, feigning frustration, like this is something he went out of his way to attend. “why are you staring at the flame so intensely?”

    “i’m staring at the flame so intensely-” you put on a pompous british accent, just to tease him, and draco doesn’t mind, “-because apparently you can turn the flames a different colour with the right spell, but it’s not working for me. watch.” 

   you elbow draco in the side, prompting him to shuffle over and give you more room. draco folds his arms over his chest, watching as you kneel down until your cheek is very nearly pressed against the desk. you point your wand at the flames and wave it, just once, but nothing happens. the flames barely even flicker.

    you blow it out in frustration. “fuck that.”

    draco laughs. he doesn’t know where it comes from, but it’s bursting out of him at the sight of your furrowed brows, and your pouting lips. you scowl at him, and it startles him how unsurprised you are to hear such a noise escape a man like draco malfoy. 

    draco shakes his head and nudges you to the side. “watch.”

    you grab his wrist. “no. nope. absolutely not.”

   “what? i’m gonna-”

   “you’re gonna show me up, is what you’re gonna do, and i didn’t ask for it.” you pluck his wand from his fingers and stuff it back in his robes. draco has to fight the urge to shudder, your fingertips tracing across his ribcage as you fumble for his inside pocket. 

   you pull away then, shaking your head. “it doesn’t even matter, anyway; you show me up in every other class we have together.”

    draco scoffs. “and i can assume you’re going to show me up tonight, so we’re even.”

    you grin, because draco is right, and you both know he is right. 

   you make a bit more idle chat before the final people make an appearance, and you’re finally asked to sit down. draco is confused to see hermione granger being the leader of this group of creatives, as he’s almost certain he’s never read anything more beautiful than your work; surely you should be up at the front, guiding people through the craft of writing, a craft you have so brilliantly perfected.

    draco sits beside you and says nothing. he fiddles with his fingers, coughing into his fist, rolling his eyes anytime someone makes a stupid suggestion. honestly, granger can talk forever, and draco is starting to get bored within the first ten minutes. all he wants is to hear you recite something, or for you to just. . . say anything about any of your pieces; draco could probably do it for you if that didn’t look creepy and uncalled for. he could stand at the front of this group and recite whatever piece of poetry he wanted from the notebook he took so long ago, and then maybe you’d get the recognition you deserve. maybe then you’d be able to share your potential instead of just sitting by draco’s side in a circle of poet-wanna-be’s.

   finally, hermione turns her attention on you, however.

    “y/n,” granger chirps. you jump, fumble with your wand, let it drop on the floor to roll beneath draco’s chair. he rolls his eyes and picks it up for you as you struggle to respond to hermione’s summons. 

   “uh, y-yeah? yes? did you ask me something?”

   hermione’s brows furrow. “do you ever pay attention to anything i’m saying?”

    “sometimes,” you reply, sheepishly. “definitely sometimes.”

   hermione rolls her eyes. “anyway - i was just wondering if you’ve done any writing recently that you’d like to share.”

    draco tenses. he flicks his eyes to his left to see you awkwardly ringing your hands in your lap, biting your lower lip.

   “uh....”

    “none?” hermione demands, eyes popping. “but i thought-”

   “i’ve been a bit busy,” you grumble. “it’s not that big of a bloody deal, hermione, goodness me.”

    “well, yes, i - i know that, but-” hermione gestures vaguely. “this is a creative writing club. i asked all of you to bring something with you. do you not even have an old piece of writing you could share with us?”

   “nope.”

   draco’s heart leaps. “what?”

   and suddenly, all eyes are on him.

   he slouches in his seat, but keeps his gaze on you. you stare back at him, eyes wide, clearly shocked at his contribution. 

     “you’ve got nothing?” he prompts.

    you can’t even reply. you just stare, and draco knows he’s being confusing, is aware that maybe he should just shut his mouth. or, better yet, do everyone a favour and walk out before he says any more stupid things that will do nothing but embarrass both you and him.

    “okay,” he grumbles, folding his arms over his chest. “okay, fine. that’s fine.” he looks up, meets hermione’s eyes. “you know what, granger, i don’t think this little club is my cup of tea. i’m going to head back to bed.”

    hermione blinks. no one says anything when draco stands and walks out, but he expected nothing less. he wasn’t welcome there in the first place. he should never have even made an appearance. he should have stayed in bed and let his feelings fester until he fell asleep.

    feelings are stupid anyway.

   ----

   he ignores you.

   in fact, he starts treating you how he treats everybody else - like they’re beneath him. a habit he once wanted to escape from has yet again become his comfort blanket, the thing shielding him from talking to you. every time you try making conversation, he sneers and walks off, barely even giving you the time of day.

   in truth, he knows what happened is no big deal. everyone probably forgot about it as soon as he left the room, getting absorbed in their own works of poetry. however, draco knows you want to discuss it, that you probably want answers he is far too afraid to give you. if he starts explaining why he said what he said, he’ll have to talk about the notebook, and then you might ask for it back, and draco is selfish because he doesn’t think he can give it back just yet. it’s the only thing keeping him sane.

   and so, he just ignores you.

   he sits in potions and pretends you don’t exist. he walks past you at lunch and doesn’t even give you a smile. he looks over your head every time you stand to wave at him. he doesn’t want to risk any inkling of conversation trickling in between you.

    pansy notices this, of course, but draco isn’t surprised. with how closely pansy has taken to watching over you and him, it would be more surprising to think she hadn’t caught on to the situation.

    she sits beside him at lunch, slamming her tray of greens down just loud enough that a few heads turn - including your own. draco quickly snaps his eyes down to his plate, trying to pretend he wasn’t just staring at the back of your head.

    “so,” pansy begins.

   draco licks the stuffing from his fork.

   pansy leans in, elbow hitting against his. “so. how did it go?”

    “how did what go?”

    “your little date with y/n! you never updated me on it!”

    draco scowls. “that was days ago, pansy.”

    “exactly. so now that i’ve got you trapped, you can fill me in on all the details.” she leans even closer, if that is possible. draco can smell the old woman’s perfume wafting from her robes and has to take a glass of water to quell the itch it summons to his throat. “y/n doesn’t look too happy with you, i’ll say that much. i sit behind them in care of magical creatures, and they’ve been awfully quiet since the club meeting; care to explain?”

   “why is it any of your business?”

   pansy grins. “because i told you someone like y/n wasn’t worth the trouble; a gryffindor, draco, really? were the robes not a big enough red flag for you?”

    draco scowls. “first of all, pansy, y/n and i are just friends, and have always been just friends. i’m not doing anything to impress them.”

    pansy scoffs, finally moving away to start spearing at her dinner with her fork. “how stupid do you think i am? how stupid do you think we all are? goyle doesn’t keep your little infatuation a secret, you know. he told us all about how close you and y/n get in potions together.”

    draco’s grip tightens on his fork. “close isn’t really the right word.”

   “the bickering? the way they make you laugh? the way you help them with their potions when they’re struggling so snape won’t tell them off? that sounds awful close to me, draco.”

    he has no answer to that. his chest aches, memories of such delightful times flooding his mind and making him crave it all again. he remembers those times when he would glance over his shoulder to see you running your hands through your hair, struggling to comprehend what on earth snape has just ordered you to do; if it was anyone else, draco wouldn’t have given them the light of day, but seeing the fear in your eyes every time snape gave you even the briefest flicker of attention saw draco abandoning goyle to come save the day at your desk.

   “so what went wrong?” pansy continues. “a lovers tiff?”

    draco closes his eyes. “it was nothing, pansy; just me being an idiot again.”

   pansy gasps, eyebrows shooting up her forehead. “you? being an idiot? and you’re openly admitting to it! goodness me, y/n must be a lot more skilled at magic than they let on, huh?”

    “i don’t know what to do.”

    it’s a plea. draco knows it’s a plea. in his heart, the cracks are beginning to form, and he can’t pretend any longer. he watches the back of your head - has been watching the back of your head since the meeting, because that’s the only glimpse of you he will let himself have. it hurts to see you laughing, smiling, slapping ron weasley on the arm. it shows you’re healing, moving on from your attempts to get draco to listen. 

   he’s ruined everything.

    pansy leans forward. her voice is softer now, surprisingly kind. “draco, are you serious about this? i know i’ve been teasing, but do you actually like y/n in that way?” 

   draco bites the inside of his cheek. he remembers the times he had with you, how he used to laugh so freely with little care as to who heard. you teased him and made him feel normal, and he isn’t sure when his appreciation for you went past the poetry you wrote and emerged into you as a human being, but it’s happened, and he’s nodding to pansy’s question before he can think better of it.

   pansy draws back, letting out a shaky breath. “wow, okay. . . this is definitely new territory for me. for you. i’m not sure how to go about it.”

        “i took their notebook from them,” he mumbles. 

   pansy raises a brow. “their - their notebook?”

    “y/n writes,” he explains. “beautiful things. addictive things, and i found their notebook in the library over christmas and i kept it for myself. i only found out it was theirs a few days ago, but. . . i never told them i have it. i got scared to.”

   pansy pauses. draco’s never used that word in a sentence before. it sounds fake, like he’s made it up and just thrown it at the end of his sentence for the fun of it.

    “well, that would be a good place to start, i think.”

   his eyes snap up. “what?”

    “give them their notebook back.” she says this like it’s obvious, raising her brows. “it’s a good way to start a conversation, and once the conversation’s been breached, you can go on to explain everything else - it’s pretty simple when you get your head around it, draco.”

    he blinks. it does make sense, but again, there comes that burning protectiveness he can’t seem to shake. 

    selfish, selfish, selfish.

   he glances over at the gryffindor table. you’ve got your head thrown back again, laughing so loudly and so carefree that draco’s heart trembles because he isn’t the one making you laugh like that. it’s ron. it’s harry. it’s everyone who thinks he’s an awful human being, bringing joy to the one person who’s ever seen him as decent. they’ve probably told you a joke about how draco’s scum, how he’ll never amount of anything, how he claimed his spot at the top purely because of his father.

   fury pools in the pit of draco’s stomach. he spears his food with his fork, pushes away from the table and walks out of the dining hall before giving pansy an answer as to whether he simple plan is one he’ll actually take into consideration.

   but now that he’s storming through the halls towards the slytherin common room, he knows it’s not something he can just consider. he can never move on with you with your notebook stuffed in his pillow case. he needs to be honest, and he needs to apologise, and these are all things he struggles with greatly, but all things he needs to learn before he loses you for good.

   ---

    the notebook hasn’t seen the light of day past draco’s dorm since christmas.

    it feels weird carrying it so freely now, slowly making his way through the halls with it pressed against his chest, the spirals digging into his lower arm. people look at him, but nobody bats an eye at the notebook, and why would they? it’s not suspicious. most of them probably think it’s nothing more than a school notebook, used for taking notes in classes. 

    still, his anxiety runs at a million miles per hour. he wants to yell at anyone who even glimpses the tiny square peeking from over his arms. he wants to tell them it’s none of their business.

   but he doesn’t. he keeps walking until he’s reached the gryffindor common room.

   it’s just his luck that ron weasley is the one stood outside. the ginger lad spots draco immediately, and it’s reflex when draco scowls and says, “got nothing better to do, weasley?”

   ron glares. “what are you doing here, malfoy? the slytherin common room is back the way you came.”

    “good thing i’m not going to the slytherin common room.” he nods towards the portrait hole. “is y/n in there?”

   ron pauses. “what do you want with y/n?”

   “i need to talk to them.” he swallows before gently unravelling the notebook from his arms. “i accidentally grabbed this in potions - i need to give it to them.”

   “right, give it here then.” ron reaches for it, and draco stumbles back. he stumbles, not even bothering to swat ron’s hand away as pure panic seizes him. ron pulls back hastily, eyes widening at draco’s response.

   draco, through gritted teeth, says, “just go get y/n for me, will you?”

    ron stares at him a second longer before turning on his heel and walking back into the gryffindor common room. draco tries calming himself down in the minutes it takes for ron to reappear with you at his side.  

    the attempts are futile.

   the minute he lays eyes on you, his heart starts thundering in a way that confuses him to no ends; he shouldn’t feel like this over someone so ordinary, and in truth, that’s what you are. you’re a student, just like him, struggling through school life, just like him. you go about your day in almost the exact same way as he does, and yet he’s never before felt so intrigued by another individual.

   when your eyes meet his, you don’t smile. you don’t even look surprised. you grip the front of your night gown, glaring at him, not saying a word in greeting; draco’s mouth has gone dry, however, and saying anything is the absolute last thing on his mind when you’re standing in front of him, hair a mess, more beautiful and casual than he’s ever seen you.

   ron is the one who has to break the silence. “he said he’s got a notebook for you.”

    draco inhales sharply, suddenly remembering the artefact clutched in his hands. your eyes drift to it, and for a moment, you look puzzled. your eyebrows scrunch together, head tilting a little before you say, “that’s mine?”

    draco thrusts it in your direction. “please take it.” he turns to ron. “and you - please leave.”

   ron looks offended, looking at you for back-up, but your eyes are peeled on the notebook, not paying even the slightest bit of attention to ron. in the end, the weasley man rolls his eyes and stalks back into the gryffindor common room, leaving the corridor empty besides you and draco.

   and draco feels every sliver of tension like it’s been injected into his bone marrow. flashes of his behaviour play on loop in his brain, the way he ignored you, the amount of times he scowled at you every time you tried speaking to him; he never meant any of it, of course, considering you’re the most fascinating person he’s ever come across, but he did it anyway, and that’s what he has to patch up.

   somehow, he has to patch this up.

   he looks to the floor, tucking the notebook back against his chest when you don’t take it from his hands. the silence is crushing, but draco has absolutely no idea what to say to fill it in - pansy made this all sound so easy; he would hand you the notebook, and a conversation would immediately stem from that. 

    but no. draco’s mind has gone completely blank, and you still look furious, and neither of you are doing anything to resolve the mess he has made.

    finally, however, draco can’t take it any more. “i found your notebook.”

    “yeah. ron said.” you pluck it out of his arms. “where did you even find this? it’s so old.”

    “in the library.”

   “the library? what was it doing there?”

   draco shrugs. “how would i know that?”

   “considering you’re the one who stole it-”

   “i didn’t steal it. i just didn’t know who it belonged to.” a lie. he shouldn’t be lying. that’s a bad way to go about things. “i mean, i took it back to my dorm with me, kept it safe, but - like - i was of course going to give it back once i figured out who the owner was.”

    you hum. “i’m sure you were.” you flick open the pages, immediately spotting a passage draco has highlighted in bright orange pen. “you tabbed it?”

    he shrugs. “sometimes i read it when i got bored.”

   “i should be angry at you for that, you know - that’s a big invasion of privacy.”

   “yeah. you should be.” he looks up sheepishly. “are you?”

    you pause, eyes continuing to drift over the pages of your own work, work you haven’t seen or reread since at least christmas time. you don’t look impressed, or angry, or anything at all, really. you just read the lines and nod, as if taking inventory.

   then, you look up and say, “i’m more angry at the way you’ve been treating me this past week.”

   draco wilts. he knew it was coming, that this was the main source of hostility for the both of you, but he really thought the presence of the notebook would somehow buy him some time, maybe make this conversation a bit easier. 

   you snap the notebook closed, shoving it into the pocket of your night gown. “you didn’t even tell me what i did wrong!”

    “you didn’t do anything wrong!”

   “then why were you acting like that? why couldn’t you just talk to me?”

   draco squeezes his eyes closed, trails his hands through his hair, tries to calm down before he says something he’ll immediately regret. “you know, it’s a lot more complicated than you’re making it out to be.”

   you pull back, puzzled. “how is it complicated? you’re nearly eighteen years old, draco! it shouldn’t be complicated to talk to someone when you’re mad at them!”

   “ i wasn’t mad at you! i thought you were mad at me!”

   you throw your head back and laugh, and this is the very noise draco has been craving for days, but he doesn’t want to hear it now, not here, not in this context. you’re not taking him seriously. you’re not listening.

   “this is the stupidest thing i’ve ever heard,” you cackle. “is this about the fucking club meeting? you think i gave a shit about what you said?”

   draco shakes his head. “again, love, it’s not as simple as that.”

    “then explain it to me. explain to me what the hell was going through your head to make that switch flip so suddenly.”

    something inside draco snaps, a string he didn’t even realise was being pulled so taut.

   “do you wanna know what’s been going through my head recently?” his voice drops, your expression faltering. “it’s that fucking notebook of yours. it’s been all i can think about for weeks, because i can’t wrap my head around the idea of you being the author of those poems.”

    you blink. “w-what?”

   “you’re so carefree. you’re so. . . so you, y/n, and it seems impossible to me - unfathomable! - that you could be thinking such harrowing thoughts and not a single person has picked up on it besides me - and i’ve only done so by complete accident.” he inhales, runs a hand through his hair. “i’ve read your poems a thousand times over, and even though i know they came from you, i still can’t put your face to the words. i still can’t figure out how on earth you and that notebook are related in any way, and it’s been driving me insane. i want to help you, and it’s driving me insane.”

    again, you blink. the corridor goes quiet. draco’s breathing slows, stabilises, and he has no idea what he’s just said, or if any of it makes sense, but there is a weight off his chest that provides such a great amount of relief he wants to cry.

   finally, you swallow. your knuckles protrude from your hand with how tight your grip on the notebook is. your eyes stray to the ground, throat bobbing, mouth opening for just a second before you seem to think better of it and go silent again.

    draco takes a step back. “look, you can have it back,” he says. “i don’t want it any more. i don’t - i don’t need it any more. but i just want you to know i’m sorry, and i never wanted to hurt your feelings. i was just. . . feeling things, and it wasn’t normal for me, and i got scared.” he raises his hands in mock surrender, taking another step back. “feel free to never talk to me again. i’ll understand.” 

   he waits for another second. hope springs to his chest, hope that you will tell him not to go, that you’ll forgive him on the spot and the two of you can live happily ever after, but it doesn’t work that way. you meet his eyes and nod, before turning on your heel and heading back into the gryffindor common room.

    ---       

    “how did you mess that up again?”

   draco presses his knuckles into his eyes, as if pushing goyle’s words out of his brain. he should never have told the other slytherin about his encounter with you, but goyle was the first person on the scene, and malfoy just lost control; he needed to rant to someone. he needed to get it off his chest.

   and it seems now goyle has suddenly developed a perfect memory, as two days after the meeting in the corridor, he has not let the subject drop.

   the two sit together in defence against the dark arts; their teacher has long since left the classroom in search of some more work sheets for them to get cracking with, and the class has erupted into an expected chorus of conversations. draco wants nothing more than to put his head on the table and ignore the world, take this break as a chance to catch up on some of the sleep he has been robbed of these past few weeks, but goyle doesn’t let him go that easily.

    the bigger boy leans over and taps draco on the back of the head. “come on, man, talk to me. there’s got to be something we can do.”

    “there is nothing,” draco barks through gritted teeth. “and i’m sick of repeating myself, goyle, so shut your trap before i shut it for you.”

   goyle sighs, leaning back in his seat. “so y/n just. . . didn’t even say anything? they just walked off without a word?”

    “they did, which i took as a clear sign they never want to see me again.”

   “do you not think you might be looking too deeply into that reaction?”

    draco glares, eyes bloodshot, probably more terrifying than they have ever been. “tell me where on earth i could have looked too deeply.”

    goyle shrugs. “well, you did admit to spilling this massive, emotional speech over them in the middle of the night - maybe they just didn’t know what to say at the time. i bet if you go up to them now and ask for a follow-up conversation, they’d be more than willing to sit down and discuss everything.”

    “there’s nothing to discuss. i said everything i wanted to say, and y/n rejected me - i’m man enough to take it at face value and move on.”

   a lie, of course, but draco just wants goyle to shut up. he wants to continue sulking on his own, because that’s what he does best. he doesn’t need friends patting him on the back, trying to cheer him up. he knows he’s messed up, and he’s willing to suffer in solitude for his stupidity.

    “i’ve just never seen you act like this around anyone.”

   draco’s head snaps up. “what do you mean?”

   but he knows exactly what goyle means, because goyle is telling the truth. nobody has ever made draco this stupid. nobody has ever plagued his mind like this, and it’s driving him insane.

    goyle folds his beefy arms across his chest. “i’m not saying it’s a bad thing, draco; sometimes it’s nice to see you unravel a little bit. god knows you’ve had a stick rammed up your ass for long enough.”

   draco rolls his eyes. “well, there’s no point in dwelling on it; nothing is going to happen. whatever friendship y/n and i had is gone, and i’m just gonna have to accept it.”

    goyle scowls, but draco pays him no attention. instead, he goes back to idly tapping his pen against his bottom lip, trying desperately to put his own words into play. he just needs to get over you. he needs to go back to the cold hearted, uncaring wizard he was raised to be, because that was the only version of himself that never got hurt. he never let himself get hurt. it’s strange how you walk into his life, and suddenly that entire side of him is being stripped away, replaced by this oversensitive, overthinking, annoying piece of shit who suddenly relies on someone else to get them through the day.

    draco hates it, but he hates the idea of not having that even more.

   ----

   “so are you going to tell me why y/n won’t talk about you?”

   draco looks up, his scowl a reflex when he makes eye contact with ron weasley. he stands over him, arms folded over his chest, wearing a set of school robes with little burn marks pecked into the material; draco has half a mind to tease him for it, before finding he has absolutely no energy to do such a thing right now.

    instead, he leans back against the tree he has been sat under, gazing at the sky as mountains of homework piles up in his dormitory - piles of homework he has yet to touch, because every time he tries focusing his mind on a single task, it veers off and he can’t do anything.

    ron raises a brow at draco’s silence. “no? you’re both gonna keep your mouths shut?”

   “i don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

   “no, of course you don’t.” and then, ron does the most surprising thing - he slumps down next to draco, their shoulders clicking. “i’m gonna take a wild guess and say you fucked things up again.”

   draco swallows, closing his eyes. “again, none of your business, weasley.”

   “good answer. it makes perfect sense now.” ron nudges his arm. “what happened?”

   and draco knows it’s out of character. of all the people he could rant to, ron weasley should - and always has been - the absolute last on his list, but he looks at ron and he’s reminded that he is your friend, that ron makes you laugh, and he’s probably cheered you on during this uncomfortable time with draco. with that knowledge comes a sense of warmth, a gratefulness he’s never felt before, one he doesn’t completely understand.

   but he leans into it, because he’s too tired to fight it off. with his cheek pressed against his knees, he tells ron the whole story, from start to finish. he goes back as far as christmas, that god-forsaken day in the library when he wanted nothing more than to enjoy a nice bit of light reading whilst he ignored the rest of the students downstairs, how peeves had dropped that notebook on his head, and he’d grown attached to it, rereading the poems every day until the day he had to surrender it back to you.

    “sounds quite stalkerish,” ron comments.

   draco scoffs. “it does, doesn’t it?”

   ron sighs, shifting slightly. in the distance, a group of first years run screaming away from the whomping willow. a stone gargoyle shakes its winds atop the astronomy tower. such beautiful sights, and yet draco can’t feel a thing.

    “okay, look,” ron says. “don’t get any of this twisted, alright? i still hate you. more than i thought humanly possible.”

    “cheers.”

   “but, i care about y/n. a whole lot. they’re like family to me. they’ve been miserable these past few days, and it’s starting to take a toll on me. so, i’m here to give you a bit of advice.” he turns, leans in, lowers his voice. “don’t give up so easily.”

   draco jerks away. ron snickers, leaning back against the tree, gazing out at the green grass without a care in the world; draco, however, is stunned, heart racing though he doesn’t even know why. those words just hold so much hope, a hope he hasn’t let himself feel since it happened. he was slowly coming to terms with the idea of never talking to you again, and here ron weasley walks into the scene, ruining everything - like always.

   draco splutters, swallows, pulls himself together. “w-why do you say that?”

   “i thought it was obvious, mate,” ron replies. “y/n clearly has a soft spot for you. god only knows why, but that’s neither here nor there. all i care about right now is the fact they’ve been moping around for days, not even laughing at my jokes or anything. it’s getting exhausting when all you need to do is talk, and this entire thing could be resolved.”

    “it’s not as easy as that.”

   ron raises a brow. “oh? and why not?”

   draco opens his mouth to respond, because he’s certain he has one. however, when he thinks about it, there really isn’t a decent answer to that question; he’s young, dumb, embarrassed. he stole your notebook, gave it back, confessed his feelings and then fled the scene - the only reason he hasn’t spoken to you since that fateful day is because he doesn’t want to bring up his own embarrassing gestures ever again. the quicker he buries them, the better.

    but at the cost of you? maybe he should rethink it.

   ron laughs. he stares at the side of draco’s face, pure amusement dancing across his features. draco scowls, because that’s what draco always does when he sees even the slightest flicker of joy on the weasley boys face; it’s become routine by now, even if he doesn’t feel the same contempt he’s so used to.

    “it’s bizarre, isn’t it, that i’d be the one giving you relationship advice,” he says.

   “it’s bizarre you’re helping me out at all, to be honest.”

   “i’m not as heartless as you like to think i am, malfoy.” he stands, wiping his hands down his robes, smearing muck on the already dirty cloth. “if anyone asks, we were arguing and i won.”

   draco blinks. “thank you, weasley. i mean it.”

   ron rolls his eyes. “i’m sure you do. now never speak to me again.” he turns on his heel and strolls back down the hill without a second glance in draco’s direction. 

   ----  

    draco’s heart is going to burst from his chest. 

   he’s been in this state far too often these past few weeks. he wants it to stop. he wants to go back to a life where he didn’t have a care in the world, where he owned this school, where he had the confidence that has carried his family name for decades.

   the only way he’s going to reach that point again is by sorting things out with you.

   or at least letting you know how he feels, because he can’t deny any of it any more. he can’t go around pretending you mean nothing to him. no, he still can’t explain where these feelings came from, if they started with the poetry and grew, or if they started that very day he laid eyes on you in first year and thought you were the prettiest one of his lousy classmates. he can’t explain any of it, but he doesn’t need to try. he doesn’t need to go as far back at that. all he needs to do is talk to you, let you know that you have changed him in very scary ways, and then he can move on. no matter your reaction, he can move on.   

   at least, that’s what he tells himself as he walks through the school corridors in search of you. it’s already getting dark, the january days lasting what seems like only a handful of minutes. students are flooding from their last classes of the day, and it’s only when draco spots a gryffindor bustling through the crowd does he stop.

   he grabs the unsuspecting student by the arm, not even surprised nor offended by his look of pure disgust. draco simply grins, because that’s reflex for him, before saying, “have you seen y/n l/n anywhere?”

   the boy furrows his brows. “i saw them talking to filch when i was walking to class. what do you want with them?”

   draco raises a brow; talking to filch? what could you possibly want with argus filch of all people?

   draco shoves the gryffindor away, thanking him with a nod before he turns and starts towards the caretakers office. he’s never been there before, mainly because he’s never wasted his time trying to hold a decent conversation with the caretaker, but he finds it in good enough time - an ordinary brown door, decorated only with the name ‘argus filch’ written across it in what looks like normal, muggle sharpie pen.

   draco racks his knuckles against it, uncertain if he’s doing any of this right. in all his years at hogwarts, he’s seen filch in his office only a handful of times, and even if he just happens to be in his office now, what will draco even ask him? what he was talking to you about? if he somehow knows where you went after the conversation was over? 

   he waits there, however, because he has no other leads, and he needs to talk to you. he needs to get this over with, or else he won’t be able to sleep, and he can’t afford to be groggy during quiddith practice; he’s been performing bad enough these past few weeks, and if he can just get this off his chest-

    the door swings open.

   it isn’t filch.

    “argus, i promise i’ll be done in-”

   you pause. your eyes widen. your mouth snaps closed, grip tightening on the door frame, and draco is certain he’s going to explode at any moment.

    “y/n.”

   your name is a whisper, barely audible over the sound of his racing heartbeat. he doesn’t even know if he said it, or maybe it was just a thought. at this moment in time, the two things are interchangeable. 

    “draco.” you swallow, shuffle awkwardly, look to the floor in a rare look of timidity. “w-what are you doing here?”

    “i was looking for you.” he speaks fast, like he’s running out of time, and maybe he is. maybe you’re only giving him a few seconds before the memories flood back and you slam the door on his face, ruining his chances once and for all. maybe you think his attempts are idiotic, embarrassing, and you’re only letting him talk out of pity. 

    but you don’t slam the door on his face. not at all. you stand there, looking more beautiful than draco has ever seen you, even though nothing has really changed. 

    draco swallows, curling his fingers into fists. “someone told me you - you were in here.”

    your eyes snap up. “i didn’t tell anyone where i was. that was kind of the whole point.”

    draco nods like he understands, because part of him kind of does - hiding away, pretending you are the only person to exist. it’s a comfort sometimes. 

    “what do you want, draco?”

    and just like that, everything he wanted to say is swept from his brain. 

    you fold your arms over your chest, one foot tapping rapidly against the floor. “d-did you have anything to say to me?”

    you almost sound hopeful.

    “ron told me not to give up so easily.”

    you pause.

   draco rushes on, because he knows he hasn’t done this right. he’s gone so far off script, and he hasn’t even got to the main point of his argument.

    “i don’t listen to weasley - ever. quite frankly, his advice is usually more detrimental than helpful, but - but he told me earlier to come find you. he told me you weren’t doing so good-”

   “ron-”

  “and i don’t know if that’s true on your end, but it’s true for me.”

    you blink. 

   draco exhales shakily, running a ringed hand through his hair. “i’m not doing so good, y/n. i don’t like the way we left things. i don’t like the fact that we left things at all. i should have explained myself a bit better, or come to you sooner, but you know how i am. god, you know how i am better than anyone else in the world, so please, please understand that i’m trying so hard to put my dignity aside to let you know how much i care about you.”

       there is a silence. a silence so heavy that draco feels crippled beneath it, unable to do anything but wait in anticipation for a response he might not even deserve. he’s done so many things wrong - not just with you, but with life in general. he is a bad person, and he knows this, and he’s trying to change, because you don’t deserve a bad person. 

    you swallow. he watches your throat bob. 

    “i don’t know if i believe you.”

    your words are a whisper, but they shatter everything around him like they were screamed at the top of your lungs.

    he shakes his head dumbly, like that is answer enough. he wants to say something to argue his case, but his tongue feels heavy and a cloud has passed over his brain.

    “draco, i don’t know if i believe you,” you correct, sounding almost desperate. “y-you treated me like shit for no reason. you took my notebook and didn’t give it back. you’re a dick to my friends-”

    “i know,” he bursts through gritted teeth, like he is in physical pain. “y/n, i know. i know, and i’ve been beating myself up over it for weeks. but that’s what i do - that’s what i’ve always done. i play the victim card and blame everybody else for my wrongdoings, and it’s childish. i’m trying to stop. i’m really, really trying.”

    you open your mouth to respond, but draco takes one look at the tears in your eyes and barrels on, suddenly desperate to dig himself further into the dirt.

    “you know what? i don’t even know why i’m here. i’m sorry. i should just - i should just leave you alone and let you get on with your life. you and i were never meant to be together, and i just need to accept that and move on.” he can’t stop talking. he can’t stop hating himself. “i’m sorry, though. for everything i did to upset you. for every stupid thing i said or did - know i didn’t mean it. from the bottom of my heart, y/n, i would never hurt you. never. so that’s why i’m gonna go. i’m gonna leave you alone. i’m g-gonna support you in whatever you want to do in the future. as long as you’re happy.”

   he tries for a smile, because that’s the way you’re meant to end these things, isn’t it? you smile, and you shake their hand or something, but draco can’t bring himself to do that, so he turns on his heel instead. he turns away from you, knowing this will be the last time, that there is absolutely no going back, no matter what horrible advice ron weasley gives him. he needs to get over you. he needs to let you go once and- 

   “draco.”

   you grab his wrist and he stumbles. he stumbles because of your grip, but he stumbles, too, because his name on your lips will never get old. it’s music to him, music he never listens to because his father always said it was a waste of time. he basks in it, spinning around to meet your eyes, and his heart crumbles at the tears now rolling down your cheeks.

   his own eyes widen. “y/n-”

   “you’re so stupid,” you sob. “so fucking stupid, do you know that?” you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him in for a desperate hug. you sob into his shoulder, and draco is frozen, hands hovering over the small of your back, unsure how to take this reaction. “you’re literally the most idiotic person i’ve ever met in my life. how is it you? how is it always you?”

   draco blinks. “how is what always me?”

   “everything!” you wail, hugging him tighter. “it’s just always you, draco. always.”

    and draco still has no idea what you mean, but he’s learning to understand that maybe he doesn’t need to know what you mean all the time. maybe he just needs to be there for you to yell and cry and make no sense, and that will be enough.

   he wraps his arms around your waist, nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck. he’s never been any good at hugs, but he’s melting into this one. 

    “idiot,” you whisper into his neck. “thinking i’m just gonna let you leave like that. . . thinking i don’t like you back. . . thinking i’ve stopped thinking about you for even a second these past few days. . .”

    draco holds you tighter. 

   you pull away after a moment, quickly swiping your hand beneath your eyes. they are puffy now, red-rimmed, and draco knows he will have to explain this to ron in some way or the other without giving ron the benefit of knowing his advice might have actually been beneficial for once.

   “i think we both messed up a little bit,” you mumble through sniffles, wiping your nose on your sleeve. “my reaction wasn’t exactly very helpful, was it?”

   “well. . . no, but-” draco exhales. “i meant what i said, y/n; i never meant to hurt you. i would never do that.”

   your smile trembles. draco has only a second to smile back before you’re throwing your arms around him again, pulling him in for a hug that he is getting strangely fond of.

    ----        

    your pen scratches against the paper. draco can’t sleep; he doesn’t really want to sleep, despite the hours of classes and quiddith practice he has to endure in a few hours time.

   you never sleep. not really. draco is convinced you live entirely off caffeine and words, staying up into the early hours of the morning with that notebook of yours, your muggle pen darting back and forth over the pages. he scolds you for it sometimes, but he’s always smiling, and you always roll your eyes in response.

    now, however, he has one arm thrown over your shoulders, watching you work. it’s already three in the morning, but he’s too enamoured to bother falling asleep; he’d rather stay up and watch you work.

    “bic,” he says out of nowhere, shattering the hours of silence the two of you had collected.

   you pause, looking up. your eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. draco smiles. 

   “what?”

    “bic.” he nods at the pen in your hand. “that’s the name of your fancy muggle quill, isn’t it?”

   you frown, taking another second to catch onto what he means, despite the clear explanation he has just given. however, it eventually dawns on you, and you frown even more.

   “oh, right. yeah. bic. that’s the brand name.” you place it in draco’s hand. he holds it close to his face, squinting to read the tiny letters written in the plastic. “the best pens in the world, i’d say; much more practical than those bloody quills we have to use in class.”

   “nothing wrong with our quills,” draco says, tilting the pen back and forth, examining every inch of it. “mine cost me a good lot of money.”

   you scoff, snatching the pen back. “i’m sure it did. waste of a good lot of money, too, when you could have just bought a pack of twelve bic pens for a fiver.”

   draco furrows his brows. “a fiver? what’s that in real money?”

   you roll your eyes, smiling fondly, and it’s that very smile that has draco leaning forward to peck you on the lips. it takes you out of your work, which he knows will frustrate you in the morning when you wake up to see you didn’t get as much done as you might have liked, but for now, he doesn’t really care. not when you’re melting against him, dropping your dumb bic pen into the crease of your notebook so you can cling to him with both hands. 

   there are some days when draco thinks you love him only out of pity. he was the boy who lost himself to his feelings for you. he was the boy who came crawling back, the boy who was lost when he didn’t have you by his side. some days, draco has to ask you if you really want to be part of this relationship.

   but then you go and kiss him like this, and he is left with no doubt that you’ve meant every single “i love you.” then you go and hold his hand at the gryffindor table, smile fondly at him as he bickers with your friends, and he knows this relationship is not a chore for you. maybe, if he lets himself hope, he can convince himself that you love him as much as he loves you. 

[ithinkofnealcassady]

WAIT we just read the love song of j. alfred prufrock in class and now I’m desperate to know what you think of it

i literally waited to answer this until i had ample time because this ask.... means the world to me. yes.

first of all??? it opens with an excerpt from dante’s inferno in the OG italian so you know it has to be good. the constitution of overthinking as a hell at the end of which he cannot return from?? yeah. that's poetry.

“like a patient etherized upon a table.” i spent the longest five minutes of my life waxing poetic about this line in my poetry class last year. etherized. when you’re etherized you’re held down, you’re entirely out of power, the evening is at the whim of the universe, unmovable by its own strength, being tugged in every direction and shifted and cut into by the hands of the universe around it. yeah. 

“Streets that follow like a tedious argument / Of insidious intent / To lead you to an overwhelming question ... / Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” / Let us go and make our visit.“ overthinking 101. also, “streets that follow like a tedious argument” ???? YEAH. do not ask what is it. let us go and make our visit. as someone who desperately wants to be as impulsive as the world will let me, as stupidly impulsive as is humany possible but as someone who is also cripplingly afraid of everything,,,, yeah.

the entire next stanza personifiying the mist like a stupid little cat makes my heart warm. i love stupid little cats. i love the mist being a cat: nosing its business everywhere it shouldn’t, making a nuisance of itself, but curling around the house like a comfort at the end anyhow.

“And indeed there will be time” is maybe one of my favorite lines ever in general just because it is so applicable, but everything that follows it is also perfection: “there will be time / To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;” there will be TIME for all the things you rush to do now, for all these catastrophes you are preparing for. there will be TIME to breathe and “murder and create” and “time for you and time for me” in a way, it’s like the gentlest, sweetest “slow down” i’ve ever heard. 

the repeated “In the room the women come and go / Talking of Michelangelo.” is so amazing too: yes, you’re taking a moment, and things are still happening around you, yes, that’s true, but that doesn’t mean you can’t BREATHE! people will continue to discuss and discover and do around you but that doesn’t mean YOU don’t have TIME to do that TOO!

so he’s like,,, yeah we have time,, the whole beginning is just “there’s all this time” but at the same time he’s also like,,,, let’s. he’s just like “let’s.” the whole time it’s just yes i’m terrified and yes i feel so fucking rushed and panicked and confused because the world is weird and crooked but you’re here and we have this time so let’s. and i think that’s pretty funky and beautiful, mister eliot.

“Do I dare / Disturb the universe? / In a minute there is time / For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.“ i have nothing to add

“I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;” yeah. my neurotic kin. everything is careful and overthought and done to exact amounts. everything is RUSH HURRY NOW RUSH NOW EXACT HURRY PERFECT. and the little silent voice beneath this is just hedging on: he talks about his bald spot and people talking ABOUT his bald spot and he’s like “let’s.”

“When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, / Then how should I begin“ the constant feeling of being scrutinized. the way this manifests in a fear, an unwillingness, to do anything at all. why would we do anything when we know we’ll be judged for it? butterfly pinned under a glass case. LET’S.

“I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, / And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, / And in short, I was afraid.” me too. me too me too. and the fact that, in the face of this, he’s still over here going LET’S?????? yeah. 

“To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, / Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—“ to know all? to really know all and to tell it to yourself? to erase that constant worry? i think there’s a quiet bravery in the way he seems flabbergasted at the idea of telling all to himself, at the idea of correcting one’s life to be the way it “should.”

“No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;” i know people say this is about status in life but that’s bullshit. eliot’s speaker is at least as neurotic as hamlet, though i shudder to compare any level of neuroticism to hamlet’s. this man is telling himself to stop thinking so much, so deeply, to stop catching on every stitch in the blanket and just notice the warmth for once. he’s saying to himself, LET’S, you and i. 

“one that will do... almost, at times, the Fool.” this whole thing? yeah he’s saying he’s wrong sometimes, stupid sometimes, a fool sometimes, but that’s because he’s human, and he shouldn’t overthink that. there’s some strange beauty in it.

“I grow old ... I grow old ... / I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.“ this was my instagram bio for months. a bisexual anthem. but also a way of saying “im tired (old) of overthinking, of micromanaging myself. im gonna roll my fucking trousers.”

“I do not think that they will sing to me.” this line always hits me like a bullet. the siren call wont call him. there’s nothing he finds himself pulled by. there’s nothing to want so much that a siren could drown him in the search for it. this is the hopelessness to counter every single bit of exhausted “LET’S-ing” he’s done throughout the rest of the poem. this is the moment you understand that it’s not a bit of hopefullness left in him at all making him feel like he should just Do. it’s a bit of nihilistic exhaustion. it’s “Let’s Do Before We Die Because Otherwise We Died For Nothing.”

“Till human voices wake us, and we drown.” this line, to me, is eliot’s persona talking about hearing the voices of the neuroticisms he’s voiced throughout the whole poem prior. it’s weighing the voices of himself, of man, over the voices of mystical sirens, the same way night can be etherized: the way he feels, the exhaustion he holds, is so heavy that it sucks the mystic powers out of everything that could possibly be mystical. nighttime can be made to bow down. sirens are less strong than insecurity. it’s the ocean, with its waters “white and black” that give life and death; it’s all or nothing. it’s that which calls to him (all or nothing, life or death) because he’d rather that than live the way he does: questioning and unsure and wavering.

anyway i read this poem as a discussion between the persona and himself rather than the persona thinking about a lover bc fuck romance but i just love the idea of the persona trying so hard to make himself feel living is worth it, and at the beginning you believe this “LET’S!!” energy he has but at the end you’re like “dude go see a fucking therapist.” 

[saltine-kakyoin]

🎶 and jotaro and also kakyoin AND another character..whoever u want ;)

oho… you’ve sent me another message? you know what comes next bro, u brought this upon yourself….this is us now man

anyhow, AH. thos boys…god this one is gonna be so difficult because I have So Many Songs that are tied to them. as for the other character, i think i will do my boy sergio because i really need to share my brainstorming songs for him before i explode! :0 thank you again for sending these in, bro!! have a good night, ily! c:

this will be long bc i always ramble..i will be tagging this as long post for mobile gang!

Jotaro:

thom- i hate to start this off with a jotakak-themed song because i know some people Despise jk. i’m sorry for y’all who do, but ahh this song has been stuck in my head for days now! :’( In terms of the SDA, i always think of this song as like…jotaro’s bittersweet journey w his feelings for kak. it’s something about the like, ghostly windchimes in the beginning, the phone buzzing in the bg, and the “please don’t run away”s man, ahhh. I listen to this song a lot when brainstorming him coming to accept that friendship is as far as he and kak go. However,“ The pitter patter gave a rather rinse and lather feeling/ As opposed to shitty attitudes that made me bitter after laughter/ And I dearly regretted it” really makes me think of pt. 4 jotaro in any context. We only see the end result of his development from SDC, but like hhh… do you think he regrets being so gruff? I think of that 1 fanart where he’s looking at the group picture + hoping they knew he wasn’t annoyed by them (or something along those lines, i forget the exact line…ahh)

something’s missing- So, ofc not all parts of this song apply.. and truthfully, I listen to this song while thinking of the immediate period after the crusade in the SDA and how the crusaders are all left with this hole in them (..@kakyoin literally.. i’m sorry i had to. also, abdul is the hole). Out of all of them, though, I always think of Jotaro the most w this song- “My dad asks, ‘Were you okay out where you were stranded?’ How do I tell him that I wasn’t just okay… I was so much better?” LIKE DAMN THAT IS ONE (1) KUJO JOTARO… :( i think he comes back from the crusade and just feels.. severely misplaced. Going back to Japan and the girls following him to school every morning feels so alien to him.

tempest rhapsody- this song is just… *chef kiss* It makes me think of like. star platinum’s first manifestation, and of the emotions one would feel during a 50-day crusade to a place you’ve never been before, where you run the risk of death at least once a week…how would it feel to know if you got seriously injured in a fight, there would be a very real possibility that your *cough* dearly beloved *cough* mother could die? this song is my answer to that question

only in sleep- another choir song! i cannot help myself. This one is more for canon Jotaro. I’ve read a few fics about the universe reset where he’s reunited with the other crusaders one last time before everything becomes nil, and…..augh. “The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces, I met their eyes and found them mild — Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder, And for them am I too a child?“ is imo such a jotaro 4 am deliberation

softly- THIS. this was the Original jotakak song, no offense thom. i used to listen to this song on REPEAT while reading nessun dorma, ahhh. so much of the sda jotakak dynamic is shaped from that fic and this song, hghshg. Anyhow, now that I’ve worked on the development of their relationship in the sda, this song is most definitely a song for the jotaro who unknowingly pines in 3rd year and then comes to realize that ah…these are Emotions during uni. during their third year, jotaro and kakyoin do a ton of self-exploration, and spend more than one night floating in the pitch black void of the ocean talking about what they’re going to do after graduation with only the stars to accompany them. they lose this when jotaro goes to florida for uni + kakyoin paris, but they make up for it by calling each other all the time, so “Touch you softly I call you up late at night” made this song an instant hit in my book ghshghw. I adore this song, through and through. ;u;

post-published honorable mention bc i rediscovered him while i was workin on polnareff’s playlist!! DOLLY ZOOM is another really good song for pining jotaro. in the sda, he feels really Horrible about having a crush on kakyoin for a long time because he and his family (that is phrased weird, i am sorry) are the entire reason kakyoin got a hole punched right through his abdomen and spine. they’re the entire reason kakyoin spent months learning how to walk and use his legs again. he doesn’t do anything except bury his feelings because, to him, it’d be Really selfish to do otherwise. i listened to dolly zoom nonstop when i started writing Jotaro’s Decade-Long Yearn because it captures the guilt really well, ahh.

Kakyoin (it is 1:24 am as i’m starting this… let’s see how long i agonize over this part lmao)

ultraviolence- ahh, ze Mindworm Song. I really despise diokak and the fact that he had to spend like…3-4 months with the mindworm just chilling in his brain, but I can’t ignore the fact that he latched onto dio’s friendship and was initially elated to have that whole thing happen. It haunts Kakyoin in canon, and it Most Definitely haunts him in the SDA, and i think he and jotaro have a lot of conversations about how and why and what that whole experience was like. I always end up coming back to this song when brainstorming this year in the au. The beginning just sounds so lonely, and the background choir/ voices really give me the heebie jeebies. Then, there’s the build-up to the beat drop, which really make me think of like. what being mindwormed could feel like? And how it must feel to be so lost in that sauce that you become a passenger in your own mind, lost to the whim of one super manipulative vampire, augh. “You give me love, you know you give me love with your ultraviolet rays” ties into a few of FKA Twigs’ other songs where she sings about not being enough and really obsessively deriving love from someone whose attention is ultimately really harmful and unhealthy, and I think about that and Kakyoin a lot. :(

sound and color- so truthfully, this is my go-to song for any character that dies/almost dies and comes back, or goes through a Huge Life Change. kakyoin fits both of these bills to a T! this song makes me think of getting used to being around such a rowdy but tight-knit group of people who genuinely care about you All Day Long after spending your entire life in isolation. I always think of like, a happiness montage when the second half of this song comes around, and the montage i daydream about for kak during that section is *chef kiss* Sound + Color is like one of the best songs ever, and it’d be a crime to not have a kak setting for it. 

first love/late spring- fellas, here’s the kakyoin equivalent to jotaro’s softly. this song was IT, back when the sergio-divergent au and the “All the Crusaders Live” au were two separate things. back then, kakyoin and jotaro’s realization that oh, fuck, they really meant the entire world to each other happened much earlier in the plot. Looking back on that now makes me squint, but I do think that this song is still really fitting for kakyoin exploring those feelings- friendship is one thing, but romance is something entirely different and a lot more intimate. i think it’s a tug-of-war for him, between wanting to jump in to those feelings and wanting to run far far away from them because he doesn’t want to be wrong and ruin their friendship. good times in the kak hole

last words of a shooting star- I really love the bastard fucker side of kakyoin that is explored and celebrated in our fanon, but I can never shake the fact that some of his last thoughts were of his parents (and i think he was sorry for making them worry? which… baby…) and that his polite, “outwardly anxious” presentation was this big facade for like.. the Deep and Soul-Wrenching loneliness he felt because he was a stand user? The first stanza and “They’ll never know how I’d stared at the dark in that room/ With no thoughts” make me think of kakyoin deeply- if his family had never gone to egypt and he’d never met dio or jotaro, what would have happened to him? Who would he be? i’ve always been super attached to that part of kak bc fundamentally… I Relate. but also i am just fond of it because it makes me sob- he deserved so much better than to get murdered by the same man who manipulated his entire identity right at the climax of his character arc….some crimes can never be forgiven, hirohiko….

vertigo- i don’t listen to this song for kak often, but it is a Quintessential Kakyoin song. according to khalid’s twitter, vertigo is a song about “Overcoming overthinking. After every dark days, there’s a brighter outcome. Being at a super low place in your life and realizing that, there’s other people going through that same path you’re walking down. There’s always light at the end of the tunnel. It’s also a story about fear of abandonment.” which….Big Kakyoin Energies. The “Are we alive?Or are we dreaming?” part also ties back into the Kakyoin Parties in a Coma for a Month arc- your mind has a wild wild time when you’re in a medically induced coma, theoretically because it’s trying to fill in the blanks for all of the stuff you’re sensing? And coming out of a medically induced coma is a bizarre experience, where it’s hard to tell if you’re still in the coma and just imagining things or if you’re actually awake. Kakyoin has a mad time in the month immediately after SDC, one that i’m sure he doesn’t enjoy too much after the death 13 fight.

honorable mention goes to i am not yours- this has been a kak song to me for a long time as well. the context of the song is way different from my interpretation for this setting, but AH. I just think kakyoin really struggles to differentiate and understand romantic feelings. This song really reminds me of that struggle, and I think also touches nicely on like. the identity issue of it all too.. “yet i am i, who long to be” yanno? ; J ; it’s hard for me to explain

another honorable mention, my statue sinking. in the sda, after the events in egpyt, kakyoin is thrown into a coma for like an entire month while his body gets operated back together, and then he spends months in physical therapy learning how to walk w a prosthetic spine (kudos to cyborg speedwagon being a reverse engineering madman :D). i like to imagine that there’s also some degree of therapy going on this whole time, also. you don’t just get donuted + thrown into a coma for a month without some counseling to get you back on your feet..i think the lasting effects of dio’s influence are addressed here, but only briefly because it’s not something kakyoin is eager to explore. however, I think that this song captures the like... distress? i guess? of knowing that your life has been irreparably thrown off course because of dio. like yes, you met some really wonderful people that helped you learn how deeply healing friendship could be! but also.. you lost months of your life to mind control, and then another month to a coma, and then additional months to training your body to function again....there’s some psychological stress there. While I think that Jotaro and Polnareff are affected the most by the crusade, I think they all emerge from it with some degree of ptsd. Being targeted by complete strangers at all times of day cannot be good for your mental health, you know? Anyhow, I think My Statue Sinking captures that aftermath feeling really well. Everyone survives and recovers from the crusade, but there’s a part in all of them that is lost to Egypt. 

on to sergio!! (it is now 2:04 am lmaooooooo) sergio will be easy because I only ever listen to the same handful of songs when I’m writing him hdhgh

i will come to you- this is THE sergio song. i think of this song every time i write about him, whether it’s the “believe in me…” “also believe in me” lyric exchange that i imagine he has with both tomoko and holly; the “and i will pray to my father…my father…and he will abide” part being about him reaching out to joseph with his final breaths and spilling all of the beans about dio and begging him to finish things so that Tomoko and Josuke, the Kujos, and he and Suzi can be safe; the “foreeever……foreee-eever.. forever..” part being where he dies and his soul passes into the next realm.. “even the spirit of truth [golden prophet] whom the world [..yeah..] cannot receive, because it seeth him not [bc suad defects and buries sergio instead of bringing his dead body to dio]. Neither knoweth him, but you know him…for he dwelleth in you and he shall be in you [literally the entire joestar/kujo/higashikata family being so near and dear to him + his spirit being with them even after death]” and then, like.. george i, jonathan, and george ii coming to retrieve his soul during the “heeeee shallll beee in youuu” part… “i will not leave you comfortless. i Will Not leave.. You Comfortless… iiii wiiiill come…. to you.. to You” part being about his soul mingling within star platinum and crazy diamond because he has a Need, even in death, to protect them. UGH (also his essence being especially prevalent in crazy diamond, which is partially why its power is to repair things!! bc hamon! ; O ;) literally I have an Entire music video with sergio’s death set to this music. i’ve listened to it way too many times.

when david heard- so to be frank this is actually more of a joseph song, but it’s only a joseph song when sergio exists + gets murdered. :o i cried the first time i listened to this, and then months later i listened to it while thinking of sergio + like. sobbed fr fr. Joseph is asleep when Sergio calls him, so he gets sergio’s final message as a voicemail on his answering machine hours after the fact. the message itself is chilling because Joseph had no clue his son had gone on this huge mission by himself to kill Dio, and now he’s dead! however, it’s made even worse because Joseph wasn’t there to pick the call up and comfort his son in his dying breaths or do Anything. it’s just like Caesar, which is. god awful. it’s such a horrible realization because sergio, whom joseph named after what caesar wanted to name his own son, has been condemned to the same fate as his namesake. Thus this song- i’ve yet to come across a song that captures the feeling of hearing that kind of news so well. (also when i tag things as my sOOOOON or *cries my son in 8-part harmony a la whitacre*, this is the song i’m referencing :D)

zombies / terrified- ahhh, these songs capture the HORROR sergio feels upon sensing dio’s presence in Japan really well. (also “I’m going to eat you alive/please don’t find me rude, but i don’t eat fast food/ so don’t run too fast” is SUCH a dio mood…) Sergio maintains his composure about the Dio Dilemma for a good year before he flies off the handle, and his entire proto-crusade against the vampire is just. Laced with paranoia, even if he is learning a ton of useful skills. These two songs capture that feeling of something constantly watching/creeping up on you so well, and ever since i discovered them, I’ve listened to them for Sergio inspo.

the prophet- This is the only song I’ve done so far that the characters would actually listen to lmao. Sergio is a Huge fan of The Temptations, and his stand is actually named after this song! (+ the esoteric title for the hermit, which was really amazing luck on my end ; J ;) it also had a huge hand in figuring out what his stand power would be, the lyric that decided it was “God doesn’t listen to the words you pray; he hears what your heart has got to say.” However, the entire last stanza of the song ties really well into his character arc fhshgh. Also, this song just feels like it could Be the child of Bloody Stream, if that makes any sense. it’s so groovy and funky, but the lyrics are like big ominous lmao. I was super ecstatic to find this song- if sergio were to ever get an animation, this song would be the OP, yanno?

armageddon- This is another “this song would be on their personal playlist” song. Sergio’s got a lot of love for all styles of music in his heart, but jazz is his home base and always what he comes back to. I like to imagine that Lisa Lisa’s husband introduces Sergio to Wayne Shorter’s music at the age of like 8 or 9, and Sergio’s just. obsessed with the man’s music for the rest of his life. I really love Shorter’s explanation for the meaning of this song and its album as a whole: “What I’m trying to express here is a sense of judgment approaching - judgment for everything alive from the smallest ant to man. I know that the accepted meaning of ‘Armageddon’ is the last battle between good and evil - whatever it is. But my definition of the judgment to come is a period of total enlightenment in which we will discover what we are and why we’re here.” Like… wig.. I feel like that’s such big sergio energy. Armageddon itself also feels like a really nice ED- it’s lively, but in a good episode-ending kind of way. Do i dream of animating Sergio’s adventure one day? Mayhaps.

honorable mention goes to just my imagination/ my girl- We’ve covered that Sergio adores The Temptations, so it’s no secret that he would listen to these songs ceaselessly. however, i really like the broadway harmonies + instrumentals that they did for Ain’t Too Proud, so that’s what’s goin in here. these songs are THE tomoko/sergio songs…He loves Tomoko and the way she quips + teases + gets up to nonsense with him So Much. There’s a huge part of him that has No Idea what Tomoko sees in a music geek like him, but ughh he is so grateful that she likes him because she is a Goddess. he’s blessed yo..

[despairko]

Radio Waves: A KomaHina AU

Description: Hajime Hinata is a nighttime radio announcer for a station that broadcasts poetry, but his life is stuck in a rut and he dreads coming to his job every night. That is, until a mysterious anonymous poet catches his attention with an unnamed submission and turns his entire life upside down. Chapter: 1/5 Word Count: 4,777 Archive Warnings/Rating: No archive warnings; suitable for all audiences

Read it on AO3

“Thank you to all the listeners who tuned in again tonight, may we stumble across each other again. Goodnight.”

The faded red broadcasting light blinked off, and Hinata let out a relieved sigh. The first order of business was to toss the clunky black headphones on the table. The second, he decided, was to leave as fast as possible. Still, he couldn’t help but to take a moment to throw his head back and slump down in his chair, burying his face in his hands and rubbing at his eyes. They burned a bit already from the hours spent awake, staring at the station-provided laptop screen, and he could feel the blood pulsing behind them, thudding fists on the walls of his vessels. He let his hands fall, stared at the white spotted ceiling and the dancing dots that colored his eyes, then shoved himself out of the seat with a start, using what seemed like all of his energy just to get himself to his feet.

His heart dropped as the door swung open. In walked his producer, a small, rounded man with cropped, greying brown hair and glasses that slide down his nose when he talks too vigorously, which he makes a habit of (much to Hinata’s dismay).

“Another successful show, Hinata!” He slapped his arm with an overwhelming amount of force, causing Hinata to stumble forward and bump into the table, shaking it. Without seeming to notice, he continued. “You always manage to read things just right. You really have a knack for radio!”

I don’t have a “knack”, I have 8 years of experience, Hinata thought to himself. His voice came out a low mutter. “Thanks.”

Without looking at the loud, imposing figure in front of him, he made a beeline to his bag, shoving in the laptop and beginning to dig for his keys. Beyond all hope, he prayed for his producer to leave it at that, say his goodbyes, and disappear into the next day like he was planning on doing, but his boisterous booming continued.

“You know, Hinata, we really ought to advertise this show more. I think we could pull in a lot more listeners. We could do a press tour, maybe a couple TV spots, hell, maybe even a billboard! Think about it,” he dropped his voice, conspiring excitedly. “Your voice, lording over everyone on the route into town in every town.”

“People don’t like poetry that much,” he murmured.

“But they could!” The producer slapped him on the back, still too hard and Hinata had to catch himself to keep from falling over.

He pulled himself upright, having fished his keys from his backpack and thrown it over his shoulder. “I don’t really want to do all of that. I don’t really want my face ‘lording over everyone on the route into town in every town.’” He shrugged. “I’m perfectly happy with how the show is going right now.”

As he said that, he knew it wasn’t entirely true. He hadn’t been happy in this god forsaken job in well over a year. If you do anything long enough it turns into sleepwalking.

The producer’s face stiffened slightly, the smile falling into a straight line. The creases on his forehead deepened, as did his tone as he said “My boy, you really ought to consider the future of this show. There are things you need to pay attention to.” His smile returned, but more cautiously. “Just give me the word, though, and I’ll get you everything you need!”

“Thank you, sir,” Hinata bowed slightly. “But I already have everything I need.”

Before the producer could wander into a minefield and step on another topic, Hinata rushed to the door and pushed his way out into the mostly deserted hallway. The corridor was lined with dirt, topped with fluorescents, and filled with the disgusting and visceral experience of both. The smell was subtle but somehow overwhelming, earthy and slightly sweat stained. He made his way to the fingerprint pocked glass doors at the front of the studio and pressed his way into the fading night. Slight hints of sunrise were already showing themselves over the rooves of the scattered cars in the parking lot.

Stumbling through the grey light, Hinata pulled himself into his car, jammed the keys roughly into the ignition, heard the old rust bucket sputter to life, and, with another tired sigh, drove off into the last clinging moments of the night.

The hike up to the apartment was marked by four infinitely steep sets of metal stairs, weaving back and forth across the hollowed space; a few lights buzzed along the walls, their posses of moths swimming around them dutifully. Hinata pushed through the fire door and rounded the corner, shuffling down the hallway to his front door. Unlocking it, he lets himself in.

He dragged himself over to his bed, swayed, then fell onto it with a soft thud. The springs sputtered. He slid his backpack off of his shoulders and dropped it over the edge onto the floor next to him, heard the thud of the laptop. Crawling further onto the mattress, he tossed the blankets over his body, and closed his eyes tightly, letting his head sink into the pillow. Thoughts swarmed his head, a low and indistinguishable hum with very few recognizable features. The most familiar of these was the one screaming how tired he is.

Still, his body refused to calm. He turned onto his side, then the other side, flopping onto his stomach then rolling onto his back, shifting his arms and legs in a dance with exhaustion that left him somehow more awake. Each turn somehow becomes more uncomfortable that the last.

Eventually he sat up and clicked on the lamp on his bedside table. The blackout curtains were doing their job, but a cool glow around its edge told him that the day was coming and coming fast. Frustration welled, hot in his chest. Checking the time, he saw it has been only about an hour, though that hour was poised as if swimming upstream and failing against the current, slipping slowly but steadily down the river anyway.

The beauties of the graveyard broadcast slot.

He leaned over the edge of the bed and pulled the station laptop from the bag, tossing it onto his lap. Shifting his body back, he leans against the wall behind the bed. A familiar screen greeted him when he swung open the lid. The viewer submissions page.

The station insisted that the best way to build a base of loyal listeners was to have most of the show devoted to their writing. Hinata, who had been seventeen when his job on the show started, had not considered how miserable of a task this would become. He supposed he’d been somewhat naïve in letting the producer convince him to become a co-host, and then a host, but it was money and he was at least decent at his job. He didn’t have a particularly special voice, but he was able to bullshit his way through most of the analysis, a skill he learned well in high school, and the audience (what little of it there was) seemed to buy it with blood. And those same listeners submitted poem after poem for Hinata to slog through. He very rarely saw even one that piqued his interest, especially after eight years.

He started at the top and scrolled through each poem, skimming most and skipping some entirely. Words blurred together; ideas spat at him indiscriminately.

He stopped. Leaned closer. Read.

All the stars in all the skies, their sparkling teeth, their glaring eyes,

stare down on all the little ants, point magnifiers, watch them dance.

Aloft the mountain, stare in glee as gods cast down magnanimity—

I await my turn in line, cast in either role I’d be fine.

- A.I.

His eyes hovered over the words. It was… good? Not great, not by any stretch of the imagination. But it was simplistic, lyrical almost. The last stanza is weak, sure, the rhyming is too simple and the word choice too direct, but there was something about it that made him pause. Something. Something. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he marked it as “Read on Air,” and continued scrolling.

Hinata woke up with his laptop still open, the screen black. It had died while he slept. He was able to get about seven hours of sleep after his late-night leisure reading, and he had a few hours until his next broadcast started. Struggling against the tangle of blankets, he rose from bed and put the laptop on his nightstand, plugging it in to the nearest outlet to charge.

While making breakfast, he found his mind wandering back to that poem. His listeners tended to be wannabes—they tried too hard, picked words and images that made no sense. They likened love to a spatula or pain to a straw basket. Hinata spent too much time with his nose in a dictionary because his listeners spent too much of theirs in a thesaurus. It wasn’t a great poem, it was somewhat enjoyable at best, and the author—A.I.—certainly wasn’t publisher-ready material, so why was it sticking to him?

He pondered this over his coffee, taking slow sips and watching his cereal slowly dissolve. His phone buzzed, snapping his mind back to the moment. He looked at the caller ID. Producer.

“Hello,” he started, his voice sticking slightly with the still lingering grogginess. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Hello.”

“Hinata! I need you to come in a bit earlier starting in about two weeks. We have to discuss some things with the station manager, but he’s out of town on business until then.”

“Mmhmm,” he said, not registering the request fully. If he allowed himself to get frustrated about it now, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to say anything but a polite “fuck you” to this man, who just so happened to be his boss. Not a good look. So instead, he sighed and let his producer continue.

“Also, you need to select some more poems for tonight. We’re about six short.”

“I already went through all the submissions, I can just—”

“Pick six more. The listeners love it.” A lot more than the other shit you read. Okay, well fuck them.

“Alright. I’ll find some.”

“You can look at some of the submissions from the past couple days and pick from there, too, if you’re really pressed about it. We need to fill the air space.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t forget, two weeks. An hour early.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll get overtime pay.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t forget.”

“Alright, I won’t.”

“Okay, then, see you tonight for another great show!”

“See you then. Bye.”

The producer hung up, letting Hinata drop his phone to the table with a clatter.

“Now,” Hinata said, his voice my full and warm than usual. He let the character of the radio announcer take his place as he zoned out, sure to soon find himself wandering in an unfamiliar field of his mind, naming flowers he’d never seen before. He smiled, a red light blinking in the corner of the room. He remembered that his producer had told him as soon as he’d walked in the door that they would now be running a YouTube channel for his show. “To get a bigger audience.” Of fucking course, it was. The red glare let him know that people were watching, or at least they would be watching in about twelve hours’ time. He smiled because he had to.

“It’s time for everyone’s favorite portion of the show, user submissions. These daring people have graciously shared their writing with us, and I have personally chosen their works to be featured. As always, I’ll be reading the poem and giving my thoughts on it, then accepting calls from listeners who want to say their piece.” Hinata tried not to look at the camera, its glassy eye unblinking, so he instead turned to his laptop, the first poem open and ready for reading. “The first piece is called ‘Eye of the Storm’, by Ari Fukawa. Say, that name sounds familiar, I wonder if our author is in any way related to novelist Toko Fukawa? Maybe it’s a pen name. But, if the two are related, writing seems to run in the family. Without further ado…”

Hinata’s voice carried on without him, a skill grown from the labor of thousands of hours. He dropped to a whisper when the words felt small, and grew infinitely larger when they rose, like waves rocking to a steady lyrical tempo. He could understand why people enjoyed his reading, but he could always hear a hollowness in his own voice when a poem’s voice didn’t harmonize.

He finished his reading, letting the silence linger a moment. “Don’t hesitate too long,” his former co-host, Mori, had said smugly. “Don’t want them to think you died from how horrible it was.” Somehow, he had hated this show more than Hinata, and was gone within a year or his arrival. People initially held a lot of animosity towards Hinata, because he had dared to replace the show’s creator. The last thing he needed was an ego inflation, but when someone sent a lock of their hair to him and, in the same breath, threatened to bomb the station all he did was laugh and say, “That’s show business, baby!” It didn’t take long for the audience to forget him. Hinata’s youthful voice and sense of humor won them over without much resistance and, thankfully, no bombs. That’s show business, baby.

He sighed, easing the silence out. “Wow, what a piece. There were a lot of really unique details I noticed that the author used very well. Speaking of the author, let’s read the their submission notes.”

“’I wanted to submit this poem because my life has always felt like it has existed at the eye of a storm. Around me, everything is spinning out of control, and all I do is keep moving, taking in the chaos as I go. But at the same time, since I’m surrounded by chaos I can’t exist without it, and it’s hard to reach people when I’m surrounded by such a violent aura. I hope that I can hear your thoughts on this, since I’m such a fan of your show. Much love, Ari Fukawa.’ Well, thank you Ari, that is very sweet of you to say.” For a moment, his voice becomes more boyish and playful. Then, he sinks back into his smooth cadence. “And I think that your poem expressed this feeling very well. The motif of the storm…” his words even out, business as usual. Chaos, huh. It’s a good idea, strong, but way too well tread to be original, especially with how cheesy the whole thing is. It’s hard to take a poet seriously when they describe an infinite state of unrest with the phrase “kind of crazy, never lazy, a world of ideas foggy and hazy.” It’s juvenile. But the words out of his mouth, instead, are words of humble thanks. Thanks for sharing your thoughts, your writing, your creativity. Thank you for listening, thank you for submitting. Thank you for spewing your bullshit. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Poem after poem, the same empty thank you. Caller after caller with prewritten responses in order to sound smart, so many people calling in “anonymously” to compliment work that is “definitely not theirs” and call the author the next Homer or some fucking reach. It’s exhausting. But the smile stays on his face. For the camera. For the listeners. Mostly for the paycheck.

And his heart skips when he sees the next poem. An unnamed, anonymous submission from someone going by the initials A.I. He’d been looking forward to this. His breath caught for a moment, and he had to force it out. His mind stalled, unable to conjure the words to introduce the poem. In that moment, he realized he didn’t want to share it, he wanted it all to himself. But the silence was creeping up on him. Don’t hesitate too long, the voice echoed in his head. Fractions of a second were precious on the air.

“Our last piece is an unnamed submission from someone who signed their work ‘A.I.’” His heart wasn’t beating particularly fast, but he noticed every pulsing thud in every part of his body. Calm down. It’s not even that good. Just read it. “Thank you, A.I. You know, AI refers to artificial intelligence, which almost makes me laugh.” He forced out a light chuckle, trying to trick his body into relaxing. “Because the thing I noticed most about this poem was how human and honest it felt. But that’s for later. Let’s start by reading it.”

He stared at the words on the screen, letting his eyes dance between them. Suddenly, the letters became incomprehensible shapes, but still his lips moved knowingly. In a moment of unreality, he was sure he was losing his mind. It’s average at best! Relax. He didn’t.

When his tongue finally stumbled across the familiar final syllables, he pulled himself back to reality. He felt the redness grow in his cheeks, trying to stuff it down. Damn it, he scolded himself silently. I never mess up my readings. “Well, listeners, I think that for such a short poem it’s clear that the author has a lot to say about the nature of tragedy and loneliness.” His voice waivered. Get it together. “The structure is clean, and the imagery is strong, wouldn’t you say? The idea of distant, watching eyes—” he glances at the camera, then pulls his eyes back, shaking his head. “—creates a powerful image of an uncaring deity. Waiting to see you fail. You are next in a long line of disappointments. You are nothing to them.” Anger. Where is the anger coming from?

Breathe. Calm down.

What are you doing?

Calm down. Fuck.

He lowers his voice, trying to cool the rising temperature of his words. “It’s a… a strong… image… if somewhat weakly said.”

What am I saying? I’m not supposed to actually criticize the listener submissions. The producer had warned him not to be harsh on the listener pieces after one incident where the author had complained to the station manager and put the producer on probation for “failing to properly monitor content.” Not to mention that actual criticism keeps people from submitting again.

He could feel himself getting flustered and began imagining the worst. His breathing shortened, and the panic started to contort his face. He struggled against the growing tightness in his chest and swallowed, trying to clear the way for something else to say. Be nice. Say the nice things. Don’t mess this up.

“The, uh, the,” he cleared his throat again, and his voice evened out slightly. “The word choice manages to be both accessible in terms of level of understanding and complex in terms of how it’s used within the structure, though this falters a bit at the end.”

What. The. Fuck.

The little semblance of control he had begun to feel suddenly slipped loose; whatever rope that was tied to his harness had snapped. He was falling.

Stop talking, go to the phones. His experience took over, and he was able to cut in on his own mind. “Overall, it’s a great piece, thank you A.I. Let’s see what the other listeners have to say about it!” Click. A phone call, someone talking. Their voice is distant, muted, somewhere underwater. Or is he underwater? He slapped his hands to his face, feeling his hot cheeks. He closed his eyes to keep them from being open too wide, looking like a deer in headlights. He was aware of the camera, but he couldn’t lift his head out of his hands, afraid it would roll right off his shoulders. He almost wished it would. As the caller began to slow in their explanation, Hinata began interjecting more “uh huhs” and “mmhmms” to convince them that he was still listening.

He’s started to talk again, but he didn’t know what he was saying. Calls continued to roll in, and he picked them up, let them ramble, let them feel important, meanwhile he sat trying to zip up whatever dead thing he just awoke. He turned off the mic for a moment, just breathing, or at least trying to. By the time all his callers had worn themselves out, he had mostly regained his composure. Never before in all his miserable years at the station had he ever wanted to leave faster. By the time the producer had walked the two-door gap to the room and pushed open the door, Hinata had already sprinted out of the studio and burst into the cold dawn air.

Unsurprisingly, he got a call on the way home. He reluctantly picked up.

“Hinata!” the familiar voice boomed from other side, enthusiasm poorly masking a hint of anger. “Where did you go? I wanted to talk to you about your show tonight.”

“Ah, s-sorry, I was feeling kind of sick, so I wanted to get home.”

His voice lifted a little bit, though a hint of darkened doubt still hung over them both. “Oh, alright! Well, I don’t want you to make yourself sick, but that… last poem.” There was a pause. Silence was so rare with the producer. Being in radio, he was not a fan of dead air.

“Sorry.”

More silence. Flatly: “Whatever that was, never again.”

“Understood.”

“Good.”

The lights whirred by outside Hinata’s car. A few raindrops threw themselves on his windshield. He thought he could feel the steady rotation of the earth. He was hurtling.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Hinata. Get some rest.”

“Thank you, sir.” The phone line clicked. Dead.

Hinata looked down at the phone in his hand, watching the screen go black again as “call ended” faded away. He took a deep breath and tossed his phone into the passenger seat, looking up in time to see a red light.

He slammed on the brakes, his tires squealing and jerking against the asphalt, as yet another surprise greeted him. A garbage truck, much larger than his beat-up compact car, blew through the intersection.

It took him until he was lightheaded to realize he hadn’t been breathing. He felt the sweat slowly trekking down his cheeks. He forced himself to blink, consciously reminded himself to close his mouth, swallow, breathe. In the silence, he realized he hadn’t remembered to turn on the radio when he got in the car.

At some point while Hinata was asleep, the producer had uploaded the video of the show highlights to the brand-new YouTube channel, though parts of clips were conspicuously missing or dubbed over, specifically the last five or so minutes when he had lost his cool. Instead, there was audio of the conversation over unused footage from earlier in the broadcast. It was surprisingly well matched, especially since the mic frequently covered his lips. You almost wouldn’t notice it.

But of course, Hinata knew. And there was something else that he knew that no one else did.

The sound of his voice. His own voice. It sounded so different than the rest of the show so, to him, it stuck out like a rusty nail, though he doubted anyone else could tell. When he was reading the last poem, his radio voice had faltered. It was still smooth, light, expressive and interested, but it wasn’t Radio Hajime, it was him.

He sat in bed and closed his eyes, listened to that part of the broadcast over and over, trying to figure out what happened. It was a simple poem. Written well enough, but nothing special.

And why did he lose his fucking mind and start criticizing it? Nerves? He hadn’t been nervous on air in years, at the very least not since high school. But nothing like this had ever happened before.

A.I. Are those your initials? He turned the letters over in his head. Who are you?

A few more days passed with no incident, and no more poems from the mysterious author. Things returned to normal. The hours passed more and more slowly until they once again felt like a slog. The producer seemed more than happy to forget what had happened, and the station didn’t receive any complaints. Hinata, however, couldn’t help but feel like he’d scared A.I. off. It ached a little to think he’d lost a listener because of whatever was wrong with him that day. He pretended to be content thinking he’d eaten spoiled sushi that had temporarily made him lose his mind. What else could it have been?

That made it all the more jarring when, Friday morning, he woke up to another submission by the mysterious A.I.

He hesitated.

What if he hated it? Then he could probably move on and be done. But it would hurt. As stupid as it seemed, it would feel like a betrayal.

But what if he liked it? Or even loved it? Then it could happen again. And he couldn’t afford that.

He skipped the poem and continued reading the other submissions. He deleted some, selected others, set others aside for another day if he got desperate, until it was just A.I. and him, alone, staring back at each other on an otherwise blank webpage. He closed the laptop and set it aside.

The radio show went off without a hitch, but Hinata couldn’t get the poem out of his mind. Again.

He had to know. He had the weekend to himself, since a different (more popular) broadcast aired in his time slot on the weekends, so he could just read it and decide over the next couple days.

When he got home, he resolved himself to sleep, but once again found himself unable to stop the whirling in his head. This is ridiculous, he told himself. I should just read it and get it over with.

He yanked the laptop out of him bag, and it dawned on him just how much free rent this had been taking up in his head for almost a week, and he still couldn’t quite understand why. He propped the computer up in his lap and opened the lid. The submissions page was already open, as usual, and a few more had come in, so he had to scroll past them in order to get to the one he couldn’t get out of his mind.

This one, unlike the previous submission, was titled. The Lotto. A little cliché. He chuckled to himself. Maybe he had overestimated A.I. After all, he wasn’t a master. It was possible that the way he’d written was simply a fluke. As his eyes scanned the lines, he realized that he was wrong.

An oaken spine holds aloft my head, beneath the hourglass I’m led by hand to face his sunken form, embraces cold, misted breath warm. I skin the tree and peel its flesh, carve numbers in the space it left submit my lotto to the brook, for Earth to steal, a whimsied crook. He spends my riches, has them mugged saunters streets—dismal, drugged; skin caked in deluded mud and tree his oceans wander back to me. Roused anew by needled rain, coerced to carve my hopes again, return them to the current drift to give willingly a reluctant gift.

Fuck. He sighed to himself. It’s… it’s better.

He could still go through and pick it apart line by line, find things wrong, poke holes in its weaknesses. It would have been stronger with a more consistent meter, even though the syllables largely match-up between stanzas. The rhymes are relatively simple, as is the structure.

But what he couldn’t do was get his heart to slow down, or get his body to move, or pry his eyes away.

Until they drifted to the author’s notes.

Hinata,

Thank you for reading my previous poem on air and thank you for your honesty as well. Your opinion means the world to me.

With love,

A.I.

His fingers tingled as they hovered over the keys. What would he write if he could describe this feeling? A gentle acid, diluted within his own sweat, warm and swelling. The overwhelming physics of dancing atoms charged and drifting. The pin pricks of static, radio static doodling shapes in his brain. It was all bullshit. None of it made sense.

He marked it as “Read on Air,” rolled over, and drifted off to sleep.

[reylo-solo]

a secret admirer

(rated G; 3536 words)

A Reylo Valentines AU from a cute prompt left by @nite0wl29 where Ben leaves secret Valentines cards in Rey’s locker! Thanks for the prompt, beautiful! I hope you all enjoy the adorableness! Happy Valentine’s Day, reylos! ❤

Read it on AO3.

10-20-30-40.

The lock opened into her palm with one firm pull. Rey slipped it out of its place and pulled her locker door open.

She was expecting to find nothing unusual inside her locker when she opened it, because it was her locker. No one knew the combination to get inside besides her. What else should she be expecting besides the same, small magnetic calendar that was two years out of date, but which she was keeping for the cute photos of kittens? What else, besides the little Polaroid pictures of her and her friends? Or the drawing she’d done of a horse that she was still quite proud of. Or the overdue library books, which were shamefully stashed away in the back, behind her textbooks and binders.

No, she did not expect to find any surprises when she opened the door. And yet, there was one, taped to the inside of her door so that she couldn’t possibly miss it.

A card, hand-made with fine, recycled stationary, decorated with gold leaf accents. Her name was printed in beautifully flowing calligraphy on the front, the ink a beautiful navy blue colour. She gasped as she saw it, and the fact that someone had been in her locker didn’t even hit her, so struck was she by the simplistic beauty of the thing.

Carefully, she pulled off the tape which secured it to her door and, leaning into her locker a little, opened it inside.

The same flawless lettering greeted her, along with something that completely shocked her: a hand-drawn portrait of herself, done in graphite and charcoal. In the drawing her hair was pulled back into her signature triple-bun style, and particular care and attention had gone into adding each freckle that graced the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones. Her eyes were downcast; her lashes, long and dark, casting a shadow over her cheeks. It looked like she was studying something, but there was a hint of a smile there upon her penciled lips, as though she had heard something amusing a minute ago. Whoever had drawn this had watched her intently for a little while. They had to share a class with her, she thought.

The other half of the card’s interior was dedicated to a brief but lovely message, which began quite eloquently with the opening stanza of Lord Byron’s “She Walks in Beauty”:

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heavy to gaudy day denies.

-         Happy (almost) Valentine’s Day from your secret admirer.

P.S. I hope you like the portrait. Though it can never compare to the real thing.

P.P.S. You should really think about a more challenging lock combination. That was far too easy.

            It took Rey another few minutes before she even began to realize how much her cheeks hurt from smiling. She closed the card and clutched it to her chest. She’d never gotten a Valentine like that before! Or at least, she’d never gotten one that didn’t have a cute bear or cartoon character on it, and those certainly never had romantic poetry included with them.

            “Lord Byron…” she murmured to herself.

            They must be in my English class. We just covered Lord Byron’s work a few days ago…

            But…who was it?

            She spent the next two days trying to puzzle it out on her own. This also meant that she had paid little to no attention in her English class since receiving the mysterious Valentine. The entire time her eyes had been secretly jumping around the room, as though she could catch someone staring at her, and maybe doodling in their notebook at the same time…

            She ruminated the possibility of it being any number of people, but none stood out to her. She even thought about it maybe being her best friend, much to the detriment of her own anxiety, but then she remembered that Finn can’t draw, and he certainly can’t do calligraphy like that. No, it couldn’t have been him.

            It was almost maddening, trying to figure it out. She began to second-guess herself. Maybe the Lord Byron thing had been a fluke. Maybe it was someone in her history class, or math. Maybe it was janitor Bob for all she knew.

            Rey was starting to feel down on her luck when she opened her locker between fourth and fifth period and something fell out, gliding down to land perfectly atop her shoes. She bent down to grab it and her heart skipped a beat.

            Another Valentine! Written on the same paper! Oh, and the writing is the same…

        There was no poem this time; instead she found a personalized message just for her:

            Rey,

Still can’t puzzle it out, can you? That’s okay. I’m not giving you very many hints, am I? Maybe I should change that for you. I’m a male in your English class, if the Byron poem wasn’t a big enough clue. We’ve had lots of classes together over the years, but you’ve probably never noticed me before, not like I’ve noticed you.

I saw you looking for me the other day in class, though. You weren’t very sneaky about it, but I didn’t mind. You looked right at me for the longest second of my life, and I thought maybe…maybe you saw it in me, but you didn’t. It’s a good thing – I’d rather you see who I am outside of class anyway.

        Speaking of, Valentine’s Day is only a week away. Think you can guess who I am by then?

-         Your secret admirer

He had gifted her another portrait. This one was done faster than the other, and he’d left it looking half-finished, but she liked it like that. He’d captured her mid-laugh, with that cheesy smile of hers. He’d even gotten her dimples right. Even though his pencil had spent the briefest of time on this page, he’d created something which Rey thought was even prettier than the real thing.

“Whatcha got there?”

Rey jumped and the Valentine slipped from her hands. She bent fast to pick it up but another hand had caught it before she had a chance. Rose Tico’s eyes widened as they saw the beautiful calligraphy on the front of the card, addressing it to Rey.

“Oh, wow…what is this?” Rose inquired. She waggled her eyebrows suggestively at Rey. “You’re already getting Valentines? What am I saying…of course you are, look at you.”

“I-it’s nothing,” Rey excused, trying to grab for the card to no avail. Rose kept twisting away, keeping it just out of Rey’s grasp. “Can you give it back please?”

“Who’s it from?” Rose grinned broadly and opened it up, her eyes hungrily skimming over the message. She gasped. “A secret admirer?!”

“Shh!” Rey demanded, finally swiping the card away from Rose now that she was distracted enough. “Say it a little louder why don’t you, I don’t think everyone heard…”

“I can’t believe you have a secret admirer! That’s so exciting and romantic!”  Rose squealed, in a much quieter tone. “Who do you think it is? And am I mistaken, or does that message sound like you’d already gotten one card from him?”

Rey sighed, looked at her friend, and figured she had not one hope in hell of keeping this secret any longer. Besides, she thought, she could use the help figuring out who the mystery man was. So, she dug around in her schoolbag and produced the first Valentine, allowing Rose to read it, provided she keep it close to her person so no prying eyes could look over her shoulder and see.

“Wow…this is beautiful,” Rose whispered. “That drawing is…wow…”

“I know,” Rey said, swiping the card back and stowing it safely away, along with the other one.

“Who could it be, though? He said he was in our English class…”

“Yeah, I have no clue,” Rey groaned. “I’ve been trying to figure it out since I got the first card and I’ve gotten nowhere since.”

“Hmm…well, two minds are better than one. Let’s go grab some lunch and Nancy Drew this shit, shall we?” Rose offered Rey her arm, which Rey happily took.

“Let’s.”

The two settled themselves in a secluded area of the cafeteria, safely away from prying eyes or ears. First, they had to remember all the boys in their English class, which took much longer than they thought it would. Once they’d recalled mostly everyone (there were a few relatively new kids whose names they couldn’t remember, and so they were referred to as ‘boy with really thick glasses’, ‘boy who wears the same jacket everyday’ and so on), they began to break it down individually. This too was a little tougher than they had anticipated, once they eliminated all the boys they knew to be in a relationship. They were left with about ten viable options after that, and they had to go through each one and decide if they fit the bill or not.

Rey eliminated four of them right off the bat, either because she couldn’t stomach the thought of them leaving romantic notes for her, or they truly didn’t seem the type to think romantically, let alone write in beautiful calligraphy and make lovely sketches. Then there were a couple who hadn’t said more than one word to Rey since elementary school.

Suddenly, Rose gasped and made a low ‘ohhh’ sound.

“What?” Rey demanded. “What is it?”

“What if…no, he wouldn’t…or would he…?”

“Spit it out, Rose!”

“What if it’s Ben?”

Rey went still. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise but she didn’t move or speak for a moment. Rose was monitoring her reaction with keen interest.

Ben Solo. Tall, dark, with a boyish grin, he was alluring in the most unique of ways. He had thick raven hair and deep, soulful brown eyes; his strong, broad frame was built for endurance and power. But he hadn’t always looked that good. Rey remembered a young, gangly boy, with messy black hair and a pasty complexion, whose ears stuck out a little, running around the playground during recess with his toy spaceships, playing games with his friends.

It had been that little boy who Rey had opened her crying eyes to when she had fallen off the swing and hit her head in second grade. He’d been standing over her, blocking out the sun, and offering her his hand.

“Hi, are you okay? Do you need me to get the teacher?” he’d asked, and his voice had had a minor lisp, because he was missing two of his front teeth.

Rey had sniffed and wiped away her tears, not caring if the sand and dirt smudged on her cheeks. She remembered feeling flattered as she had taken his hand and allowed him to help her up. She hadn’t wanted a teacher to come over, and so he had offered to sit with her for the remainder of recess, until her tears stopped falling. And so they had sat together by the swings and talked and laughed until the bell rang, and by that time Rey’s head had stopped hurting, and she had long ago stopped crying.

“Ben…?” Rey whispered to Rose after mulling it over for a moment. “No…no, it couldn’t be. I haven’t had a real conversation with him since…middle school, I think.”

“So? He seems like the type to pine over a girl,” Rose argued. “You know, I’m sure there’s a proper gentleman beneath that surly exterior.”

“But he has lots of friends. Some of them are girls, even.”

“Again, I ask: so? He’s single, isn’t he?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Hm, well, I’m just saying. If I had to bet on it being anyone, I’d bet on him.”

Hmm…

*

She didn’t receive another card until Valentine’s Day, and even then she didn’t receive it until the day was almost over and she was cut straight through with anxiety.

During that time between card two and card three, Rey had tried desperately not to convince herself that it was Ben writing them to her, but it was tougher than she anticipated. She’d continuously catch herself absentmindedly referring to her secret admirer as Ben, and then she’d proceed to mentally slap herself for doing so. She hated getting her hopes up; she’d had them crushed too many times in the past.

But she was powerless against the idea that it might be him. The thought of him bent over a desk that looked far too small in comparison, his dark locks falling over his brow and tickling the bridge of his long nose, as he penned her part of a Lord Byron poem and sketched her image just made her feel giddy for some reason. It made the cards even more flattering, and she found herself looking at them repeatedly, reading and re-reading their inscriptions.

She also had found herself watching for Ben, something she hadn’t really done before. She’d constantly be looking past someone’s shoulder, or looking over her own, trying to spot him. Every now and again she’d hear his distinct laugh or his deep, warm voice, and she’d stand up a little straighter and fix her hair.

She hated it.

It felt like he had some kind of control over her. Only he seemed capable of making her palms that clammy. She’d find herself getting annoyed at him from a distance. Who does he think he is? Walking around in his dark wash jeans, with his hair all messed up like that, smiling that goofy smile. What have you done to me, you evil, handsome snake…

One of these times, when she was viciously cursing him in her head, her eyes had actually locked with his across the school courtyard. It had just been for the briefest of moments, but in that time it felt like all the sound was sucked from the world and everything around them stopped moving. Rey’s heartbeat hammered in her ears, steady and loud. There was something there, in the space between them. Something visceral and real and tender.

Or maybe it had just been wishful thinking.

And it was that kind of doubt which had fuelled her panic on Valentine’s Day when she arrived to her locker in the morning, after having practically ran the entire way there, only to find no card inside. And it didn’t help when Rose kept asking after every period of she’d gotten it yet, and Rey kept having to answer with ‘no’.

So when she got to her locker, fully exasperated and confused, at the end of the day as everyone else was scrambling to gather their things and get the hell out of there, and found a letter taped to the outside of her locker, she nearly squealed in excitement.

This one was safely kept in an envelope (which she tore open quite quickly). There was no drawing in this one, only an urgent message:

Meet me in the theatre, right now.

She didn’t even put her books back in her locker. She took them with her as she raced past the swarm of bodies towards the theatre at the back of the school. Her heartbeat was pounding in her ears and every person who got in her way came perilously close to having their toes viciously stepped on.

This was it, she thought to herself. The mystery was finally coming to a close. She was going to find out once and for all who had been behind all those letters. She was going to see who her Valentine really was.

She braced herself when she got to the theatre doors, taking a deep breath in before pushing them open. Her nerves almost had her trembling.

She walked into a mostly-dark theatre. The only light was a silvery glow angled at the stage, where an old piano sat. Upon its bench was a person, playing its keys slowly and a little awkwardly. Rey didn’t realize she was holding her breath.

Oh my god. It’s him.

The door closed with an echoing click and the piano music abruptly stopped. Ben stood, all six-foot-two of him, nearly knocking the piano bench over in his haste. His eyes landed on hers, all the way across the theatre, and his hands rubbed themselves upon the thighs of his jeans.

There it was again – that crackling in the space between them, like a field of exhilarating static.

“Hi.”

His voice echoed, too; its deep, nervous lull drew her instantly closer. She walked down the aisle towards him, one step at a time, until she had reached the stairs up to the stage. Once there she paused, staring up at him as if she couldn’t quite believe he was really there – and a part of her certainly couldn’t believe that. But the rest of her was internally screaming because, damn it, she knew it!

“Hello.” She said, her voice strangely quiet even to her own ears.

He leaned down and offered her his hand. She appraised it for a moment, her eyes roaming over its lines and freckles, before slowly, temptingly, taking it. Their fingers wound around one another and held on lightly. She took the steps up to join him on the stage.

Suddenly their bodies were very close together. She could feel his warmth and smell his entrancing scent. Her eyes travelled up to his face, and she thought her heart was going to jump from her chest when she saw those deep brown eyes lingering on her; looking at her like they never wanted to look at anything else again.

“So? Are you surprised, or did you puzzle it out on your own?” he asked slowly.

“I…had my hopes up that it would be you,” she answered shyly.

He smiled that incredibly handsome, boyish smile, and it was just for her. She couldn’t help but giggle and smile back.

After a moment, she couldn’t help herself from asking, “Why me?”

“Why you?” His eyebrows raised in surprise. “I thought you’d know.”

She tilted her head, puzzled. “Know what?”

“Ah…do you remember back in like, second grade or whatever it was, when you fell off the swing?”

She blushed. “Yes, I do. You helped me up and wiped away my tears.”

“Yeah, and we spent the rest of that recess talking,” he smiled warmly. “I don’t remember exactly what we talked about…probably silly kid stuff. But, I do remember thinking you were pretty, and that you should never have to cry like that.”

“Even then?” she whispered.

“Even then.”

“Then why…why now?”

“Because…I suck. I spent all these years with a crush on you that I could never move on from and I…I was way too nervous around you because of it. I still am, but I just…well, it’s our senior year, so I thought it was now or never. And I realized I really, really couldn’t stand the thought of it being never.”

Rey hadn’t realized until just that moment that they had been slowly getting closer and closer together. When her chest brushed against his she couldn’t help the gentle gasp she made, or the steady pounding of her heart when he didn’t move away.

One of his fingers brushed a lock of her hair away from her face and she wondered, in that brief moment when his skin made contact with hers, if he could feel the heat he’d created upon her flesh. Did he know what he was doing to her? The undeniable nervousness in his shining eyes said yes, he knew firsthand.

“If I never got to see you like this, if I never got to be alone with you again…I think I’d go mad,” he continued, his voice a softly rasping whisper. “If I never got to kiss you…”

“Then do it,” she begged, daring to place her hands delicately upon his chest. “Kiss me, now.”

His fingers trailed along her jaw as he lowered his lips to hers, and she held his hand there, as she felt the roughness of the stubble on his cheek with her other. His lips were soft upon hers at first, and alluring. He was clearly allowing himself to enjoy every tiny moment of their kiss, and it was so romantic of him, but she couldn’t resist the insatiable pull she felt within herself. She wanted more.

Her fingers threaded themselves into his hair and pulled him closer, holding him there, securing him before her. The feeling of his hand travelling down her side and slipping around her waist almost made her moan. It felt like the world was finally giving her everything she’d ever asked for, and she felt equal-parts thrilled and stunned that it had been right in front of her this entire time.

When their embrace finally ended, they looked at each other through half-lidded eyes filled with stars.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Ben whispered.

Rey chuckled and let her head settle on his chest. His arms wrapped protectively around her and she felt as comforted as she had that day on the playground.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Ben.”

[amarantine-amirite]

Three Worlds, One Problem

Have you ever come across two or more things that seem completely unrelated, but aren't; and it all comes together once you have one more thing that relates them all? The best example I can think of that shows you what I'm getting at is if you have three puzzles pieces that are three different colors: blue, white, and green. They seem like pieces from entirely different puzzles, but they're part of the same puzzle. You don't see it until you have that fourth piece that links the three colors together.

In my lifetime, I've come across three things that seem totally unrelated, but actually are. The first thing is something that happened to me when I was 15 years old. At the time, I attended a school for gifted children that, for some reason, had an unusually high number of students pursue careers in the government, and the school would select a student in sophomore year at random to apply early to Duke as a government major (they weren't kidding; they sent you a pre-filled application and everything). The girl who they picked originally (Jane, her name was? Or maybe Judy?) died, and I agreed to take her place. Normally, this wouldn't be an issue, but I was just woefully bad at doing real, actual work. When I was at school, whatever I handed in would be extremely sloppy (if not incomplete) and it didn't matter one bit. They just checked it off as complete anyway.

Once I got to Duke, that wasn't the case anymore. They went over what you wrote with a fine-tooth comb. My first paper for history was about the Civil War, and what I turned in read like the plot of a stupid movie where The Beatles fought against radioactive Viet Cong sharks (no, really, I used the phrase "radioactive Viet Cong sharks" at least eighty times, if not more). I repeatedly never studied for tests, nor did I ever complete a paper before about 12 hours before it was due. I was always doing other things-be it watching YouTube, playing tennis with my roommate Ashlie (while I should've been studying for my history midterm) or writing dumb folk songs about people who wanted to ban bananas because they looked like penises (when I was supposed to be writing my history midterm) or anything else. Not only did I not get any work done, I forgot I even had work to do; to the point where I wound up on academic probation. In fact, I was teetering on getting suspended for my bad grades. I'd never been suspended before, but I'd been warned about it in the past. Never in any of my past experiences had I been warned of suspension as a consequence for half-assing it on my schoolwork, but I (at the time) didn't know that suspension was a legitimate consequence for bad grades in college. And I was very afraid.

Fortunately, I stayed. About 3/4 of the way through my first term, I pulled myself together and started doing my work for real. Gone were the badly written papers that my TA's mistook for B-movie proposals and my habit of missing midterms. Instead, I wrote eloquently, and I aced all my exams. I had legitimately changed. I had, inexplicably, changed. Why? The reasons everyone brings up ("Cassie fails to do work in class because she is defiant", "Cassie is bored in school", etc.) didn't hold water, nor did any of my explanations ("I was way out of my comfort zone", "I was woefully unprepared for university") make any sense. Whatever caused me to change my work habits for the better, it wasn't the warning of a suspension.

The second thing is the Sia song "Breathe Me". "Breathe Me" was written in 2004, and since then, it was used everywhere (I'm not joking, either. I remember being bombarded by it from movies, TV, and ads when I was in middle school). Not only was "Breathe Me" overused for a little bit, it was overused for a long time.

I'm not sure if I'm the only one who thinks this, but I seem to remember that (and this was especially true during my first year at Duke) it always reminded me of "Revolution 9" by The Beatles. The association was so strong, it couldn't have been constructed from my own memories. It could have only come from having heard one particular rendition of "Breathe Me" that was really weird. When I say weird, I freaking mean it. The piano part was played on a sitar, and there was this weird whispering thing that kept saying "right" throughout the second stanza, and there was that outro. Oh, my God, that outro. That outro was so bizarre.

Honestly, maybe I didn't actually hear it in real life. Now that I mention it, I probably dreamt it. It seems too weird to be real. Sia's lawyers would have gone absolutely nuts had somebody made a version of "Breathe Me" that was that strange. The more I think about it, the more I suspect that I might have dreamt it, because I began to associate that weird version of "Breathe Me" very strongly with wind turbines, electrical lines, and other energy related outdoor structures. To me, that just screams dream.

The thing and final unrelated thing concerns a conference I had attended about the same week I turned 16. Since I wasn't invited to the conference, I tried to lay low as much as possible. Usually, this meant that I just hung around and talked with all these financial people. I pretended to know what they were talking about, but I kept changing the subject when I got the chance. If someone said that the bank of wherever was on thin ice, I'd change the subject to how ice crystals formed. Either that, or I'd hang around eating all the cucumber slices that they have.

That said, there was one place where I screwed up. I screwed up so much, it was glaringly obvious that I was neither invited to the conference nor as calm and collected as I appeared. About halfway through some old German guy's speech about the (dim) future of the Eurozone, I just completely lost it. I actually had a panic attack that was so extreme, the speaker told me to shut up. I remember the guy's exact words: "If you panic at the thought of the collapse of the Eurozone, just kill yourself. Your life won't get any easier from here on in. In fact, you shouldn't even be here. Fuck off, will you?" That, and that, was the thing that sent me from panic to flat-out rage. I walked right up to the guy and told him to reach up his ass and pull his head out. A chase (and a flip-out) soon ensued. My God, that was some flip-out. I pushed a photocopier out a window and onto a fire hydrant.

After things cooled down, it was all over. They found out I snuck into the conference, and they kicked me out. In a fit of defeat, I went to bed. I didn't fall asleep easily that night. In fact, I was so upset that I spent most of the night thinking of dropping out of Duke and just plain going home. I was so scarred by what I did, I probably won't be able to go to a financial conference again.

Now, all three of the things that I told you (my sudden improvement in my work habits, my association of Sia's "Breathe Me" with The Beatles's "Revolution 9", and my flip-out at the conference) are completely unrelated. They're just three things that happened around the same time that have no connection to each other, right?

Wrong. There is a connection. That connection is, of all things, an episode of the girl's cartoon Winx Club.

Typically, this wouldn't make any sense. How would a cartoon connect three seemingly unrelated events in my life? Well, between the death of my high school classmate Jo (finally, I remembered her name) and the end of my freshman year at Duke, I would watch Winx like there was no tomorrow. I loved (and I do mean loved-the past tense is for a reason) Winx Club, and my obsession with the show peaked around the same time at the conference. It was right when the German guy began speaking at our conference that I stumbled across a "lost" episode of Winx Club on YouTube. Without so much as a second thought (or for that matter, a first thought), I clicked on it and watched. The title of the episode was "The Kraken", and at the time; I figured that maybe the Winx would have to rescue somebody from a giant space octopus. Well, there was a giant octopus, but nobody was rescued. If anything, everybody was more or less doomed.

This sounds like a cliche, but it's not. I remember clicking on the video and it taking almost an hour to load. I also remember my laptop crashing. After turning it off and back on again, I went back to the video. This time, it played no problem. I was so excited that I got to see the episode. Looking back, there wasn't much of a tip off that things weren't normal. The opening sequence was normal, the video didn't get stuck a second time, none of it. Absolutely nothing was amiss. Unfortunately, the normalcy ended with the title card.

The episode started sort of normal, but there was this purple tint to everything that persisted throughout the entire episode. The very first scene showed the window to Bloom and Stella's room. You couldn't really see them that well, but you could see their silhouettes. They were talking about how they couldn't figure out what was bothering Flora so much. Bloom's guess was that it had something to do with Helia (Flora's boyfriend) actually being female this whole time, while Stella's guess is that it had something to do with how she put on a few pounds. Either way, they couldn't agree on something. They couldn't even agree to disagree. Yet, their disagreement wasn't what stuck me as odd. What struck me as odd was that there weren't any scenes where you saw their faces. Either you got a silhouette or a closeup of their lower legs. I was a bit weirded out, but I continued to watch the video.

What happened next was where things started to really head downhill. While Stella and Bloom were arguing, Tecna was busy taking apart the printer at the end of the hall. Musa kept saying, "Tecna, you're not allowed to take the printer apart", "Tecna, for the love of God, stop messing around with the printer", and "Knock it off, or I'm ratting you out". Tecna completely ignored this, and continued messing with the printer until she got it to pick up the Yankee game. Meanwhile, Bloom and Stella continued arguing until Bloom asked, "Why's Tecna watching the Yankee game on the printer?" Unsurprisingly, Bloom thought this was hilarious. Again, nobody's face was shown. All you literally saw was the display panel on the printer and, eventually, the Yankee game.

The scene faded to a silhouette of Flora crying. She talked about how she was fearing for her life, that she was actually a test subject for a government experiment. She'd escaped after the power went out during a fire drill, and she mentioned that she cut off the tracker attached to her wrist before the power came back on. She'd been hiding out at Alfea ever since. As I watched this scene, all I could think of was oh, come on, enough with the conspiracy theorist rant, make your point already, but I pricked up my ears when she mentioned something called "the Kraken". As she said the word "Kraken", a strange, staticky image of an octopus splashed across the screen. The whole thing gave off a really, really strange vibe. A really, really, really strange vibe.

The third scene was where things really went down the drain. We didn't see anybody's silhouette this time, but the quality of the video went downhill. The Winx girls were in Faragonda's office, and she wasn't pleased. She was swearing at them, calling them "disgusting bitches who belong in a sewer", and threatening to beat them. Now, this is incredibly dark for a kids cartoon (and it isn't even dark in the normal way Winx is sometimes dark. To be honest, it sounded like it came from some stupid Lifetime movie about a psycho teacher). What was even more unsettling was that the girls were all wearing black masks. Some wore half masks, while others wore full masks. The masks were crudely drawn, like they were those anonymity silhouette things you sometimes see on the news. Apparently, not only did Faragonda find out about what Tecna and company did to the printer, but she got off the phone with the government scientists who worked at the research facility from where Flora escaped. Musa had ratted both Flora and Tecna out. Later, Flora and Tecna were led outside; Flora to a black van, and Tecna to a blue car. This is the part of the episode in which the weird version of Sia's "Breathe Me" begins to play. The minute I heard "Breathe Me" play, I thought oh, jeez, not this shit again. Yet, this was different. Something caught me totally off guard the minute Tecna got in the blue car. An androgynous voice uttered the following words: Take this brother, may it serve you well.

After that, I couldn't not watch it. I had to see where this 100% messed up episode was headed. "Breathe Me" resumed, and the black van pulled up to the research facility. The two drivers of the van dragged Flora out and led her into the facility. The scene eventually cut to Bloom flying towards the facility, only to get caught in electrical lines while Tecna (who's boarding a helicopter at this point) says to the man escorting her, "You hear something?" just before the scene fades out to wind turbines. As the scene fades to wind turbines, the phrase "number 9, number 9, number 9" (and, of course, the random screaming of "Right!") repeated in the background.

What happens next is probably the reason why I will never listen to "Breathe Me" (or, for that matter, anything else by Sia) the same way again. There was a close up of Stella getting struck by the blades on one of the wind turbines. Now, I never liked Stella (she was bit of a doofus), but seeing her get killed by a wind turbine just made me feel ill. Worse, there was a lot of cutting back and forth between the helicopter flying off into the night and Flora in the research facility, getting subjected to some God-awful experiment where she was injected with something that made her turn into a werewolf and lash out against the scientists. This is where the bizarre outro to "Breathe Me" starts playing. One of the scientists was about to kill Flora, but his coworkers had to hold him back. She was uncontrollable, violent, wild even. I really don't want to delve into too much detail here, but in the end, she mauled the scientists to death.

The rest of the episode was just a mishmash of Flora destroying things and the helicopter with Tecna in it catching on fire and crashing into the ocean. The sound was a mishmash, too (Seriously! At one point, a half-human-half-lupine Flora said, "Satan, look at me. Please?"). That is, of course, until the very end. The screen cut to black, and it was completely silent, with the exception of a very low frequency hum. 

At this point, a Matrix -esque sequence of letters and numbers flicker on the screen while a roboticized Tecna looks right at the camera. I will never forget the menacing red glow of her eyes as she said the following: Yes, what happened to Flora was a tragedy, and what became of Magix and Alfea was nothing short of disastrous. But, I know where everyone lives. I know how you fake sympathy, crawl away from the truth, search out cognitive consistency, and kill off our faith in humanity. I know what you do. I can watch your every move, and I can control what happens. Your insignificant little blue planet means nothing to me. I made you do these things, and I can make everything stop. I'm the Kraken, goddammit! Again, the staticky image of the octopus appeared, but it didn't just flash over the screen. It actually played a video of the octopus splitting the Earth in half, then transforming into a black hole. After that, the episode was over.

I was in shock. I thought it was a never before seen episode of Winx, but it turned out to be the most demented thing I'd ever see. What I'd just seen had ruined me. I was so shocked that I melted down. Right there. At that conference. All that work I put into laying low at a financial conference was wasted by the simple act of watching an episode of Winx Club on my laptop that scared the ever loving shit out of me. This is gonna sound stupid, but I think it fundamentally changed me.

Seriously, that one episode of Winx Club is the reason that I kicked my schoolwork into high gear 3/4 of the way into term, the reason that I associate Sia's "Breathe Me" with The Beatles's "Revolution 9" , and why I flipped out at the conference. That was the thing that tied together three otherwise unrelated events.

Oops, my bad. There were actually four unrelated things happening. The fourth thing was Jo's death. Thinking back on the episode, I couldn't help but notice the name on the byline: Siobhan Lansig. Maybe it was someone with the same name, but I kept thinking to myself, isn't that Jo? I also couldn't help but notice the description of the video Let's get a few things straight here. I'm absolutely desperate to get the hell outta here! My teachers treat me like crap, I've been bullied so much you'd think it was a joke, and I got booted out of every club for my "behavioral disorder". Here's the reason why schizophrenics are "evil": YOU ACT LIKE WE ARE. PERIOD!!! I'm taking that early admission to Duke even though my study habits are even worse than those of Cassie Oakley. After that, I'm gonna take over the world. I understand that I don't have much time left, so this is what I'm leaving behind to all them mortals here on Earth. I know I'm gonna die, and I know that I'm gonna come back. Someday, I'll be back. Siobhan "Jo" Lansig (AKA the Kraken)

Not only did Jo dying allow me to get early admission to Duke's government program, she also wrote the messed up Winx episode that shocked me into better studying. The more I think about it, the more I think that Jo did this as a personal message for me. It wasn't so much as "Do well, make me proud" as it was "Get your shit together or you're gonna get it". Jo was never my friend; she was a madwoman. If this was the power she held when she was dead, I don't even want to think about the power she would wield if she were still alive.

[ladyfl4me]

LIKE CHILEAN MINERS, EMERGING FROM THE DEPTHS, I RETURN TO YOU, BELOVED FOLLOWERS, TO DO SONG ANALYSIS

hey anon who sent this in, here you go! this song is really great, and i wholeheartedly agree that it’s an aubrey and/or pineguard song. i love it so much. it has great vibes and great lyrics, and i can totally fuck with it. because it works so well, i’m going to smush both of those together and analyze in terms of both, moving from aubrey to duck to ned and to the pineguard as a whole. i love this soooooong!!! thank you so much for sending it in!

here we go: first stanza. mobile users, i am so fucking sorry in advance. this is a long one.

“The first snow / The first winter of my life / I was told it was the height of me // The first dance / Well, the first one that counted / Felt like my blood was built from crackling lights”

This stanza uses the concept of “firsts,” and man does it hurt in the context of aubrey. aubrey is young, all things considered; if i remember correctly, she’s in her mid-20s, possibly a bit younger, but she’s definitely in that early 20′s range. she’s just starting to experience adulthood, and in a slightly unconventional way, as a traveling magician and, eventually, a monster hunter. her early life is nothing but a string of firsts. and yet, there’s a sense of nostalgia about this. “The first winter of my life, I was told it was the height of me.” that’s... kind of sad. to think that the best winter of aubrey’s life - the time of her life where things were best - was when she was just one year old, and from there it’s been steadily downhill. i don’t see much in her story to support that.

there is something to be said for ironic contrast, though. the first winter of her new life, as a monster-hunter in kepler who’s trying to figure out her new life and new story, encapsulates the third arc that we’ve just wrapped. with the tree, and the goats, and aubrey touching the crystal and getting her new life. in this whole stanza, i can see her clear as day, standing in the snow outside leo tarkesian’s store, staring numbly at the pizza hut sign that’s yeeted itself through the roof. up until that point, that’s been the height of her life, where things have been going relatively easy, until they go abruptly downhill when she thinks her powers have gone out of control. and now, I can’t shake the image in the second half of the stanza, of “blood built from crackling lights.” first: excellent simile. i fuck with that so hard. second: all i can think of is aubrey touching the crystal, and feeling something stirring within her, feeling as if she’s about to die, as if she’s on fire - and then falling backwards into a field of flowers. it’s a new beginning, it’s a new life.

yeah.

okay, second stanza:

“All this ancient wildness / That we don't understand /The first sound of a heartbeat / To riots roaring on”

I definitely see these lines framing Aubrey’s entrance into Kepler. this is wildness that she doesn’t understand. this is a new life for her. as you might have gathered by now, i’m a visual person, and i like to frame these in terms of snapshots, of brief images, or as animatics, even. i like to think of the second part of this stanza as aubrey jumping, maybe flinching, in surprise as dani takes off her ring, revealing her true form, and then that same surprise remaining on her face as the scene shifts to fighting the abomination from arc 1. she has quite literally entered a new world that she doesn’t understand, something far older and darker than her that she is irrevocably mixed up in.

now, the chorus as a whole gives off a lot of “i can show you the world” vibes, ya feel? and yet, it still has a sense of permanence:

“This is not the love you've had before / This is something else / This is something else / This is not the same as other days / This is something else / This is something else // It shouldn't need to be so fucking hard / This is life on earth / It's just life on earth/ It doesn't need to be the end of you, or me / This is life on earth / It's just life on earth”

jiminy criminy. yes, this is life on earth. this is survival. aubrey’s got a really rough time of it, living on her own and making her way as a traveling magician. now, in kepler, she’s in a weird space between being grounded and being untethered, uncertain - she still belongs to the pine guard, and to her friends, but so many things are still up in the air. her relationship with the world of sylvane is changing; she has ties to it that even she can’t begin to understand yet.

And that ties into the rest of the Pine Guard, too. This new, deadly, dangerous, terrifying aspect of their lives is definitely changing the way that Ned and Duck view their town and their world. But all that aside, this is the way that it is - there are monsters, and they are fighting them, and this is how it might all end, not with a bang but with a bom-bom. They just have to keep going.

second verse, wack as the first:

“The first light / First light on the silent shore/ Just the ships that anchor me and you / The way home / This is always the way home / So you can rip that map to shreds, my dear”

I have two very clear images in my head with this one. God, I could spin an entire short story out of those first three lines; I can very clearly see Duck Newton in them. Duck Newton, as far as we know, was born and raised in Kepler. Went to Kepler High School, lived there, spent his whole life there up to this point. He’s anchored to Kepler in many ways: as a native, as a current resident, as a park ranger. And now he’s anchored to Kepler by his destiny as the Chosen One. Kepler has been, for the most part, a silent shore for him - a refuge, a place for him to live life the way he wants: in peace. Until the “first light” comes for him: Minerva, bringing news of his destiny. Or, alternately, the glowing gate to Sylvane. In either case, he’s still tied to Kepler, but now in different and strange ways that he never could have predicted.

The next three lines, though, give me Ned vibes. Ned is, if I recall correctly, a relatively new resident of Kepler; he moved in and took over the Cryptonomica after the former owner’s death. He gives off the vibe of someone who’s been all over the damn country, conning and stealing and grifting and just finding ways to turn a quick buck for years. In a similar but different way to Duck, he’s tied to Kepler now, running this monster museum on the outskirts of town. There’s nothing stopping him from running off, except his commitment to his brand, his friends, and his mission as a member of the Pine Guard. Kepler is his home now, like it or lump it - and he doesn’t need to go anywhere to find a place to belong.

Next, the second bridge:

“But all we ever wanted / Seemed miles and miles from here / And the first days in a strange new land / Awaken beasts in us”

Boy howdy. I’m honestly seeing this chunk as more of an example of the relationship between the Sylphs and the Earth; they want nothing more than to return home, because in this world they’re beasts, they’re monsters, they’re abnormal and thoroughly out of place.

That’s all I’ve got for this song. Thanks for sending this in! Song requests are currently closed while I go through my inbox and answer them. My inbox is still open for everything else, though!

[adamarinayu]

🎼 donald

So because I’d been at work all day, I hadn’t actually listened to any music when you made this request. As such I decided to listen to music while I napped, and when I woke up whatever song was playing I decided would be the one I wrote this for.

And oh. Oh man. I couldn’t choose just one verse so I did the thing I typically do not do; it’s a proper “song fic,” and I’m gonna divide scenes up between lines/stanzas/sections/whatever of the song. (The chorus will only be used once) I’m so sorry if it seems like this got off track but this is what I came up with.

Wanna make something clear right now: Although I, obviously, do not agree with Vic Mignogna’s views, I don’t deny that he’s a good singer and VA. Just emphasizing that I don’t agree with him and me listening to some of his songs does not mean I do.

How can I repay you, brother mine? How can I expect you to forgive? Clinging to the past, I shed our blood, and shattered your chance to live.

She refused to give it up. Adventure was her lifeblood- even the three children she had given life to weren’t enough to keep her away.

“I’m an adventurer, Donald!” she had said when he begged her not to go with Scrooge. “Just because I’m a mother now doesn’t make that any less true.”

“At least wait until they’re older,” he had pleaded, but she still went. Within forty-eight hours, Della was gone for good and Donald became the sole provider for three little ducklings.

He blamed Scrooge. He blamed Della. He blamed himself. He stepped up, sacrificing his own dreams of sailing the seven seas and exploring the world on his boat in order to raise his nephews.

Scrooge didn’t call. Neither did Donald.

Though I knew the laws, I paid no heed. How can I return your wasted breath? What I did not know has cost you dear, for there is no cure for death.

Sometimes Donald wondered, if he had just gone on that last adventure with them- just asked Grandma, or Fethry, or even Gladstone, to watch the kids for a few days- if Della would have come home with them. Maybe Donald wouldn’t have returned, instead- but then the boys would have their mother, at least.

There was nothing he could do about it now. Only regret. Regret what could have, should have been, and do his best to raise her children in her stead.

“What was mom like?” they would ask as they grew up, and he wouldn’t know how to answer. He wasn’t even sure he knew, anymore.

She loved you. But not enough to stay. She didn’t mean to leave. But it was still her choice to go. She loved her family more than anything. Yet she still left her month-old ducklings home with her brother to go traipsing halfway across the world.

What could he possibly tell them? What could he say that wouldn’t make it sound like he blamed her? So all he said was, “She’s gone. She loved you very much.” He didn’t tell them anything more than that.

He couldn’t bring her back, after all.

And how can I make amends for all that I took from you? I led you with hopeless dreams, my brother, I was a fool.

“Together when we hatched, together when we die.”

That had been their motto- they were two, a duo, never one without the other. Partners, partners in crime, peas in a pod, a package deal.

Born together, die together. Twins, together from start to end. That was why they became adventurers with their uncle in the first place- she his pilot, he his sailor. They would always be together, even while the dreams of their future began to diverge.

He wanted to go on a solo trip- not forever. Not for good. Just one solo trip, sailing the ocean and seeing the world through his own eyes, rather than his uncle or sister’s. Similarly, Della wanted to fly solo- just once. A stint around the world, touring and seeing the world the way she alone could.

They promised that when they finally made those solo trips, when it was over they’d meet up at Ithaquack- he in his boat and she in her plane. They’d be in contact the entire time, maybe even end up in the same place at the same time, and they talked about it often- so often that Scrooge started to get annoyed by their lack of action.

They had decided, we’ll do it for sure this year.

Then she got pregnant and they never had the chance. She was gone, more than one promise broken, and he was left to pick up the pieces.

Don’t cry for the past now, brother mine. Neither you nor I are free from blame. Nothing can erase the things we did, for the path we took was the same.

He spent night after night out on the deck of his boat, staring up at the moon and begging for a miracle. He just wanted her back- was it really so much to ask?

If he could go back in time, he’d do it in a heartbeat. Donald imagined stopping her- changing the flow of time, preventing his present no matter how much he loved those three ducklings. Maybe if she knew the fate awaiting her, she’d choose not to go…

But Donald knew he was wrong. Della would never give up an adventure, not the way Donald would. She loved her family, but the call of adventure was so much stronger for her than it was for Donald. He couldn’t understand her.

She became a mother by happenstance. He became their father by necessity. She was gone. He was there.

That’s all there was to it.

Beautiful mother, soft and sweet, once you were gone we were not complete. Back through the years we reached for you, alas ‘twas not meant to be.

The children stopped asking about her when they were seven. Whether they realized he wouldn’t- couldn’t- tell them more or they just decided not to ask anymore, Donald wasn’t sure.

They were smart children- too smart. Somehow they had figured out that when Donald said gone, he really meant dead. They didn’t tell him this, though. He overheard them one night when they were nine. He had stopped by their room, just to check on them as they went to bed, and overheard Huey leading his brothers in their bedtime prayer. It was the standard prayer- watch over us while we sleep so we are safe through the night, take care of our loved ones, such things as that.

But then…

“And please let Mom know we love her and hope that she’s happy up in Heaven.”

His blood ran cold and his heart skipped a beat. His eyes immediately began to burn and he backed away from the door. How had they known? He never said anything, and a quick internet search had proven Scrooge had all but erased Della’s existence from the public eye.

How could they have pieced it together? And how had they accepted it so easily- she was their mother. Donald was still torn up about it- yet the way Huey had said it, it sounded like it was just a fact of life.

That was when it hit Donald- for the triplets, it was a fact of life.

They never knew Della, after all.

My dreams made me blind and mute. I long to return to that time. I followed without a word, my brother the fault is mine.

It wasn’t until years later, when the boys were almost teenagers, that Donald came to the realization that Scrooge blamed himself just as much as Donald did, despite denying any blame whatsoever.

“I asked her tae come,” Scrooge confessed when they were trapped, alone, in a cavern. Donald couldn’t see his face, but his voice was no more than a whisper. “She came with me because I asked her tae.”

“I know,” Donald told him simply, staring towards what he knew was a wall. “She told me.”

“I think she wanted tae go home. She didn’t say anything- just kept up with the adventure… but I think she was worried about ye with the kids.” It was so full of guilt that Donald almost felt bad for his uncle. “I pretended not tae notice. Maybe… she’d still be here if I had put adventure aside for once.”

“She loved adventure,” Donald said, almost as if on autopilot. “She didn’t say anything. You had no way of knowing for sure.”

“I should have asked.”

“What-if doesn’t change what happened, Uncle Scrooge. She made a choice, we all have to live with it.”

His chest was hurting and his eyes were burning as he said it, but they both knew he was right. Della made her choice, and while that didn’t absolve Donald or Scrooge of any guilt…

It certainly reminded Donald exactly who his sister was; a strong, independent, adventurous and loving person.

He missed her so much.

So where do we go from here? And how to forget and forgive? What’s gone is forever lost. Now all we can do is live.

Years passed in the blink of an eye, and Donald turned around one day just to realize his (Della’s) little boys were all grown up.

They were roughhousing together with Webby, each of them wearing dark, but light-weighted, clothing as they prepared for their highschool graduation.

Donald was so proud of all of them, and silently wished that Della could be here to witness this moment.

They had found out the truth years ago, and after some… drama surrounding it, they had accepted it (again) and moved forward in their lives. Huey was now off to university to study geology, aiming for a PHD even though he intended to make his home inside the higher ranks of the Junior Woodchucks leadership. Dewey was off to flight school, just like his mother twenty years before him, and intended to return to adventuring once he was finished. Louie was off to a prestigious arts academy, having received a full scholarship when the headmaster attended his school’s art show and saw the family portrait that Louie had spent nearly a month painting on a large canvas. Webby was following her grandmother’s footsteps, already well on her way to climbing through the ranks of SHUSH, and she wasn’t even eighteen yet.

“Ye know,” Scrooge started as he stood next to Donald, leaning on his cane (the years were starting to catch up to him, Donald suspected), “it’s never too late tae live your dream, lad.”

Donald didn’t look at his uncle, instead watching his kids celebrate together. Launchpad would be driving them all to the highschool soon, for the graduation ceremony, and Donald already knew he was going to cry when they walked across that stage.

“I already did,” he said, smiling. Yes, he realized, somewhere along the way his dream had changed- those children were his, there was no point in denying it. All he wanted was to see them blossom and live happy lives. Right then, he could see they were as happy as they could be.

“… But I wouldn’t mind sailing around the world, still.”

Scrooge just laughed, patting his nephew on the back.

Some things never changed.

[matthewsmithfangirl]

Long Way Down - Jason Reynolds

We’re going to start this one off with subtraction:

09:09:09 – 09:08:02 =

[(60 x 9) + 9] – [(60 x 8) + 2) =

549 – 482 =

67 seconds =

1 minute 7 seconds

Okay, cool.

This book is essentially divided into two halves. Pages 1-70, which are expository, provide the backstory for the second half, as well as the events leading up to our protagonist, Will, getting into the elevator of his apartment building with the goal to avenge the death of his brother. Pages 70-306 are set entirely on the elevator ride, and these—

306 – 70 = 236

--two hundred thirty-six pages tell a story of something which is happening over a span of one minute and seven seconds. I want to use this space to talk about how Jason Reynolds makes use of time, and how this helps create the structure of Long Way Down.

This novel is written in first person past tense, which aligns with the first page, which sets up the novel as if Will is telling the story directly to the reader. The events described in the first, expository section consist of memories Will is recalling about his childhood and family life, for the most part. The story does not necessarily start following Will’s actions until right before he gets onto the elevator—this is before the time is denoted, but these pages consist of him acquiring Shawn’s gun and walking to the elevator.

Seldom is the length of the elevator ride directly mentioned in text. It is, for the most part, left up to the reader to notice the time stamps above the poems. Nevertheless, an example of Will’s awareness of this can be found on page 96, as he wonders, “what’s taking / this stupid / thing so long?”. Buck replies, telling him, “it’s a long / way / down” (hey, that’s the name of the book), which seems to imply that ghosts are aware that ghost-time is different than regular time.

Okay, so why do we care about ghost-time, or a minute long elevator ride?

1.     Poetry goes really fast—the combination of writing a book of poetry and slowing down time within the work allows Reynolds to play with the passage of time, while also using this to enhance the story he’s telling.

2.     Emphasizing that it was “all a dream”.

Some of these poems are extremely short. For example, page 224 contains only the words, “and that’s when it happened. / He pulled the gun / from my waistband. / And put it to my head”, and this isn’t even the shortest of the poems. I could go into why writing this story as poetry was a great idea (it’s more conversational! More musical! More emphasis on each word, or how stanzas are formatted! No space wasted on unnecessary descriptors!), but that would be a whole different topic. In regards to pacing, it essentially just makes the real-world time spent reading the novel much shorter. This is juxtaposed to the flow of time in Will’s world, which is technically just over a minute.  

Not only is this a fun, experimental way to mess with the reader, but it also seems to reflect the panic that Will is experiencing throughout the elevator ride. I have anxiety, so maybe it’s just a me-thing, but when I am anxious about something it certainly feels like time is slowing down—the wait to present a PowerPoint in class feels like an eternity. Though most readers will not have experienced the decision that Will is trying to make on the elevator, the feeling of panic and anxiety is universal, and slowing down time aids in conveying Will’s fears to the reader.

This change in passage of time also helps to separate Will’s experiences with the ghosts from the earlier pages of Will’s experiences without the ghosts. It is up to the reader’s interpretation as to whether the ghosts are real, as Will tells the reader on the first page, or that they are simply a manifestation/personification of his indecision (or, that he’s hallucinating—I don’t know, the reader can decide). No matter what the reader’s interpretation is, the slowing of time creates a dreamlike atmosphere for this section of the book. Even if the ghosts are all in Will’s imagination, it is undeniable that the conversations he has with them would have taken more than a minute and seven seconds, and thus more stuff is happening in this section than would be able to happen in real-time.

I interpret this as Will parsing out his thoughts. He is separating what he thinks each of these characters would advise him to do, because he is scared, and he seems to want, more than anything, to be told exactly what to do. Should he follow the Rules, even though it is dangerous? Is Riggs the right person to kill? Does Shawn even want to be avenged?

Since no living person can answer these questions for Will, the things he wants to hear are all laid out in front of him in his mind. But, of course, they aren’t even the things he wants to hear—they aren’t direct answers, they aren’t unbiased. This is because he does not know the answers, and there isn’t really any kind of black and white solution to the problem anyway. The problem Will faces stems from hundreds of years of political and social injustice, and there isn’t an easy answer—and it certainly can’t be solved in sixty-seven seconds (or 236 pages).

I give this book 8 out of 10 young adult vibes.

[46ten]

1755 or 1757?

[For this post, I'm heavily indebted to Newton's Alexander Hamilton: The Formative Years. Newton writes for over 12 pages and offers 109 glorious footnotes discussing the controversy over AH's birth year. I’m detailing this because it’s important to appreciate how many St. Croix ties AH had when I get into his friendships, that never-ending post.]

Until 1939, nearly everyone thought AH's birth date was January 11, 1757. 1757 is the birth year that AH used consistently throughout his life; it's the birth year his family and friends attested to. The few writers who objected to this year did so on the grounds that he was so small and delicate he likely appeared younger than he actually was, or that he could not have been employed so young.

In 1939, H.U. Ramsing published an essay on Hamilton's birth with extracts from the probate record for the estate of AH's mother. This document, completed in February 1768 by a clerk and signed by James Lytton, Sr, uncle of AH, in place of Peter Lytton, AH's cousin, states that she had "two sons, namely James Hamilton and Alexander Hamilton, one 15 and the other one 13 years old.*

This causes a flurry of re-evaluation of AH's birth year. Now I will note that 1939 is in a period of decline in AH's popularity. He gets hammered for his seeming love of banking, capitalism, aristocracy, protection of the rich, etc. That he seems to have spent his entire adult life lying about his age is just gravy.

Some historians accept the 1755 birth year, making the following Arguments: 

The probate record must be correct;

AH's youthful poetry endeavors support a 1755 birth year;

AH was witnessing legal documents as early as 1766 for Beekman and Cruger, and there's no way a 9-year-old would have this responsibility or even have a job;

AH is a liar and schemer, so it makes sense that he would lie about his age for his entire adult life.  Or (Chernow!) AH is so desperate to fit in he's even shaving two years off of his age, because he's such an insecure outcast in his own mind.

[Now there remains the possibility that AH may have thought he was born in 1757, when he was actually born in 1755. My grandmother did not know if she was born in 1908 or 1910. But she also knew that she didn't know - she wasn't declaring a birth year for herself the way AH did. As a contemporary of AH's, Newton offers up James McHenry as someone whose birth year is also unclear.]

Argument 1, the probate record must be the correct claim:

Records from the West Indies are highly unreliable. To quote Newton (pg 20): 'Dates and ages were recorded incorrectly, names were spelled and misspelled in every possible variation, and records were poorly kept, inaccurately transcribed, lost, damaged, or destroyed." One example of this is AH's mother. How many different ways are there to spell Rachel Fawcette Levine? Her burial registry is also incorrect on several details. [Newton produces several other examples of the inaccuracy of West Indian records.]

Refutation 1A: the clerk made an error, or the information was transcribed incorrectly. 

James Lytton, Sr. was signing this document in place of his son, Peter Lytton. "Present for the two minor children and heirs was Mr. James Lytton on behalf of Peter Lytton." It's not clear why Peter was not present, only that he was designated as the person to complete the document and did not do so. Therefore, it's possible that his father, James, having to rush to finalize this document in Peter's place, simply did not know or mis-stated the ages of his nephews to the clerk. It also seems possible from the record that neither James nor Alexander were present to correct any misinformation. Flexner states that James Lytton may have deliberately lied about the ages of his nephews in order to increase their likelihood of employment, and then AH returned to his real age (the 1757 birth date) when he arrived in America. Though I don't really care what Flexner thinks because that speculation would be impossible to substantiate, Flexner's wrong about employment ages anyway, and Flexner makes stuff up all the time in The Young Hamilton.

Refutation 1B: James Lytton, Sr. made an error

In both A&B, the probate record is simply wrong.

______________________________________________________

Argument 2, AH's poetry points to a 1755 birthdate:

In April 1771, "A.H." submitted poetry for publication in The Royal Danish American Gazette, stating "I am a youth about seventeen." Hamilton's authorship of these poems can't be demonstrated.  Even so, with a 1755 birth date, he would have  recently turned 16, not 17. Of course, it's also possible Hamilton is the author, and lied about his age at the time of sending in the poems anonymously for publication to make himself appear older.  [There's also lots of stuff in some biographies about AH's sexual precocity and what age it's more likely he would have written such poems, but those poems don't guarantee that "A.H." is sexually active - actually, they read as the opposite - a fantasy.]

In October 1772, The Royal Danish American Gazette published "The Soul Ascending into Bliss." Elizabeth Hamilton was very proud of this poem, sent stanzas of it to a friend, and stated that AH wrote it when he was 18. J.C. Hamilton wrote that AH wrote it when he was at King's College. It's likely that EH was JCH's source, so all that establishes is that EH believed her husband to have been born in 1757 and to have written this poem when he was at King's.

Refutation 2: The identity of "A.H." is unclear; EH likely mis-attributed the date of AH's poem.

______________________________________________________

Argument 3, AH was witnessing legal documents in 1766, so he was more likely 11, and anyway would have just been too young for employment if he were born in 1757:

There's zero evidence that 9 vs 11 was considered a substantial difference in maturity in young boys in the West Indies, so that an 11-year-old can serve as a witness, but a 9-year-old can't. A two-year difference in age is not that drastic.

Additionally, boys were often working by the time they were 7 in the colonies. Newton also provides the examples of Henry Knox, who started working at a bookstore at the age of 9; and Benjamin Franklin, who worked for his father at the age of 10 and by 16 was managing a paper. Also, as AH himself notes, he was still a 'lowly clerk’ in 1769, at the age of 12.  He wouldn't become the de facto business manager of the firm for another couple of years, and he is without question a prodigy. The fact that it's unclear what happened to James Hamilton, Jr after his mother's death also points to both boys having to seek employment at early ages, likely at the time that James Hamilton, Sr. left.

Refutation to 3: There’s no evidence that the witnessing of a document by an 11-year-old carried more weight than that of a 9-year-old. Boys frequently worked at young ages in the colonies. It does not seem a two-year difference in age would account for such a drastic difference in responsibilities, including the ability to witness to legal documents.

______________________________________________________

Argument 4, AH lied about his age:

I could get into the number of contemporaries, even his enemies, who attest to AH's honesty and frankness throughout his life as Newton does, but I won't here. Instead, let's assume for a moment that AH did lie about his age.

Question 1: Why would AH want to make himself appear younger? According to some, because he wanted to more closely match the ages of his classmates at King's College. Students at King's College were between 12 and 19, with the average age of entrance as 15. If born in 1755, AH would have been 18 upon beginning his studies. Newton points out that one of AH's classmates, David Clarkson (enrolled in 1774), was born in 1751, so AH would not have even been the oldest person there. 

Question 2: So if AH wanted to lie about his age to appear younger at King’s, when exactly did he start lying about his age? On that, historians who push the 1755 birth date can't agree, strangely. It seems obvious that because of the intertwining of people in AH's life, he really would have had to decide that he was shaving two years off of his age from the very time he enrolls at Elizabethtown Academy (the people he knows there carry through to King's), if not at the moment he arrives in America.

But wait, plenty of people who knew AH or knew of him in St Croix, also lived in NYC or traveled through there often!** His employers are based in NYC! Let's run down the people who would have had to go along with this lie:

Edward Stevens - AH's childhood St. Croix friend, who studied at King's College from 1770 to 1774. Their time at King's likely briefly overlapped, and they shared some of the same friends.

James Yard - brother-in-law of Edward Stevens and knowledgeable enough about AH and life in St. Croix to provide details of AH's background to Timothy Pickering (for Pickering's attempted biography of AH where he entertains the notion of Thomas Stevens as AH's real father).

Hugh Knox - possibly knew AH as early as fall 1771, definitely knew him spring 1772, travels to NYC intermittently also.

Ann Lytton Mitchell - AH's cousin who traveled back and forth between St. Croix and NYC and discussed AH's parentage with EH.

Nicholas Cruger and family- AH's St. Croix employer - originally from NYC and based there; Cruger's son marries the eldest John & Angelica Church daughter.

Cornelius Kortright and family - AH's St Croix employer - originally from NYC and based there; Kortright & Co handle AH's financial account when he first moves to NYC.  Cornelius is the brother of Lawrence Kortright, Elizabeth Monroe's father - I think AH lying about his age would have been a fun detail to share with James Monroe, if true.

David Beekman and family - AH's St. Croix employer - originally from NYC.

Ship captains and merchants who traveled between NY and St Croix - not going to list them, except for George Codwise, NYC ship captain for Cruger who dealt with AH on St. Croix and years later hires AH as his attorney; he names his son Alexander Hamilton Codwise. 

Note: AH would be employed as a lawyer for no fewer than 15 cases involving a Cruger, Kortright, or Beekman, and worked on cases dealing with merchants based in St. Croix. AH didn't cut ties to St. Croix as some may think.

AH lied about his age for 30+ years, and not one of the people above ever said anything? Maybe they didn't know that he was born in 1755? It seems highly unlikely that Stevens, Yard, Mitchell, Knox, Cruger, and Kortright would not have known AH's actual age in St. Croix. 

And it's not like NO ONE knew that AH claimed to be born in 1757 until funeral orations were being delivered and his tombstone went up. For example:

Nicholas Fish wrote to EH that AH was "about eighteen" when he wrote his political pieces, and he's "certain" of this because they "compared and knew each other's ages, he being one year older than me.”

Benjamin Rush notes AH as "a young man of 21 years of age" in Oct 1777.

The Pennsylvania Gazette reports in 1781 that AH was 23 years of age in the previous year. 

In AH's letter to his uncle William Hamilton (1797), he states that he was "about sixteen" (three months shy of 16) when he arrived in America (Oct 1772) and "by the age of nineteen" could earn a college degree and became an artillery captain (1776). Both point to him believing he was born in 1757.

James Kent wrote to EH in 1832 that AH died when he had not yet reached his 48th year.

So we have to believe that AH confidently went around telling people that he was an age consistent with having been born in 1757, and never gets called out on it even though there are several people around who could have done so and caught him in this lie. 

_____________________________________________________

So let’s look at these options again: 

The probate record is incorrect (either the clerk or Lytton made an error, or the probate record was later mis-transcribed);

The poetry authorship or dating is mis-attributed;

Historians don't know exactly how old one had to be in St. Croix in the 1760s to act as a witness on a property record;

AH and a number of co-conspirators lied about his age for to prevent him from being an older student at King’s College, and got away with it for over 150+ years, with no hint of this ever making its way into any record or correspondence, until the discovery of a 1768 probate record that has to be accurate.

As Brookhiser states, "[B]elieving that a man is more likely to know his own birthday than a clerk in a probate court, I will accept 1757." pg 16, Alexander Hamilton, American

*The date of James Hamilton, Jr.'s birth, whether he is older or younger than AH, whether he's really AH's brother, or whether he even existed at all(??!!) is also up for debate in Hamilton biographies. 

**This is a huge thing to me that I'll get into in a few days, but gosh, AH was FAR from "an immigrant coming from the bottom" - he was wrapped in privilege with elite NYC/NJ people who knew him/of him from the very beginning of his American adventure. 

[blogwritetheworld]

The Write Place: The Everywriter’s Desk

by Lisa Hiton

Looking for the right advice on pursuing the writer’s life? You’ve come to the write place!

The summer before my junior year in high school, my soon-to-be teacher, Ms. Tanimoto, assigned two books to incoming AP students: The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne and The Elements of Style by William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White. The Scarlet Letter was forgotten as soon as it was finished; I instantly detested Hawthorne’s penchant for moral allegories surrounding evil and sin, finding it all a bit too on-the-nose and heavy-handed. The Elements of Style, however, became an instant mainstay to my writerly temperament.

It seemed strange to be assigned a reference book to read cover to cover. I’d only ever used reference books like dictionaries, thesauruses, and encyclopedias as touchstones during reading and writing assignments—brief interruptions to expand my knowledge and/or revise my work.Upon reading Strunk and White’s masterpiece, however, my understanding of reference books changed entirely. Though the book is a mere 87 pages, my peers seemed to begrudge the assignment or blow it off entirely. I, on the other hand, found my attention rapt.

The Elements of Style is a reference book on the rules of English rhetoric, yes, but the attitude and dogma of its writers, Strunk and White, make it as much a manifesto as a convincing collection of laws governing the way we (ought to) speak and (must) write. The seriousness of tone and voice in these pages presents us with far more than a reference for grammar and usage, but rather, a true understanding of style in and of itself—that rhetoric is more than grammar and syntax, but a true translation of our consciousness into clear, material words. Such gravitas became most apparent to me when I arrived to page 52. Amid the section on misused words and expression, Strunk and White lay out the difference between nauseous and nauseated as follows:

Nauseous. Nauseated. The first means “sickening to contemplate”; the second means “sick to the stomach.” Do not, therefore, say, “I feel nauseous,” unless you are sure you have that effect on others.

Besides thinking of the many times I had misused “nauseous”, I actually laughed out loud. Amidst the seriousness in the rule there was a deep sense of snark. From the seriousness came a great deal of humor.

Since that first reading encounter with The Elements of Style, my well worn copy has remained with me. Whether I’m writing an academic paper, a cover letter, an author’s bio, a poem, a book review, or anything else, Strunk and White are there reminding me to be as clear as possible.

MY ELEMENTS OF STYLE

As I continued to grow in my writing life, I found that other books became constant sources of aid and knowledge, so much so that my desk had its own section of books at the ready, for whatever obstacles befell a given blank page. And over the years, the kinds of references have grown to fit my own writerly needs. And as I visit my friends who are writers, I notice some trends from desk to desk.

Here’s my working writing desk, fit with all I need! I’ve got my laptop, notebooks, pens, reference books, books to review, and some of my favorite books that I keep near me for inspiration. In the drawer of my desk, I keep mailing materials for my stack of chapbooks to sign and send to those who request it.  

Regarding reference books, every writer’s desk seems to contain The Elements of Style by Strunk and White, a dictionary, and a well-worn thesaurus. My desk currently has my hardcover copy of The Elements of Style, The New Roget’s Thesaurus in Dictionary Form, and Soule’s Dictionary of English Synonyms. Especially for those of you dreaming up holiday wish-lists, Maira Kalman’s illustrated version of The Elements of Style may be just the special book to add to the collection for you.

While I used to keep a desk-sized Merriam-Webster Dictionary on hand, I find the synonyms and thesaurus more useful these days, perhaps especially as I revise my first book of poems. When I find myself overusing the same verbs and adjectives, I can quickly reach for one of these books and get some inspiration. I’ve converted, these days, to using apps for dictionary and etymology. I especially like the free dictionary.com app, which allows you to click on a word three times and open up its dictionary page. The app also offers audio pronunciation.

Dictionaries are important resources, ones which can’t quite be replicated online. Each nation has its favorite, from the Oxford English Dictionary, to Merriam-Webster’s, to the Macquarie. While I don’t keep Merriam-Webster on my desk at this moment, I do keep it at my fingertips, using their online resources when I’m in need. Further, I’ve found the Merriam-Webster twitter to be a source of great comfort and comedy amidst America’s dire political landscape. While it is easy to look up a word online, the physical books—dictionaries, thesauruses, etc.—encourage more meandering through the worlds of words. Without the instant gratification that comes from looking up a word, you may stumble upon an etymological note that takes you to another page, and so on, until you’ve learned new things about words and perhaps found an even better way to say whatever it is you set out to put on the page.

These are my three most used reference books right now. I’m really excited about this new, hardcover copy of The Elements of Style, especially!

Another particularity of a writer’s desk seems to be a given writer’s tools. Do you do most of your writing on a computer? In a notebook? With an old refurbished typewriter? I personally use multiple tools to get my writing done. Certain parts of my writing process involve pen and paper, while others are done on my laptop. Many writers have a kind of obsession with their objects. For example, I only write with fine point uniball pens in black or purple ink. I use fine point, black sharpie markers for my writing to-do lists. And, as you'll see from a glimpse at my desk, I'm as particular about notebooks as I am about pens!

I keep a few different notebooks with different purposes going at a time. Here you’ll see two Shinola notebooks, which I love because they engrave your name for free—a great holiday gift, indeed!—my Moleskine planner, my to-do list pad, and a grey notebook where I keep notes on books as I read them. 

Another important element of a writer’s desk is its proximity to field guides. In my dream writing room, this might include specific maps, atlases, and encyclopedias. Currently, I’m working on poems and essays about my time spent in Greece on the island of Thassos and in the city of Thessaloniki. To that end, I have acquired field guides that can help me re-orient myself to that location. Names of trees, fish, flora, fauna, and foods are different in other places. I’ve also become a collector of field guides, including one that has images and names of specific kinds of lighthouses. What field guides might help you with a particular piece you’re working on right now?

As a field guide collector, these are some of my favorite possessions, found in random parts of the world, flea markets, and antique stores. Right now, I’m revising poems about my time in Greece on the island of Thassos. These field guides help inspire precision in describing water, fish, beaches, shells, and the like. 

Besides reference books and field guides, it seems that craft books or books about writing and reading are a mainstay on my desk too. Some of my absolute favorites are:

Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott

The Writing Life by Annie Dillard

Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose

Blue Pastures by Mary Oliver

Having these books on my desk is a reminder of my own intellectual inheritance as a writer, as well as a great source of guidance and inspiration to me.

EXPANSIVE FIELDS

There are of course many other must-have books, tools, and resources that writers need to have at the ready. A comparative study of writers’ desks would be ideal. In the absence of access to the likes of desks by Dr. Seuss, Toni Morrison, Maya Angelou, Stephen King, JK Rowling, and the rest, here are some starter ideas by genre that you might consider as you expand your own writer’s desk. And of course, send us picture of your own desks and favorite desk necessities on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter by tagging us or using the hashtags: #everywritersdesk.

A Poet’s Guide to Poetry

Poetry has its own rules and vernacular that may give writers pause. From reference books, to prompting books, there are many craft resources for poets looking to understand lines, stanzas, and the soul of poetry as they grow their own volumes of poetry. Here’s a wishlist of some of my most beloved/ragged/well-loved books on poetry:

A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver

The Triggering Town by Richard Hugo

Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke

A Poet’s Guide to Poetry by Mary Kinzie

A Poet’s Glossary by Edward Hirsch

The Art of the Poetic Line by James Longenbach

A Little Book on Form: An Exploration Into the Formal Imagination of Poetry by Robert Hass

Rules for the Dance by Mary Oliver

The Sounds of Poetry: A Brief Guide by Robert Pinsky

ABC of Reading by Ezra Pound

Keeping Things Novel

For all you novelists, there are also a whole host of books to guide you in the writing of fiction.. Here are a few additions you might want to make to your #everywritersdesk:

How Fiction Works by James Wood

Brevity: A Flash Fiction Handbook by David Galef

The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers by John Gardener

On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King

Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose

Mastering Suspense, Structure, and Plot: How to Write Gripping Stories that Keep Readers on the Edge of Their Seat by Jane K. Cleland

Nonfiction

If creative nonfiction is where your writing practice is focused, there are all kinds of books available for your #everywritersdesk too! Nonfiction is a huge category, which could include journalism, biography, autobiography, and more. This list is focused on the literary spirit of creative nonfiction:

Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg

To Show and to Tell by Phillip Lopate

On Writing Well by William Zinsser

You Can’t Make This Stuff Up: The Complete Guide to Writing Creative Nonfiction by Lee Gutkind

Writing True: The Art and Craft of Creative Nonfiction by Sondra Perl and Mimi Schwartz

Inside Story: Everyone’s Guide to Reporting and Writing Creative Nonfiction by Julia Goldberg

Crafting the Personal Essay: A Guide for Writing and Publishing Creative Nonfiction by Dinty W. Moore

As these books serve the writing life, there are also those books that are so well-loved that they seem to live on our desks. Right now, the collected works of Sylvia Plath and Frank Bidart have been near me at all times, just like a security blanket for my authorial heart. What books do you find stay off the shelf? Tag them in your #everywritersdesk photos.

Of course, there are many other books that may guide you on your journey. Many craft books and writers’ resources can also be found on my series blog, “Reading Like a Writer” where I recommend specific craft books in conjunction with the genre of Write the World’s monthly writing contests. We can’t wait to see your additions to #everywritersdesk by tagging us on Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook!

About Lisa

Lisa Hiton is an editorial associate at Write the World. She writes two series on our blog: The Write Place where she comments on life as a writer, and Reading like a Writer where she recommends books about writing in different genres. She’s also the interviews editor of Cosmonauts Avenue and the poetry editor of the Adroit Journal.

[fully-realized-creation]

I was (and still am) full of so many emotions about The Adventure Zone finale tomorrow that I wrote my first ever fanfic for it. So that’s a thing, and here it is.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/11826000

And below the cut, if you prefer to read it that way:

It’s almost like poetry.

The blue and green lights are dancing above your head to a melody that everyone (/everyone/, gods, on every plane, in every existence, it’s something your mind can still barely comprehend), /everyone/ can hear. Fisher and his child are radiant. They glow proudly as the story–/your/ story–is shared with the universe.

And suddenly no one is alone.

You feel this sharply and keenly. You have been alone, especially when Julia died, when Raven’s Roost was lost, though you don’t know what caused the two events (it leaves a sour taste in your mouth regardless). Then there was Taako and Merle and Angus and the Bureau and Lucretia and yet. And yet you felt the loss every day. In every moment you rushed in you knew that if it went bad, well, then you wouldn’t be so alone anymore.

But in this moment, watching the lights above and before you, as everyone in existence shares in the knowledge that the world is ending, shares in the fear of the Hunger descending, you are connected to people in a way that you haven’t truly felt since Lucretia erased your memory of those fateful hundred years.

As the realization hits you, you swear you can see the world around you glow white. But it’s not from the eyes of the agents of the Hunger. It’s from the bonds created between you and the IPRE crew and the /world/.

And you feel complete. Like the period at the end of a sentence, this moment of connection is both something ending and something beginning. It’s a new stanza, a continuation, because–and it’s almost enough to knock you off your feet, this realization– /no one is ready to stand down/. You take a deep breath, and somewhere, deep within your heart, you feel everyone take the same breath, and look deep into the face of the apocalypse, and as one, say, “No.”

So you stand up straight and tall, and think about your crew–your family–and the rest of the world. All of those people that you need to /protect/.

The story and the song fly above your head and through your heart, and mind, and soul. You feel the universe balance precariously between destruction and survival. You know what you need to do, and it fees so right, like the perfect rhyme.

You take one last look at the two voidfish, at the lights, and simply /feel/ everything for one more moment.

It’s so beautiful. It’s almost like poetry.

——————————————————————————————-

It’s almost like poetry.

Each line in a couplet must have a mate, something so similar and yet different enough to distinguish between the two, and allow the meaning to come across.

You had lost your meaning, though you didn’t remember it ever existing in the first place. The other rhyme was gone, and so yours barely made sense, for so long. It explained a lot.

Then she was back and gone again in a flash, and the world was ending and all you wanted to do was make sure everyone felt this double loss that you had. Who cares if the world was ending? Without the next line in your story, it made no logical sense to keep going.

You feel fire in your veins, and imagine your body is hers, imagine that this is how she must have felt all the time, so powerful, so /resplendent/. You imagine the umbra-staff in your hand vibrates, your last connection to her reaching toward the anger and the loss and the hurt, and clutch it to your chest.

There’s a break in your line of thought when the Hunger attacks. You ready for battle and someone appears at your side and your heart soars, thinking, hoping–and it’s not, of course, it’s Angus, but damn if that isn’t just as good, and the realization of that almost knocks you down.

You fight with Magnus and Merle, because /that’s/ what you know now, that’s who you know how to work with, and you wonder if maybe your rhyme scheme has changed in the years that you’ve had together to unknowingly relearn their ways.

There was once a time when your couplet was part of a larger verse, two lines within seven and they all somehow made sense. Through the bonds you created, your hearts beat almost as one, keeping time with the rhythm and the flow of your lives. There was chaos, and there was destruction, but there was also balance and love. And you and her were a part of that.

When you and Magnus and Merle had (re)connected, without realizing it, you (re)connected three out of the seven parts of the original story. Not enough to make sense, but enough to begin your epic once more. You hadn’t changed, you had simply found your rhythm again, those slants that you could fit your rhyme against, not perfectly, but just enough.

And you think that’s maybe okay.

Until a fireball too big for a young boy to conjure up emerges from your umbra-staff, and your heart and mind and soul /reach/ for the magical instrument and you know what to do, break it in half and /there she is/, and you truly remember what it’s like to be a fully realized creation, now that you and her are whole, together, balanced once more.

She shines before you, the grin on her face matching yours exactly.

It’s so beautiful. It’s almost like poetry.

——————————————————————————————-

It’s almost like poetry.

There’s a beginning, and an end, and in the middle is love and plants and dancing and praying. And through it all, a constant thread, a reminder that you’re never alone, keeping everything together.

Until one day, it’s gone.

And you fall apart.

Pan was your constant. He was the rhythm you followed (whether you wanted to or not) because He was always just /there/. Your doubts and your complaining could not dissuade Him. He was the one thing in your life that stuck by you. Perhaps you were just fated to lose everything you cared about.

But you look up, and you see Magnus and Taako, and despite their jokes about how you “never used your healing powers anyway,” you know that they are worried and afraid. And you consider what you know about constants.

It’s not a lot, you realize very quickly. You’ve never known much about regularity, about rhythm. Your life is a disjointed stream of consciousness, of starting and giving up and restarting and running away. But with you, the whole time, was Pan. And with you, most of the time, were Taako and Magnus.

The way you three fit together was proof, your were sure, that the gods had a sense of humor. Two capable adventurers in their own rights, and you. You spent your entire quest waiting for the day they realized that even a kid like that annoying Agnes was a better and more capable companion than you.

They never did though, and that’s what’s getting you, as you stand here disconnected from everything that once grounded you to the universe. This whole time, you thought it was just you and Pan against the world, but Taako and Magnus were there too. And they’re still here, as you deal with the loss of your god.

And you realize that, at some point, you found your rhythm, that place where you fit into the story, where you make sense. You thought Taako and Magnus had their own arcs, beginnings that didnt include you and middles and ends that didnt need you. Your own story was separate, smaller, /lesser/. In reality, it all blended together to make something so perfect and balanced that nothing could destroy it, not even the apocalypse itself.

So when the memories hit you, when the century that was stolen from you by Lucretia returns, and the initial shock of the flood of so much information wears off, you can’t help but smile. The connections you made, those bonds, return in full force and it almost feels like Pan has returned. It brings the same comfort, the same sense of familiarity, of /home/.

It’s so beautiful. It’s almost like poetry.

[todobaku-shoukat]

The Art Of Losing (Isn’t Hard To Master)

Bktd_wk17 Day 6, Prompt: Family, Loss

AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11352744

Todoroki’s mother thinks of the things she’s lost, and the things she’s gained.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master; 

so many things seem filled with the intent 

to be lost that their loss is no disaster. 

~ One Art by Elizabeth Bishop

 She looks at the scene in front of her. The mood is overwhelming and she tries to hold back her tears. She feels like her heart is going to burst. The strong waves of emotions drown her like a tsunami. In her entire life, she has never felt any emotion as strong as this. It is the wrong time and place to think about these, but she could not help but think of the thing’s she’s lost and the thing she’s gained.

 The ‘One Art’ of losing isn’t hard to master.

 It was her favourite poem ever since she first heard it when she was eighteen. She resonated with it deeply, for she was a rather forgetful person that often lost her keys and school notes. And with every loss she mastered, there was no disaster. But back then, she could not understand the last stanza. Until she met Todoroki Enji.

 That was the moment she began losing everything.

 The first thing she lost was her maiden name. But it was no disaster because she was marrying the man she loved. The man who was a great hero, just like her father was. At that time, it did not feel like a loss, but rather a gain to have her husband’s name.

 The next thing she lost was her dreams. She wanted to be a hero, just like her father. Her father was a brilliant dad and a great strong hero. And she respected him so much for sacrificing himself to save a bus of school children. She wanted to carry on his work, to make him proud. But Todoroki Enji would not have it. He wanted her to stay at home and take care of the children. She accepted it. Her mother was a great woman and she was a housewife too. To follow in her mother’s footsteps was no loss to her. After all, her husband would be a great hero in place of her.

 She lost her friends next. After getting married, she never had time to go out of the house. She became with child not long after the wedding, and Enji would not let her out of the house. She thought it was for the safety of their unborn child and agreed. But not long after conceiving their first child, Enji wanted another. She thought it was because he loved children, so she did not mind. Each time she gave birth, Enji wanted another child. She was perpetually pregnant for four years straight, staying in the house the entire time. Her friends leave her, but the loss was of no concern to her because she had a big loving family.

 It was when Shouto was born that she first realised that there was something terribly wrong. When Enji first caught sight of Shouto’s mismatched eyes and hair, he had treated Shouto very differently. And then, she lost her children. Her three oldest are sent to the outhouse with a caretaker, and she could only ever see them from the window when they played outside. Enji wanted her to focus her attentions on caring for Shouto, and she did because he’s the only child she has left. She did not dwell on her loss. At least the other children were happy, and she would focus on keeping Shouto loved and well.

 She lost her rose-coloured glasses next. Whatever illusions she once held were shattered. The man she fell in love with was a fraud. She was nothing more than an heir-bearer to him. It made her sick to the stomach. It was even worse, how he treated Shouto. Poor sweet Shouto who wanted to make mommy happy and daddy proud. Who was seen as a mere tool, a means to an end. She tried her best to make it better, she tried to hold on. She tried to convince herself that it was no disaster.

 But she knew she was losing her mind. Every time she saw Shouto’s left side, she wanted to vomit. The visceral response drove her crazy. He was her son. She should never see her son as disgusting, but she could not help it. This acted like a positive feedback mechanism, pushing her further off the edge.

 Then, she lost her control. And in that moment, she also lost herself. She could not believe that she had hurt her son. It was so instinctive a response, and it shocked her to the core. And she truly lost all her children. She was sent to the hospital, locked away, and lost her independence. Except, she realised that she had lost her independence from the very start. She had never done what she wanted, only what Enji wanted. She had truly loved him, or her version of him. And losing that had hurt.

 She spent ten years in the psychiatric ward, and in that time, she lost no more. She had nothing left to lose after all. But away from her abusive husband, she slowly started to gain. She found herself, gained back her sanity, and even made new friends. It was not the life she envisioned for herself, but it was alright.

 She continued to gain when Shouto visited her. She was so relieved to see him looking healthy, even if a bit sad. There were words of apologies and forgiveness, a warm loving hug. And she has gained back her son. He visited her often, telling her about his interesting classmates. He shared funny stories with her, and she found her laughter again.

 She was happy again. She could finally be a good and proper mother just like her own. And like all mothers, she could tell when her child was in love. She noticed how often the name “Bakugou” appeared in his stories, and the way he would smile each time. But she also realised how similar this “Bakugou” was to her husband. It worried her. She knew her son was a smart young man, but she also knew that people became stupid in the face of love. So she told her son to bring Bakugou around.

 Bakugou Katsuki was vastly different from what she expected. He was adorably awkward and got flustered easily. When Shouto had gone out to get some drinks, she made sure to test the young man in front of her. She could not be a protective mama bear in front of Enji and she regretted it. But she would do whatever was in her power protect her son from heartbreak.

 She told Bakugou her worries, and asked if he truly loved Shouto or was just using him. Bakugou Katsuki’s eyes had hardened, and looking straight into her eyes, he had said, “I love Shouto with all my heart. He can be an annoying piece of shit at times but he’s my annoying piece of shit. I’ve punched Endeavour in the face to defend Shouto once, and I can do it again to anyone that hurts him.”

 She giggled. She would rather not ever see Enji again, but she did wonder what was his expression then.

 From then, she gained a new hobby – watching Shouto and Katsuki interact whenever they visit. She’s happy that her son has found true love and happiness. Whenever Katsuki recounts a story, his hands would gesture passionately. She would burst out laughing at the way Shouto moved to avoid them. She saw the way Shouto would intertwine his fingers with Katsuki, and she knew it wasn’t just to stop those hands from moving wildly. She saw the way they sat close together, personal space be damned, and leant towards each other.

 She also gained an honorary son. She quickly realised that Katsuki was bad with words and shy about his feelings. She also learned that he had difficulties confiding in his own mother. He said that it was too icky and weird. He would share his feelings with Shouto too, but there are just some things you don’t talk to your lover about. And as his honorary mother, she was his listening ear and wise adviser.

 She was thrilled when Katsuki said that he wanted to marry Shouto. Katsuki was worried about rejection, but she grinned and told him not to fret. She has seen the way they looked at each other, and the way they talked about each other all the time, whether or not the other was there. She knew that being cheesy and romantic was out-of-character for Katsuki, and told him to just prepare a nice meal and pop the question after that.

 She waited with bated breath, the first time in a long while. She had almost forgotten what anticipation felt like. A week later, when they visited, she learned that the plan didn’t even have a chance to begin. When she was told that Shouto tricked Katsuki into signing the marriage certificate, she could not stop giggling. She made them promise to have a proper wedding even though they were already technically married. They are perfect together and she’s glad they have found each other.

 And today, she gains a new family. Bakugou Masaru and Mitsuki are a delight. She sees where Katsuki gets his potty mouth from, and his interactions with his parents are nothing short of amusing. They are great additions to her family. The family she will protect with her entire being.

 She looks to the altar with tear-filled eyes. Shouto and Katsuki look handsome in sleek black suits. They are beaming at each other, voices strong and determined as they exchange vows. Joy and euphoria radiate from their very beings, and she finally feels at peace.

 All these time, she has pretended to be okay with her losses. But now, she has finally come to terms with them. Loss is part and parcel of life. You can lose anything, everything, but there’s no need to despair. Because there is always so much more to gain.

[equiperavenfan-blog]

Travelouge: Rizal Shrine in Dapitan City

Summer was coming so my family agreed to travel to have some fun. We were taking a tour at Rizal Shrine, Dapitan which is located in Zamboanga Del Norte Region. Although this place is not included in Philippine's top tourism destination, it is surprisingly rich in historical treasures and natural attractions. The Rizal Shrine is two kilometres from Dapitan City Plaza and known as one of the tourist spots in Zamboanga Del Norte because of the 16 hectare land in Talisay which our national hero, Dr. Jose Protacio Mercado y Alonso Realonda, purchased during his exile period and is now converted into a national park. It was really a long journey to reach Dapitan City coming from Ozamiz City. I think it’s actually four hours to reach Dapitan Rizal Shrine in Barangay Talisay. When we finally arrived, I felt really excited upon seeing the entrance when we entered the park. I can say that the park is a cool shady place surrounded by century old trees in which some are even older than Dr. Rizal himself.

The entire park atmosphere is invigorating and it is also clean and well maintained. The place is perfect for nature lovers because of the preserved original beauty of nature. When you stroll around the firsts structure, what will catch your attention is the Casa Residencia, the resident house of Rizal and the biggest house that was built in Rizal Shrine. When I entered Casa Residencia, I saw one bedroom with a bed and a photo of Dr. Jose Rizal. You can also see the health house built by Rizal which is called Casitas de Salud. They say it was made for the people that was far from the municipality. There is also a square house which was the dormitory of Rizal’s pupils and it was said that the underneath of the square house was their workshop area. Sitting at Rizal’s workshop where his students practiced carpentry felt like I’m one of his students too. Rizal also built a clinic, the Casa Redonda.

 In history, it is said that George Taufer, the foster father of Josephine Bracken, had his eye operation done by Dr. Rizal. There are many unique and amazing structures that you will discover inside the shrine's grounds. At the end of the shrine you will find and be amazed by a rock which occupied a prominent space in the shrine only to know that it was the “Mi Retiro Rock”, Rizal’s retreat rock and prominently mentioned in Rizal’s memoirs. It was said that the rock was named after his poem "Mi Retiro" where Rizal wrote the first stanza while sitting on this rock. It is also called the lovers rock as it was the favourite spot of Josephine and Rizal as they spent hours watching sunset. There is also a big museum called Rizalliana Museum which was built in 1971. When you enter the museum you can see some artifacts, photos, memorabilia and even the preserve clothes of Rizal. There is also a monument of Rizal that was built on March 8, 1987 by the order of knights of Rizal. My heritage tour to the historic Dapitan is really fun and priceless and there is no way you want to skip the beauty and the natural attraction that will surely make you appreciate and love the beauty of nature and the historic place. A visit to this place probably helped me understand the depths of Rizal’s patriotism and noble service towards our country.

Exploring each hut makes you go back in history which you can see where our national hero ate, sleep, taught his students and treated patients. In the heritage park you will surely observe the diligent life style led by our national hero through his nipa hut residence, water works, hospital and dormitory that was worth the time money and hard work of our national hero. Discovering and having information of the fruits of Rizal’s four productive years in the field of medicine, agriculture, entrepreneurship, education, engineering, and arts and poetry will surely enhance your knowledge and it is a perfect place for students who study the life of Rizal and people who loves history. Anyway, a trip to Rizal Shrine never disappoints me and everyone, and I really enjoy lots of things. I also now know a little bit about the life of our national hero after the trip.

                                                                                     - Written by Wilyn Rada