#the whimsy of drawing has returned to me once more

[buboloboogie]

lil sucker

[artistdove]

So some were interest in the rough story idea on Mickey revealing he was the cause of the Thinner Disaster for my Between the Screen au... Welp here y'all go.

It's over.

The Blot as been dealt with, thanks to the magical brush. Whimsy flows through the once viscous creature as it flies off into the distance with a friendly wave of goodbye.

An exhausted mouse falls to the ground.

Ink and sweat drip from Mickey's temple. A gust of wind rushes by him, followed by the shadow of a familiar toon looming above him.

Concern is written on Gus's face as he takes in Mickey's condition. A faint yell reaches his ear as he turns toward the green bottle where Oswald was fighting.

"By Jove! Quick Mickey, Oswald needs our help!!"

Hazey eyes land on the bottle the gremlin pointed toward. Its nauseous, green hue shines against the murky, sunset sky. His mind and eyes regain focus as a memory from long ago resurfaces.

"It can't be."

"Hurry Mickey!"

Quickly, Mickey follows Gus.

Loud heaves and grunts are heard as the pair reach the mountain's peak. Blot remains and dark liquid litter the area.

Towards the end of this inky path, Oswald is struggling to push a bottle's cork back into place. The two rush to his aid.

"It's your lucky day, Oswald! The calvary has arrived," Gus exclaimed.

"What else... is new?!" Oswald grunts. "On... Three! One... Two... Three!!"

A loud squish is heard as the trio use all their strength to push the cork back into place. Sighs of relief fill the air as the toons slide onto the dusty floor.

Swiping the sweat from his brow, Ozwald turns to Gus, "That was close for comfort. Thanks, Gus."

"Don't thank me. My strength is that of a mere fly, twas Mickey that really pulled through."

"Mickey?!" Oswald shouts as he glances toward the mouse before turning back toward Gus.

"Yes." Gus states, "I think he deserves the praise more than me."

Anger laces the rabbits face. "GRRRR... No!! How can I thank the rat responsible for ruining my life?!"

Gus is appalled by Oswald's reaction. With arms crossed, Gus sternly scolds his dear friend.

"I say Oswald, how long are you going to keep that up?! Mickey here has been doing nothing but helping Wasteland. Why can't you see that?"

Annoyed, Oswald pulls his ears over his face in a knot. "Grrr... He's probably just doing it for his own motives!!"

A hand falls on his shoulder. A look of concern fills his view. "Please, Oswald."

A deep sigh rings from Oswald's mouth. His shoulders slump and his ears return upright.

"Maybe your right, Gus."

He looks towards Mickey. "Hey, mous- er Mickey!"

His shout had barely disturb the mouse as Mickey appeared frozen. His gaze fixed on the cork and the bottle.

Colors of blue, green, and black consume his mind. He remembers. The cold dripping claws reaching out for him as a sinister green hue blinds his eyes. The paint spilling, the thinner burning, and footsteps approaching his location. He thought he destroyed it. Oh, how wrong he was.

A shout breaks his spiralling thoughts.

"Oi, Mickey! Mickey!! MICK!!!!"

Mickey snaps his gaze onto Oswald, surprising the rabbit.

"W-What is in there?"

Confused, Ozwald answered with a huff, "The Blot."

Oswald must be joking. "B-but I've been fighting him? I just took care of him."

"Tch, you've only been fighting the drippings and the Phanton Blot. The real deal is trapped in there." He rubs the back of his head, slightly embarrassed. "Guess I never mentioned it to ya."

Mickey stares back at the bottle in disbelief.

A sigh draws his attention back to the rabbit, "Look, maybe I've misjudged you. I can't let go of my hatred for you easily, but maybe. I can start by understanding you."

Oswald reaches his hand out to the mouse. A sign of peace and potentially... A new start.

For the first time since he's been here, Oswald is actually being nice to him. Mickey is overjoyed to at this chance for a new start. He reaches for Oswald's hand, but the truth rings heavy in his mind.

Before Mickey's hand makes contact, it is quickly withdrawn. Oswald and Gus look at the mouse, puzzled.

"Uh?"

"I thought it was a dream."

"What?"

"A long time ago, I stumbled upon this workshop. My curiosity got the better of me."

"There was paint and thinner. A loud road. Cold claws reached for me. Things got out of hand so fast. I-I thought I fixed it. I scrubbed and scrubbed."

"I-I caused the Thinner Disaster."

Mickey looks up with teary vision. Gus is staring at him, horrified at this revelation. Oswald. Oswald has gone deathly quiet.

"I am so sorry. I never meant to cause so much pain to you all."

Gus slowly approaches Mickey as his shock slowly recedes. "Mick-"

A mad cackle rings through the air. The two turn to the rabbit, who's entire demeanor seems to have shifted into a craze.

"Oh man, you almost had me mouse."

Before Mick can respond, pain shoots though his face.

"OSWALD!!" Gus shrieks.

Dust whirps around him as he dry, rough ground scraps his skin. Jawline aches with pain, his vision is muddled with colors and shapes. Heavy stomps approach.

A heavy kick lands on his ribs, knocking Mickey the wind out of his lungs. He is launched further away.

Oswald's voice rings out again, "ALL THOSE HEROIC ACTS AND KIND WORDS!!"

Hands quickly latches onto Oswald's arm. A desperate plea from Gus rings forth.

"Oswald, get a hold of yourself!"

His plea lands on deaf ears. Face ridden with madness and despair meet the gremlin's eyes.

"STAY OUT OF THIS!"

In an instant, Gus finds him self hurling into a pile of rubble.

"This is between me and that rat!"

Shakey legs and aching body heaves Mickey up.

"Oswald, please." Mickey groans. "I-i never meant to-"

A large rock interrupts him mid-sentence as it barely misses its intended target.

"Please, Let me explain!"

The mouse's words only fuel the rabbit's rage.

"What is there to explain?!"

"FIRST, you replaced me and stole the life I could have had!!"

A broken bug cart is thrown, but Mickey quickly dodges the projectile. More objects are posed to launch.

"THEN, you create the monster that destroyed-"

"MY HOME!l

Smash

"MY FRIENDS!!"

Crash

"MY SWEETHEART!!!"

BAM

"AND NOW, YOUR HERE TO FINISH THE JOB!!!!"

A gumball machine adorned with the mouses face is chucked. Thinner melts it before impact.

Before he could blink, the rabbit appears behind the thinned out machine. A charged attack ready for impact.

Mickey quickly spin attacks the rabbit to send him backwards. Mickey once again attempts to reason with Oswald.

"I understand you're mad, but you've got to believe me! I never meant for any of this to happen!!"

"OH, SAVE IT!"

Enlarged hands ensnare him at blinding speed. The rabbit's ears begin to spin and the two are launched high into the sky.

Any attempts to escape fail has the rabbit's grip tightly binds him. At the peak of the momentum, both toons eyes meet.

"You'll never understand!!," Oswald remarks. "You think all this can be fixed with an apology?!"

Mick is spun at high speed, then sent hurling toward the ground.

Rubble shifts as the gremlin slowly comes to. Never has he seen his dear friend in such rage. His dazed eyes frantically scan for the two toons. A loud crash quickly grabs his attention. He spots Mickey skidding across the ground toward the large bottle. His impact creating a large dust cloud.

Crack

"Oh, no!" He hastens clearing the rubble off himself.

Ringing is all that fills his ears. His body screams with pain. A burning sensation makes itself known. He must have landed near some thinner, but how...

The rabbit lands nearby and slowly approaches the mouse.

"Nothing you say will change how I feel or what's been done!"

Mickey slowly gets up.

"I know." He grunts. "But, you can."

A growl escapes the rabbit's mouth. "THAT'S EASY FOR YOU TO SAY!"

"You change things for the better, but when I change it, I change it for the worse!!"

Oswald goes to punch Mickey only for a shield to block his attack.

Crack

Mickey notices Gus heaving in distance, he must have thrown in just in time to block the blow. He quickly braces the shield.

Oswald growls again and winds up another punch, only to be blocked again. Mickey is pushed against the bottle once more.

Crack

"EVERYTHING WOULD HAVE BEEN PERFECT HAD YOU NOT BE SO STUPID!"

Bang

Crack

"YOU JUST COULDN'T STAY OUT OF OUR LIFE OR MY LIFE!"

Bam

Crack

"OSWALD STOP!!" Gus hollers but to no avail.

With each swing, the rabbit slowly crumbles. His anger dispersing into misery.

"HAHAHAHAhahaha..."

Thump

"Hahaha, you know. It's funny. He also wanted us to be friends."

Thunk

"No wonder he never came back for me... I never was good enough."

Tink

"Hehehe.. so much for a lucky rabbit, uh."

A sniffle escapes from the rabbit. Mickey's face fills with concern as he slowly lowers the shield.

"Ozzy-"

Before he could finish, a cacophony of cracks cries out. Ink and glass fill the air as an enormous roar erupts.

Oswald is unsure what happened next. In the blink of an eye, he is tackled out of the way. A body and shield covers him.

A scream erupts from the mouse's throat.

[sydmarch]

seeing people on here designing their own skill sets had me soooo inspired to make one too. kept feeling like there was too much overlap between intellect/psyche and physique/motorics so i split mine into just mind/body. some ended up more heavily inspired by harry's skills than others which don't draw from them at all. none of the 'portraits' are actually portraits bcus for the way my mind works i felt more abstract/object based representations just worked better. full breakdowns of each skill, which of harry's it takes after if any, etc below the cut bcus long lol. image descriptions in alt are hopefully helpful i kinda struggled writing them since some of these were pretty abstract lmao.

SALESMANSHIP: one on one people skills. a bit of rhetoric, suggestion, drama, and empathy. reading people, debating, mimicry, understanding what people want and how to act to get what you want in return. represented as it is because sometimes when you're neurodivergent you owe the majority of your people skills to the training you once got on a sales floor. masking falls under this skill along with composure.

CONVERGENCE: people skills in group settings and crowdwork. the ability to find a group of friends anywhere from school to workplaces to parties where you only know one person. reading crowds and the feeling of safety in numbers. finding the best route through packed subway tunnels and sidewalks or leading your friends to barricade at a show. gets +2 from alcohol.

ACUMEN: learned information or book smarts. a mix of encyclopedia and logic. memory, information recall, etc.

WEB WEAVING: conceptualization, but with a heavier emphasis on connecting patterns and drawing parallels. understanding where your creativity comes from and how to connect things that inspire you in new ways. +2 from weed.

INTUITION: protective instinct. somewhat of a half light and inland empire mix. less of an emphasis on gut feelings and more on careful evaluations - often too careful & veering into overthinking. will keep you safe but will also make you paranoid.

CRAFTSMANSHIP: interfacing, but with a focus on tools/artistic mediums rather than machines. familiar mediums like sewing needles, palette knives, and mirrors feel like an extension of yourself. the ability to quickly pick up & acclimate to new mediums through trial and error.

COGNIZANCE: perception, but more than sight hearing and smell. heavy emphasis on touch and a higher than average sensitivity to vibration where many sounds can be felt more than heard. extremely sensitive color vision and innate sense of color theory. synesthesia. a clinical or practical awareness of the body.

FLIPPING EVERY BEETLE: a weird name for a weird and hard to describe skill lol. some of you already know the name comes from part of the clj lyric i have tattooed on my foot. whimsy, childlike wonder, unselfconscious enjoyment of things. allowing your body to lead you. an awareness of the body that feels positive and playful. gets a +1 from alcohol and a +2 from weed or molly.

COMPOSURE: the same as harry's (since I already identified pretty strongly with that skill as is - those who've seen my jacket know) but combined with pain threshold and endurance as I feel all 3 stem from a similar place. keeping emotions in check, nt masking, sitting unfazed through long tattoo sessions, using drugs without getting sloppy or sick.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: once again, the same as harry's. sex and drugs, but also dancing and stimming. urges and impulsiveness. my version has very different ideas around sex and also different prioritization of substances where out of all the things i partake in alcohol is of least importance.

[spamtoon]

DCRC Week 4 Don Rosa. In week 6.

Okay so, life has been a struggle and I've generally been prioritizing other things BUT i do intend to catch up this week, starting with these two comics.

First of all I want to say how funny it is to me that he just like. casually Thinks to himself that yeah! The triplets are the sole recipients of my will! Sorry I'm just thinking in contrast to where it came up like. exclusively as a gag you know. Stories like this make me see the purpose in Gladstone as Donald's ideological foil, especially in situations Scrooge would care about such as these.

and now i shall merely return to pointing out things that amuse me

like this sardine can and this bird thats like :O at scrooge mcduck

i like how quackfaster just knows he means donald and gladstone. fethry is out of the question

donald's expressions here are a treat okay. he's so insanely excited and its beautiful. once again i am rotating the juxtaposition

i like how very subtly you can tell who the characters are in the sillouettes. sorry i notice things and go ooh you know this by now

cog these old like. donald drawings have so much charm maybe thats because i'm used to donald specifically but i'm understanding why he's so beloved literally everywhere

he's so silly okay

me in the lawbot hq fountain (INSIDE JOKE)

the way he just turns to these kids and hes like MY EMPIRE IS CRUMBLING and. he's right to turn to them because they're the smartest guys in the room. that's one thing that's consistent between duck media at the very least

all the little homemade signs... i like how he's just doing this on random trees

i like how he has a picture of a horseshoe. you know facing down. the way you aren't supposed to place a horseshoe for it to be lucky

donald really did figure the more money i get the more i lose it. lets just bail out of this whole thing

shotuout to this guy apparently named clerkly. hes probably not but im going to consider him that. you're a cockatiel to me

good comic. i can feel the Spirit of duck comics okay

ANYWAY okay let me take the teeniest of breaks and then look at the second comic

the little detail that their book actually says animals... triplets...

i was going to admire the detail on this lightbulb but it seems like someone came to admire the lightbulb first (sorry im using killbent's megavolt shimeji while i read this. let me thin the herd to allow for easier viewing)

ough these comics really are like. taking donald duck shorts and putting them on paper and ive only seen a few of those but gosh darn it. charm... whimsy...

i'm going to be honest i forgot gus goose existed. he looks so goofy here he's just aheem aheem in this panel

the way they drew the animals i'm so. they're just looking at the camera like : |

FHEAOUIJFOEAHFUEAIGHE the expressions in this one are so good

she's shown up for two seconds and i love grandma duck already

cog i just... sorry im seeing the appeal of the donald gets a taste of his own medicine stories too okay

hUIEAJFIOEJAO EIAJF sorry i'm chuckling right now okay. this got a good chuckle out of me. kinda wish it got a proper ending but i understand they had to cut some stuff to fit in all the goofy concepts they wanted. good reading... step one out of three to catching up complete!

[shiyorin]

A Random Collection

This is random things from the note app on my phone. Most of them are excerpts that I had to remove because they are not suit for fics anymore, but I still love those.

"Are you kidding?" She ticked points off on knuckles. "No relationship experience? Overbearing daddy issues? Probable performance problems downstairs? You're not red flag. You're red alert."

…

She pursed lips, as if divining some great mystery. "Hmm. Three possibilities come to mind. One - you weird religious cult type dudes, taken strict vows of celibacy?"

"Absolutely not!" Guilliman protested stiffly.

She ticked off a finger. "Two - dear old dad Big E raised you all to be socially inept man - children?"

Sanguinius cleared his throat delicately. "While Father emphasized scholarly pursuits, I'm certain matters of the heart suffered no neglect."

"Uh huh." She grinned like a fox scenting easy prey. "Which leaves option three - maybe the old family jewels just… don't work so good, if you know what I mean?"

An eruption of offended squawks answered, Angron leaping to defend primal functions in crass terms best left unquoted. She threw head back laughing at their discomfiture.

…

"Seriously though boys - this lifestyle screams more red flags than a Soviet parade. Maybe consider loosering up some? Live a little?" Her grin turned wry. "Unless you actually like being walking hormones with no outlets. Each to their own, I guess."

…

"A girl enjoys keeping royalty on their toes."

"You call that keeping him on his toes? More like knocking him senseless!"

…

"Come now, where's your sense of adventure?"

"Buried alongside our sense of self preservation."

…

"You lot look like the cryptkeeper after a bender. I resemble Cate Blanchett risen from some Classical goddess."

…

"As if any of you dullard men could compare. I am art, poetry, passion given form. You're just 'thank you, next'."

…

The moral? Never judge a book by its cover, or an ape by its goggles. The Jokaero may seem quaint and amusing in their orange fur, but their tech will ruin your day in a nanosecond.

So the next time you face a goggled chimp wielding a grenade ring, do yourself a favor: back away slowly and pray to whatever gods you worship that the chimp just wants a banana, not your fiery oblivion. Because when they says "Get the fucking fool, Mr. Muffin." you do not want to be the fool in question.

…

"Well, it seems your reckless merging of xeno and imperial has finally born fruit."

"Indeed. Fruit that twitches, hisses and tries to eat your face off."

…

She smiled in satisfaction. "That'll teach you to call me not cute." She examined her reflection, preening. "Who's the cutest assassin in the galaxy? That's right, me!"

…

"A woman's got to have hobbies."

"If your hobby is torturing us, you must be incredibly bored."

…

The soapy bubble will pop. The puddle will dry. But the Firstborn will remain, sleeping in the dust of stars, waiting to be reborn. For we lit the first spark in the cosmos. And even death cannot extinguish that light. Though the ending draws near, we greet it with open arms, for at the last, we return to begin once more.

…

They persisted. And slowly, an escape plan began to form. Two parts genius, one part madness and 100% unlikely to work. This will either fail spectacularly or turn they all into newtons. Either way….

…

"Someone who knew nothing of knowledge spoke."

"Someone who knew nothing but knowledge spoke!"

…

As the Imperium fell into twilight and decay, the cat lived on. When at last the Emperor's light dimmed to an ember glow, it was still there, curled up at His foot, the one constant in a changing universe.

The story goes that when at last the Imperium crumbles to dust, cats will roam through empty Palaces once more. They will nap in thrones meant for giants, bathing in sunlight still streaming through stained glass windows. They will rule the galaxy, not through duty or destiny, but by birthright of carefree whimsy that even gods cannot defy. And so it shall always be, when at last the Imperium's golden dream fades into memory, and stray cats wander freely through ruins.

[lizziestudieshistory]

Books of 2021 - July

I read a lot this month! I’m not even sure how I managed it, especially when we consider I’ve read another 850 pages between Anna Karenina and Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows on top of this lot!

I’m just going to apologise now for not proof reading this... I’m finishing this off at 2 in the morning to schedule and I’m sick of looking at my own writing at the moment.

Amnesty by Lara Elena Donnelly - Technically I read this at the end of June, however, I was on holiday so couldn’t include it in last month’s wrap up.

I’ve already spoken about the Amberlough Dossier and anyone who’s been around my blog for longer than about 10 seconds knows I love this trilogy. Amnesty was no exception. We have the return of Cyril, he and Ari working through their relationship (or not quite understandably), and the fall out from the fall of the Ospies - this world’s equivalent to the Nazi party. It’s not an easy book to read and the glamour of the first installment is completely stripped away to deal with very complex moral and political questions. I don’t necessarily agree with Donnelly’s answers, however, I do admire her for really delving into these very difficult topics. She used the speculative nature of the Amberlough Dossier to come up with a sensitive and interesting discussion on a very difficult period in history.

I’m hoping to write a proper review for the whole trilogy at some point (once I’ve finished the monstrosity that is my Words of Radiance review) so I don’t want to say too much more here. However, I do want to say I really enjoyed that Donnelly found the space to continue looking at the smaller, private, and interpersonal consequences of the Ospies’ regime, particularly for families. It’s a sensitive look into this situation and I loved every second of it - I also adore Cyril and Ari’s relationship, but I’ll dig into them in my proper reivew.

Master of Sorrows by Justin Call - this was a slightly underwhelming read for me, although I did really enjoy it. I’ve seen Master of Sorrows praised everywhere, I don’t think I’ve seen it given less than 5 stars? Yet, for me it was a solid 4 star read. I’d wanted a 5 star read (I’ve been sorely lacking them) but something was holding me back with this one - I do think the series has 5 star potential though and I’m going to read Master Artificer soon!

This is a book clearly embedded in a love of mythology and fantasy. It’s dark and gritty, especially in the second half, with plenty for the reader to sink their teeth into. I’ve also never seen such a strong focus on physical disability in a fantasy novel - it was refreshing to see and led to an interesting use of the magic system to develop ways of overcoming physical disadvantages. Although I’m hoping this is going to be explored further in later installments as, for a large part of this book, Annev was essentially able bodied due to a magical prosthetic he never takes off.

Unfortuantely the most interesting part of this book, for me, was the mythological world building at the start of each part in the book. The myths, clearly based on Norse mythology (I’m sorry but “Odar” was a bit obvious), were fascinating, particularly as they started to have an influence on the events of the main narrative. I just wanted to know more about the gods than the actual story, this is probably a me issue though... The main plotline felt generic: Annev is a boy in a coming of age story, complete with a magic(ish) assassin school, a wise old mentor, and a destiny/prophesy surrounding him. It’s a typical fantasy story, so far, and while I do really enjoy these plotlines (I read enough of them!) it’s not exactly the most original. Nevertheless, I am excited to see where Call goes with this as I do think the rest of the series will start growing into something much more interesting and I look forward to Master Artificer.

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte - this is one of my favourite books of all time, we all know this by now... See my full review for Bronte’s masterpiece here.

The Bedlam Stacks by Natasha Pulley - July has been the month of Natasha Pulley for me because I’ve rediscovered just how much I LOVE her books. I first read Pulley back in...what, 2017? (It’s been a while...) with her debut novel, The Watchmaker of Filigree Street which I remember loving, but I never continued with The Bedlam Stacks, the only other available book by Pulley at the time. To be frank with you, it’s because at 18/19 I wasn’t that interested in Peru. However, I now really want to read The Kingdoms, Pulley’s new release, but I felt obliged to read the books I already owned by her and hadn’t read - so I picked up The Bedlam Stacks as it’s the one I’ve owned the longest without having read it...

Not reading The Bedlam Stacks back then was the best decision I’ve ever made because I know at 18 I wouldn’t have appreciated what a stunning masterpiece this book is - it would have flown over my head because, at the time, I just wanted more Thaniel and Mori. At 23 I ADORED this book. I absolutely fell in love with the subtle whimsy and quite, understated beauty of this story. Pulley has such an elegant way of writing, it’s never overdone - she has a way of playing with words which reads beautifully but doesn’t feel like too much. She’s never flowery or purple with her prose, but she does create a work of art.

Unfortunately, The Bedlam Stacks is a book I think a lot of people may struggle with - there’s not a lot of plot, everything is a bit weird, and it’s largely a character study for our two main characters: Merrick Tremayne and Raphael. Merrick’s journey to Peru to find quinine - a cure for malaria - for the British Empire is really a set up to allow the rest of the book to focus on these two characters. It’s centred on the very slow development of their relationship together, coming to understand each other, and eventually open up about themselves - well this is more in Raphael’s case. It’s a poignant story about two people finding a home with each other that will endure across time and distance - it’s not quite a romance, but it’s certainly more than a friendship. Personally I read them as ace, but there is definitely scope here to read them in a variety of other ways depending on your own experiences. But what is certain is their deep connection, and that their love (platonic or otherwise) is what drives the outcome of this story.

It’s beautiful, poignant, and slightly tragic when you think about it... I loved every minuet of it and just wanted the book to continue, I was genuinely sad it was over! It’s not a novel for everyone, and I do think the opening section needed some more work as it did feel like Pulley was saying ‘lets get over this necessary but boring set up’. However, it was exactly what I wanted and I’m so happy I’ve finally read it.

I’m also much more interested in Peru now, so that’s something else to hold in it’s favour!

The Watchmaker of Filigree Street by Natasha Pulley - I’m falling slightly out of order here but it seems better to continue with Pulley’s books. Most of the same praise I gave to The Bedlam Stacks can be repeated here - Pulley’s writing is slightly weaker here but it’s only really noticable because I read both books one after the other and I was thinking about her prose. The same whimsical, poetic, and understated style is used in both books and it really suits the type of stories Pulley like to tell - and again it’s a style that really works for me.

The Watchmaker of Filigree Street I think is a slightly more universally likeable story - although I would argue Pulley is an acquired taste. There is a bit less whimsy, and the relationship between Thaniel and Mori is more easily quantifiable for readers. There is also a more obvious plotline to follow, whilst still developing three compelling characters with Mori, Thaniel, and Grace. Personally I don’t love Grace - I find her brash and callous - however, she does have as good of an arc as Thaniel and Mori, she’s also someone who regularly get overlooked when people talk about this book. She’s not someone I like or approve of, but I do really understand where she’s coming from and can appreciate her growth. Pulley doesn’t need us to like Grace - or any of her characters - she presents them as they are and lets us cast our own judgements on them, and I sincerely love this about her. (I’m also so up for reading more about Grace and her relationship with Matsumoto, they’re fabulous together!)

The main draw to this book is definitely the relationship between Thaniel and Mori - how could you not love them? They’re fascianting to watch - together and separately - and throughout the course of this nove you really feel them grow into their relationship. It’s beautiful to watch and feels genuine. Their bond is earnt, not just presented to us as a fact. However, what I really love about Mori and Thaniel is the slightly sinister route Mori takes to make sure he meets Thaniel. Honestly, in any other book Mori would be horrifying with his slightly callous use of his abilities to manipulate the world around him to achieve his own ends. However, with the narrative framing here he’s slightly toned down, it’s a spectacular example of framing shaping audience perspectives on a character. It’s great and I appreciate the sensitivity Pulley used to shape Mori and the relationship between him and Thaniel. I’m also really looking forward to seeing how they develope in The Lost Future of Pepperharrow.

Henry V by William Shakespeare - I don’t really have a lot to say about Henry V... I’ve never felt that strongly about this play - it’s fine? It’s a FABULOUS play to watch (I’ve partial to the Tom Hiddleston version in The Hollow Crown) but to read it’s merely okay. There are some fantastic and very famous speeches - and I absolutely adore the Chorus. However, as a whole the play is merely a decent one. I’m always left a bit uncomfortable with how Shakespeare treats the French, and I’m yet to work out where I stand on Henry as a person and the morality of the war... It’s something to ponder and maybe write something on at a later date.

Unfortunately, this one falls into a similar issue as the Henry IV plays - I just don’t like the common men plotline within this one... It’s slightly better because Falstaff isn’t in this play, except in name (I have an absolute burning hatred of Falstaff... Like we could burn him out of English literature and I’d dance on the ashes level of hatred, it’s perhaps sllightly irrational but I loathe him. I’d otherwise like the Henry IV plays but I see Falstaff and I’m immediately full of seething rage. It’s apparently very funny for my best friend.) However, I just find the common men a tedious distraction from the rest of the play. I switch off whenever I’m watching the play and they’re on stage/screen. I know why they’re there I just don’t care - it’s a me issue, I’m well aware.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling - okay I’m not going to write much on Half-Blood Prince as a whole becasue 1. Rowling herself, and 2. I’m going to rank the Harry Potter books when I’ve finished with Deathly Hallows. Overall, I loved this book, it’s always been one of my favourite Potter novels and my reread only cemented its place. The plot is genuinely interesting and well thought out, it’s one of the best books for exploring Harry as a character (I adore seeing his darker side!), and the set up for the finale is excellent. I actually perfer it to Deathly Hallows because the promises it makes are more interesting than the actual execution of the book.

However, I do want to say that this book made Snape my new favourite character - I won’t explain why yet, I need to do a full spoiler discussion of ALL the Harry Potter books, including Deathly Hallows. But Snape is by far the best drawn character in the Potter series. He’s certainly not the nicest, kindest of most likeable. Snape’s not a moral paragon, neither has he ‘done nothing wrong’ as I’ve seen argued. But he is the most interesting and morally complex.

Everytime I’ve read Potter before, Snape’s a character I’ve not really thought about - which is shocking considering how much he’s in these books, the role he plays, and the discourse around him in the Harry Potter fandom. I’ve always just gone along with the face-value presentation of his character. Yet on this reread I’ve paid attention to Snape, not deliberately, it just naturally happened. Anyway, to cut a long story short - Snape is my new favourite character! Yes Lupin is still my irrational, undying favourite. But, in terms of having a genuine interest and reason for loving him Snape is my new favourite because he is so complicated! He’s someone I’ve come to understand and sympathise with. I don’t condone Snape, I still think he’s a piece of work who should NEVER be allowed around children. But he is a good person. Again not nice, likeable, or morally sound. Yet he does spend the best part of 20 years working tirelessly for good without praise, acknowledgement, or recongition.

He’s a fascinating character and I’ve adored diving into his mind, as much as you can in this very Harry-centric series, without the accepting bias of a child’s eyes. Snape’s one of the few characters in Harry Potter I’d like to read a book about - I’ve neber been one to want a Marauder’s spin off or Hogwarts founding story. But I think diving into Snape’s mind would genuinely be worth it and an interesting experiment, I just don’t think J.K. Rowling would be the right author to do it.

[royalcordelia]

Summary:  After returning home from medical school, Gilbert discovers that the neighbor girl, Anne, has gone missing. He won't rest until he's found her, even if it means taking a leap of faith and venturing into his father's old wardrobe. (A Narnia!AU).

Notes: Merry Christmas @londonsboy​!! I was your secret santa this year and I was delighted to get to know you! Talking to you made me remember how wonderful Narnia is, and I realized that Anne of Green Gables and Narnia both have that same whimsical charm about them. I hope your holiday was cozy and lovely!  

*

1: A Child’s Lore

Gilbert remembers the Storygirl. He remembers the red twists of hair braided down her thin shoulders, each tied with bowed ribbons. He remembers the monarch butterflies balancing gingerly on her freckled fingers and the dimples haloing each half of her smile. He remembers cloaking himself away under the shadows of the treeline and watching the girl move slowly through the tall grass. With care and ease, she urged the butterflies to amble onto a nearby flower. 

“Would you care for a story?” she asked them. Gilbert remembers straining his ears to pick up any trace of her voice, tender and easy on his senses. “I won’t fault you if you fly away, but if you have a few moments to spare, I have such wonderful tales.” The butterflies remained in place, fluttering their wings slowly in the warm sunlight. 

“Very well, a story you shall have!” continued the Storygirl. “Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess named Cordelia. Oh, but she didn’t start out that way. You see, for most of her life, Cordelia suffered the great calamities that all poor orphan girls do…” 

Gilbert’s back slid down against the tree, somehow too captivated to tear his eyes away. He settled on the ground, pushing aside verdant brush to keep his sights on her. Never before had he taken himself as a fellow who enjoyed fairytales, yet something about this tale and her voice left him no choice but to listen. So he listened. He listened and listened until she whispered, “The end!” The blues of her eyes turned toward the trees straight at him as if she’d known he was there all along. And then, she ran off, disappearing into the heart of the valley forever.

He was only thirteen then, but he remembers. 

Now, he keeps the memory of the Storygirl in the same place he stores the memory of his father’s wardrobe—deep in the parts of his mind full of things he’d seen as a child, but could never prove the existence of as an adult. Myths, legends, and fancies of a child’s imagination. There lives the memory of the Storygirl and the days of yore when his father’s wardrobe held clothes, evergreen trees, and sweet breezes. 

Gilbert knows they’re not real. But sometimes he wishes they were.

2: A Silhouette

Avonlea is uncertain and strange when Gilbert finally returns home. As his carriage carries him through town, the heavy feeling sinks deeper into his chest. Where has that ethereal beauty of the island gone? It used to seep out of the red soil like petrichor, but now the air has lost its fragrant charm. Gilbert can’t help but feel as if maybe the magic PEI days of his youth had been but a childish whimsy, stripped away by inevitable adulthood. 

Then, the hazy memory of the Storygirl returns and for a brief moment. Uninvited, but not unwelcome. Gilbert closes his eyes and lets himself recall the details of her face. There’s comfort in his own childhood myths, as if he is not so far gone, after all.  And when he opens his eyes, he’s home. 

From the doorway, it looks like a portrait—Sebastian frozen on the parlor sofa with low hung shoulders, Mary holding his head to her middle and caressing his bushy silk hair. Gilbert emerges from the blue shadows of the entryway. 

He should announce himself properly. Perhaps attempt reentering with a wide smile and some kind of good news to brighten the mood. Instead, he hears himself say, “Who died?”

Mary tears away from Bash with a gasp, soaring over to the door to pull Gilbert’s face into the crook of her neck. 

“Gilbert! Were you due home so soon?” she says after drawing a watery breath. “I think we’ve lost track of the days!” 

“Yes. I’m on time down to the minute,” Gilbert replies with a smile. “Are you...going to answer my question?” 

Mary’s brows knit together in confusion as she pulls away to examine the state of his face. Her fingers smooth over the frown lines at the corners of his own eyes, but it’s Bash who answers. 

“No one died. At least, we really hope not,” he explains, distracting Gilbert from his vague answer by pulling Gilbert close for a hug of his own.  “None of that for now. Take your coat and shoes off before someone starts to believe that this isn’t your own home.” 

For the rest of the day, Gilbert tries to whittle out the truth from Bash at any opportunity he gets. At the lunch table, after recounting tales from college and his boring graduation ceremony. At the kitchen sink, elbow deep in sudsy water. At the foot of the garden, pulling weeds and sprinkling water onto thirsty soil. He tries again and again, but Bash does not budge. 

When evening rolls around, it’s pull has already lulled Gilbert to sleep on the parlor sofa. Across from him, Mary stitches together a small hole in one of his old shirts until her own exhaustion makes her prick her finger. 

“Can’t keep my eyes open a second longer,” she yawns. Depositing a kiss on Bash’s head, then Gilbert’s, she murmurs, “Don’t stay up too long. I want to keep looking in the morning.” 

Bash lets a moment pass when he hears their door shut, waits a few seconds more, then crosses the room to where Gilbert is sprawled out on the sofa. The newly minted doctor stirs at the feeling of his brother shaking him awake. 

“Mary’s gone to sleep. We can talk now.” 

Gilbert’s eyelashes are heavy, but he pries them open at the stony tone of his brother’s voice and pushes himself to an upright position. 

“So...What have you been hiding from me all day?” 

Bash’s lips press together. 

“Did you know the Cuthberts adopted a daughter?” 

“No, I didn’t,” Gilbert replies, confused why it matters. 

“They adopted her just before your father passed away, I heard. You went away to our steamer, then straight to college, so you never had a chance to meet her. But when you sent me and Mary to this house, she was here waiting for us. Someone had told her that she’d be getting new neighbors, neighbors that might face the same sort of hardships she did when she first arrived. She showed us around Avonlea, helped Mary clean the house after being empty so long. Her name is Anne. Anne Shirley-Cuthbert.” 

“Did something...happen to her? Do you need me to see her?” 

“You can’t,” Bash spits bitterly. Then, remembering himself, he says, “She’s not sick.” 

“I don’t understand, then.” 

Bash sighs, balling his fists in his lap. 

“Mary and I went to visit her son in Charlottetown for an afternoon last week. Anne offered to come and give everything a good cleaning while we were gone, as a neighborly gift or something. We tried to tell her that it wasn’t necessary, but she insisted. She’s not one to lose battles. She arrived a few hours past dawn, but when we came back, she was gone. Then we found out she never went home to Green Gables. No one in Avonlea has seen her in over a week.”

Suddenly, it makes sense to Gilbert why the house is weighty with the feeling of loss . It has lost something. Gilbert doesn’t know this Anne, but whoever she is, she took the island’s light with her.

“What do you think happened?” Gilbert asks, rubbing his knuckles over his eyes.

“Someone broke in. Found a woman all by herself with no one around for miles. You can imagine the rest.” Bash holds his fist with his other hand, as if he might hit something if he lets go. “Anne is...a unique woman. Kind and brave. But to Avonlea she is strange and of varlet stock, and with the way they see Mary and I… Only a few families have been willing to help us look for her. Would you? In the morning? You know Avonlea better than us.” 

Gilbert doesn’t hesitate. 

“I will.” 

3: A Recollection

It just doesn’t add up, Gilbert thinks bitterly, splashing cold water on his tired cheeks. His reflection stares back at him, looking just as dejected as he feels. But what else could there be? I’ve already scoured the house. No signs of a struggle. Nothing broken or stolen. Guess I’ll just have to look just as hard in town. See if anyone knows anything. He scoffs. It sounds like something out of a children’s book. A fair maiden walks into a house that swallows her up whole. Too bad I’m a doctor and not a knight. He means it only in jest, but it sparks the flame of an idea in the farthest corner of his mind—the corner containing his childhood and its fanciful inventions. 

And then, there it is. A memory, a reminiscence of sorts. 

One wardrobe. 

One door drawn open.

One small Gilbert Blythe crawling into it. 

He couldn’t have been more than six or seven when it’d happened, nor can he remember why he’d even ventured into the wardrobe in the first place. Perhaps it had been a particularly clever hideaway in a game of hide-and-go-seek. Or maybe his father had sent him in search of his coat and something had tipped him off that there was more. 

The memory itself is relatively uneventful. Little Gilbert opened the wardrobe door, crawled in, and somehow, miraculously tripped into a bank of snow. The bank of snow was only a mere plot of land in a world Little Gilbert was not brave enough to explore. He’d scurried back to the door, but left it cracked open for just a moment longer to memorize the world he’d found. It left an image in his mind that he carried with him forever, a memory just as fond as that of the Storygirl—a patch of evergreen trees, sweet air, and an impossible winter magic. 

Let’s pretend for a moment this memory is actually a memory and not just a childish imagination, Gilbert ponders. If Anne came to clean the house, maybe she opened the wardrobe to clean it and organize it. Could she have fallen in? Maybe she’s lost! Maybe she has no way home and—

Dr. Blythe, get a hold of yourself. Exhaustion has made you mad. 

You’ll assist Bash in the morning, you’ll question the town’s people, you’ll come to the bottom of this. But you won’t be able to find her by courting such preposterous ideas.

4: An Act of Trust

His resolve lasts an entire hour.

Then it dissolves hopelessly and gives way to the memory of the Wardrobe-world.  Pacing in front of his father’s bed, Gilbert weighs whether or not he should indulge his childhood suspicions. It plays over and over in his mind, a frustrating possibility.

At first, he fights it.

If Anne Shirley-Cuthbert is really as headstrong as the Bash has described her to be, then perhaps she left on her volition, tired of small-island life. It can’t be that hard to believe that a woman could abandon a monotonous past in favor of whatever this young century has to offer her. Gilbert’s very last suspicion should be that Anne somehow found a magical world inside a wardrobe and never returned. Yet, here he is, nudging his foot along the carved trim of the wardrobe with an itching to open it . 

Damn it all. What is there to lose?  

Then he does open it. The hinges of the doors screech after being left to sleep, untouched for a decade. At first, it smells of mothballs and the stale smell of his father’s clothes. But seconds later, there’s a hint of sweet—

Gilbert slams the door shut. Absolutely not, he scolds himself. You’re hallucinating. You want this woman to return so badly that you’ll pretend she’s anywhere but dead in a ditch. But then again … Gilbert turns back to the door, placing his hand on the newly dusted wood. Who would know if he indulged in this wild feeling? Shouldn’t he, a trained doctor and an intelligent man, listen to his own gut? 

Alright , he decides. If he’s going to do this, he isn’t going to do it halfway. 

With a short breath, he draws the door open and closes his eyes shut. Then, he’s crawling in, a grown man squeezed into the tight confines of a wooden closet. It’s difficult to breathe above the heavy smell of age and wool, but just like before, it slips away into an unexpected sweetness. Gilbert crawls closer to it, hands and knees finding new space with every pace forward. Behind him, the wardrobe door is abandoned and opened, but Gilbert doesn’t come back out. 

Instead, his fingers find tall, soft grass and his intuition cries in victory.

5: A Twinless Shoe

Gilbert allows himself exactly ten seconds to sit and stare at the pleasant forest clearing before doing what any logical doctor might do in his situation—secede to the visual proof of a magical world and promptly begin observations.

On a first glance, the impossible world-inside-the-wardrobe doesn’t seem all too different than his Avonlea. There are clusters of trees surrounding the clearing, each crowned with vibrant shades of green, moreso than those of home. A mystical softness teems in the air like a breeze, loitering along his skin until he is a mess of goosebumps. A single lamppost towers over him catching sunlight, unlit but clean of moss or dirt. At its base, a leather boot, dainty and slim. 

Something clears its throat, propelling Gilbert’s soul from his body at the shock of it. He whirls around, grass stains on the knees of his trousers. Before him, sits a trio of white-tailed foxes, peering at him with more expression than should be allowed for such creatures. Gilbert tries to steady his pulse but finds the effort unsuccessful. 

“They’re only foxes,” he reasons with himself. “They make all sorts of strange noises. No cause for alarm.”

“That’s a foolish delusion,” the largest of the foxes answers. 

Gilbert blinks. The fox quirks an invisible brow.

“I beg your pardon?” Gilbert stammers. 

The fox stretches, equal parts annoyed and bored.

“With the types of humans that are supposed to stumble out of that door, you think you’d have a firmer head on your shoulders. Wonder what Aslan chose you for?” 

“I dunno, Rambleleaf. Maybe he’s here for entertainment?” the second fox pipes in. Turning her sunbright amber eyes to him, she asks, “Do you sing? Dance? Tell stories?” 

“That is what he brought Anne for,” the third fox adds. “Maybe one storyteller wasn’t enough.”

“I have a hard time believing that this schmuck could tell stories as well as Anne could,” Rambleleaf counters.  

“Anne’s here ?” Gilbert spits out, desperate. The conversation between the foxes dies out as quickly as it started, replaced by a stunned silence. They exchange a glance, as if deciding whether or not to indulge this fumbling fool in Anne’s whereabouts, but Gilbert is desperate. “Is Anne Shirley-Cuthbert here? I’m told she has red hair and freckles.” 

“You...you speak as if you don’t know her?” Rambleleaf queries, eyes narrow. 

“Not personally,” stammers Gilbert. He clambers to his feet and rushes to the foxes, who jolt but don’t shy away. It seems as if he has surprised them, as if they’ve never had a human kneel so desperately before them. “We’ve been looking everywhere for her, trying not to fear the worst. Her parents are friends of mine. They’re worried sick because one day she left to visit my family’s home and never returned. Please , will you take me to her. I need to make sure she’s okay.” 

“How did you know to look here?” Rambleleaf states, unconvinced. Gilbert can give them no answer, but the truth. 

“A feeling. I once came once here as a boy and remembered it, though I can’t say I know where here is.” 

Rambleleaf ponders this, his tail coming up to the underside of his chin, like a hand scratching at whiskers. His eyes trail to the boot underneath the lamppost, then fall undecidedly on the poor fellow before him. 

When finally he says something, it’s—“Who are you?” 

“Me? Oh, um, I’m Dr. Gilbert Blythe.” 

“Well, Dr. Gilbert sir, I’m Rambleleaf, or just Ramble if you’re nice about it. Welcome to Narnia.” The name Narnia sends a warm thrill down Gilbert’s spine to finally hear it. The existence of it is already enough cause for hope. Rambleleaf nudges Gilbert’s hand with a clawless paw and points over to the single boot laying sideways in the grass. “You’re in luck. We’re good friends of Anne’s. She sent us back to find the shoe she left behind, so if you want to see her, you can follow us back to the Larsack village. It’s not far from here. Just a bit north on the west border of the Western Woods.”  

“I’ll follow you,” Gilbert decides resolutely. 

“Good. Then grab that boot and we’ll be on our way.” 

Gilbert does as he’s told, pushing aside the frustration of being told what to do by a fox. With the shoe in his possession, he curses that he didn’t think to bring any sort of satchel or carrier case. Then again, he isn’t supposed to be here long. Just long enough to find Anne and bring her home. 

Then, without wasting another moment, the foxes disappear in the wood, leaving Gilbert to follow. 

And he does, the door to his father’s wardrobe entirely, completely forgotten.  

6: A Duet

They trek through the thicket of the forest until the soles of Gilbert’s feet have grown sore at the unfamiliar terrain beneath them. Having left his pocket watch sitting on his desk back home, Gilbert can’t be sure of how much time has passed—enough certainly for the foxes to have eased their snide opinion of him. He finds they like to listen, asking Gilbert all sorts of questions but offering no answers of their own. 

As it turns out, Gilbert is not so bad a storyteller, after all. 

“—but children believe in magic the way adults in my world don’t. So I told the little girl that the cure for her stomachache was a feather on the underside of her toes and all her laughter made her forget that she had eaten too many biscuits. Sometimes I think medicine has more possibilities than we can know. Certainly being here has…”

Gilbert slows to a stop and turns his ear to the sky. He draws in a quick breath of hope at the faint lilt of laughter, music, and one rich voice towering above it all. 

He takes off running, hopping over Rambleleaf and sprinting down the path. A crowd’s cheers and the minstrel songs grow closer and louder with each wide stride. He all but crashes into someone at the back of the crowd, scanning the clearing for a head of red hair and a face of sandy freckles. There are a few tents set up along the circle of the crowd, and in between them must be a hundred people sitting and standing, all with their attention locked on one person. From the back, Gilbert finds his view obstructed by some particularly tall Narnians. Just as he begins to plan a route through the mass of people, a soft paw nudges his ankle. 

“You’re just in time to hear her speak,” Rambleleaf says at his feet. “Can you lift me up so I don’t get stepped on? I want to see this too.” Gilbert kneels, allowing Ramble to hop onto his shoulder before embarking into the crowd, drawing closer and closer to the makeshift stage. 

And then he sees her and all the pieces of his mangled heart slant together, restoring it in one, breathless moment.

“The Storygirl, ” Gilbert heaves quietly. 

“That’s what we’ve taken to calling her here, too,” Ramble says. 

His Storygirl hasn’t changed a bit. There are still halos crowning her smile and kingdoms of possibilities in her eyes. But the young dreamer and commander of words Gilbert had seen in the fields all those years had grown so tall and beautiful that he had no words left for himself—only a fiery warmth and an insatiable desire to talk to her.  

“That’s Anne there?” Gilbert whispers to Ramble. 

“Unmistakable, right?” Ramble murmurs back.

“I’m going to get closer.”

“Oh, good! I can’t hear from all the way over here,” Rambleleaf agrees, nudging Gilbert with his nose. 

Gilbert collides with a few shoulders and elbows as he passes through, but only because he cannot tear his eyes away from her. He feels like the thirteen-year-old lad with weak knees and a pining heart all over again. When they’ve reached the makeshift stage, Ramble waves his tale to the Storygirl. The flash of white catches her attention and through the next words of her tale, she gives a dimpled smile and nod. 

Then her eyes fall on Gilbert and her tongue stumbles. He watches her gaze travel from his heart-struck eyes, to his Avonlea clothes, to her boot in his hand. Anne chuckled and extended her bootless foot. Gilbert blinked down at it, the “Doctor” part of his mind wondering if she wanted him to examine it. 

“The boot, Gilbert,” Ramble hisses in his ear. 

“Oh! ” 

Anne continues to keep the crowd enraptured in her tale even as Gilbert slides the boot over her lacy stockings and ties the laces. When he’s finished, she bends low to him and whispers, “Care to help me with my story?” 

“Me ?” Gilbert chokes. 

“Yes, Gilbert Blythe. You .” 

A shiver shoots like a flash of summer lightning down his back. How does she know my name? Gilbert’s mind wonders on repeat. He feels himself nod, only to be swept up onto the stage with her strong hands a second later. She offers Ramble a hand down, pressing a kiss to the top of his fur, then turns back to Gilbert. 

“Play along!” she murmurs quietly. 

Gilbert nods once more, turning nervous eyes to the crowd of onlookers. Beside him, Anne shoots back into her carefully woven tale. 

“It would’ve been easy for Cordelia to resign herself to the fate everyone wanted for her. But could she submit herself to everyday mundanities? Milking cows and pulling weeds? She could see the honor in these tasks, but somehow knew that her destiny laid elsewhere. She turned to a neighboring lad and asked him his thoughts.” 

Anne grabs Gilbert’s fingers and poses her body as if engaged in a conversation with him. Her tongue stills, and she urges Gilbert to take the next few lines. 

“Well, er…” Get it together, Blythe. He takes a deep breath. “The neighbor lad assured her that she bore enough heart and talent to succeed at any task she put her mind to. That it wasn’t a matter of finding her destiny, but...creating it? For herself.”

Anne smiles. Gilbert feels it thrum pleasantly behind his ribs. 

“Cordelia asked the neighbor lad if he would help her find the better feelings of her heart, the truth behind her soul and desires.” 

“He agreed,” Gilbert says resolutely. “Because the lad had already traveled across the world to find her. What was another journey?” 

7. A Pair at Tea

“You must tell me how you managed to find me!” Anne exclaims, pouring sweet tea into two small stone goblets. Her hair is loose over her shoulders, and Gilbert wonders if it’s the reason for the raspberry, rose smell of her.

Gilbert hasn’t quite shaken the timid nervousness. This is how he imagines he might feel if he were engaged in conversation with the King of England—only Anne is much more beautiful, even if she is just as intimidating. His eyes follow her hands as she hands him his tea, and he accepts the offering as something to occupy himself with.

He ignores her question. For now, at least.

“How...how do you know my name?” 

Anne smiles into her goblet.

“I’ve dusted your photograph hundreds of times helping Mary clean your home. You’re often all she can talk about when we’re polishing the silver or scrubbing windows.” 

“Really?” 

“Indeed. I know plenty about you, Dr. Blythe.” 

“Just Gilbert is fine,” he hums, cheeks warm. Then his eyes dim and he stares at his own reflection in his tea. “What sorts of things do you know?” 

Anne ponders this for a moment. Her fingers twist strands of hair into a gentle braid as she speaks, “I know that we just missed each other when we were children. That you left the island the same winter I arrived. I know that you’re the golden boy of Avonlea, and that all the mothers have been counting down the days until your return to marry their daughters to you. I know you won a prestigious scholarship that allowed you an excellent medical education. Congratulations by the way. I know—”

“ Alright !” Gilbert coughed. “I almost feel ashamed that I know barely anything about you. Only that you’re selflessly kind, a legendary master of storytelling, and that you’re unearthly beautiful.” 

Roses flourish her cheeks in lovely shades of red. Gilbert bites his lip to keep from smiling. 

“Anything you’d want to know, you only need ask. I’m an open book.”

“Then may I ask what it is you’re doing here?” Gilbert begins carefully. “The Cuthberts are worried sick. Bash and Mary, too. We all thought something terrible had happened to you.” 

“Terrible? Why? I’ve only been gone nearly a day. I’ve disappeared for longer periods of time into Charlottetown to visit friends.” 

Gilbert blinks.

“Anne, you’ve been missing for over a week. You came over to help clean the house a whole week ago.” 

Her face shoots up to him. 

“You must be mistaken. This isn’t my first time visiting Narnia. Time travels more quickly here than it does in Avonlea. That’s the way it’s always been.” 

“All I know is what I’ve been told.”

Anne rises from the table, a hand over her mouth. 

“A week? But...but how did you know where to find me?” 

It’s Gilbert’s turn to blush, but he answers honestly. 

“I think I accidentally stumbled upon Narnia as a boy, but always thought it was a dream or an imagination. When you went missing at my house, I just had this...feeling I couldn’t shake. I’m still having a hard time believing it, to be honest.” 

“For a man of science, I think you are doing admirably,” Anne says warmly. “I admit, I stumbled here in a similar way. I was going to wash your fathers old things because they’d grown so dusty, but I tripped into the wardrobe.” 

“That’s kind of you. To take care of my father’s things, I mean. Especially when you weren’t acquainted with him.” 

“Mary told me he meant a lot to you,” Anne answers easily. “Besides, you’re a man now. I thought you might like to wear some of his things to help keep his memory closer by. I know I wish I could. Wear my mother’s dresses, that is.” 

“Oh,” Gilbert frowns. “I apologize. I’d forgotten you’d lost your family too.” 

“An unhappy sort of thing to have in common with someone, I’ll admit,” Anne replies, a sad smile on her lips. “But you and I both have our makeshift families now. And this new little friendship of ours. That brings me to this question, though, Gilbert. How long do you plan on staying?” 

“How long do you plan to stay?” Gilbert replies, heart catching speed in his chest. 

“For the duration of the match,” Anne replies, as if it were obvious. 

“The...match?” 

“Ramble didn’t tell you? There’s a Storytelling Match that’s taking place right now. Whomever can spin the best tale will get to tell a story to Aslan, the King of Narnia.”

“Ramble did say something about Aslan bringing you here for entertainment.” 

“That’s only a guess,” Anne corrects warmly. “I’d like to win the match and meet Aslan, and then I plan to return home.”  

Gilbert isn’t sure what to say next. The right thing to do is return home and explain as best he can the truth behind Anne’s disappearance. At the very least, fabricate some lie that assures everyone of her safety and inevitable return home. 

But to his surprise, he finds he doesn’t want to leave. He wants to witness this storytelling match, support Anne and witness her victory. Maybe what Anne said about time in Narnia is right, after all. If they stay in Narnia for a while longer, perhaps it will be like no time has passed at all. 

“Will you stay, Gilbert?” Anne asks quietly. “I know you’ve just met me and that we’re barely acquaintances. I won’t fault you if you return back home to your patients and to our families. But…” 

“But?” Gilbert whispers hopefully. 

“But if you’d like to stay for a while and explore Narnia with me, I would welcome the company. In fact, I’d be glad for it.” 

“I’m so newly home that I don’t quite have patients yet,” Gilbert says offhandedly, mulling the idea over in his mind. “And there’s no guarantee that if I leave that I’ll ever be able to come back and see you. To make sure you’re alright.” 

“There’s not,” Anne agrees, eyes glimmering with warm light. 

He surprises himself with what he says next. 

“Then I’ll stay.” 

[eirian-houpe]

Storybrooke’s Best Kept Secret

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold

Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Red Riding Hood | Ruby, Mad Hatter | Jefferson

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - In Storybrooke | Cursed (Once Upon a Time), Past Abuse, Angst, Romance, Eventual Smut

Summary: Ruby has a secret, even though she doesn't know she does, until one day she bumps into the one man who can carry the secret out of the cottage in the woods - though not literally. Now that he know the secret, however, what will Jefferson /do/ with it, and what would it mean for Storybrooke if he were to tell Gold? Is Gold even awake... And what might happen if the Dark One discovered the truth?

Read previous chapters on AO3

Chapter 2 - To Live the Lie...

“I’m going to follow this track,” Jefferson told her.  “Either you can come with me, or go home.  It’s your choice, but I’m going.”

Ruby stood, caught in indecision as she watched Jefferson’s retreating back, his coat almost flying out behind him as his strides grew longer; adopted his own, usual, gait. Something about his determination finally broke through the fog that was gathering in her mind. They’d been talking about something, hadn’t they… someone?

“Wait!” she called out; watched his steps slow again and found herself almost trotting to catch up to him.

When she reached his side, he turned to her with an expression of intense suspicion on his face, sparking in his eyes, then he asked, “So… Ruby… what will we find at the end of this track, pray tell?”

Ruby frowned.  Why was he so interested in reaching the end of the track? Why was he asking her what was at the end of it when she’d already told him she didn’t…

The track turned a bend, and Ruby felt a shiver go through her, and she tipped her head up, staring at the gap in the trees ahead where wisps of smoke were drifting through the air, from Belle’s fire.

Belle!

She would hate that Ruby had brought another person; never forgive her.

She suddenly hurried ahead of Jefferson and turned around, trotting backwards as he strode forwards, a sheepish look on her face as she said, “Actually, I’ve just remembered. Scatterbrain, me. There’s nothing at the end of this track except the creek, a-and… the path to the well, so—”

She stopped, as Jefferson abruptly stopped walking.

“You said,” he began, and then seemed to change his mind as he reached out to take her shoulders, gently, but his grip was uncompromising. He leaned down to look directly into her eyes and said, “Why are you lying to me?”

“I’m not, I—”

He moved her out of his path, and hurried on ahead, his strides long and determined.

“Oh,” Ruby grumbled, and hurried to try and catch up to him. “Please don’t.  She won’t want to see you, and… and she’ll think it’s my fault, and—”

They broke from the wooded pathway and into the clearing, occupied by the tiny cottage, with its fenced in garden, beautifully tended, and the figure kneeling in front of one of the flower beds, a tiny little hand rake in her hand.

As Jefferson came to a sudden halt again - and Ruby almost collided with him again - Belle leaped to her feet, a look of… Ruby couldn’t quite decide what exactly, surprise, horror, surprised horror at her friends betrayal?

“Belle, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— He… I… I bumped into him on the road, and he insisted.”

Belle shook her head, and then, first looking between them, she appeared to fix her gaze on the man that had put them both in this position.

“Jefferson!” Belle said, almost breathless.

He felt as though a giant fist had just gut punched him, and all the air flew from his lungs as Belle called his name. He had no idea what he expected to find as he followed Ruby along the track into the forest, but this was about as far from anything he could have imagined as anything in all of the realms.

“Belle,” he managed hoarsely when he had gathered enough of his senses to speak, by which time Belle had pulled off the gloves she was wearing, hurried to the gate and threw it open. She was running toward him with a mixed expression of disbelief and relief, and— 

“Jefferson,” she repeated, and threw herself at him so he had no choice but to catch her, wrap his arms around her and hold her almost as tightly as she was holding him. He realized then, as the tears gathered in his eyes, that he had never been so happy, and so angry both at the same time, as he was in that moment.

“I’m here,” he said, ridiculous even to his own ears, as his mind raced. He couldn’t imagine what lies Regina had put into Belle’s head, but he doubted it would be anything pleasant.

“I thought—” Belle began, drawing back but still clinging tightly to the lapels of his coat. “I never—” she drew a breath. “You’re… alive.”

Jefferson frowned, beginning to get a knotted, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Of course I’m alive,” he said softly, his voice full of his dread and confusion. “So this is where she’s been keeping you.”

“Keeping me? She?”

“Regina,” he all but spat the queen’s name.

“No, no Jefferson, you have it all wrong,” she all but sang, and his sinking feeling sank lower as she cupped his cheek in her hand and told him. “She saved me. She was the one who freed me, brought me here and gave me this cottage, a place to live.”

Jefferson felt as if the world were spinning sideways. He knew the truth of course - remembered as he remembered everything - well, almost everything - how Rumplestiltskin had sent her away, that part he didn’t understand, and how Regina had captured Belle just as she would have returned to the Dark Castle. It would have lifted the despair into which his friend - and sometime employer - had fallen. He knew that the queen had kept Belle in her tower until she had cast the curse, and then… then he’d lost track; tormented by more important, more personal, and painful things.

As if she were reading his mind, Belle sharpened his focus, but blurred some very intentional, very important lines, as she asked almost desperately, “Paige… is she here? Our little girl? Did she escape too?”

Jefferson’s gut lurched again as her question spoke volumes of the twisted, evil machinations of the queen. Worst even that he could ever have believed. He knew Belle couldn’t help it; what she believed was what Regina wanted her to believe, but it made him feel sick with worry, with confusion, with indecision and with anger. How dare she do this to them, to him.  Wasn’t Grace enough leverage to ensure he fulfilled her every wish and whimsy?

“Paige…” the name felt like ashes in his mouth, but he forced himself to go on - for now at least. There was no telling what else Regina had worked into the curse, that he might fall foul of triggering if he didn’t… play along. “…is fine. Living in town.”

Belle frowned, “With you?”

“No.”

The question, and his answer stabbed him like hot needles through his heart, and he fought the sob that caught in his chest, and not to lean in to the very real, human caress that Belle brushed against his cheek, where her thumb, her hand, still rested.

“Why not?” she asked softly.

“It’s… complicated,” he managed, and then reached up to lift her hand away from his face and hold it gently in his own. “When you’re… better,” he said, thinking there would be hell to pay when the curse broke and everyone awakened, “you’ll understand.”

“I… trust you,” she told him, “but… I… miss you.”

“I miss you too, Belle,” he told her, and that at least was true. He missed her smiling face, the way she would chuckle at his playful, only-half-serious antagonistic banter with Rumplestiltskin. He missed the cold nights when he and Grace would stay warm within the castle. Missed teasing her about her love for her ‘beast.’ If only he could somehow awaken Rumplestiltskin, bring the truth to him. He would know what to do. Oh, how he would turn the tables on Regina then; hoist her with her own petard.

“But… darling,” if he were going to do that, he would have to keep it as much of a secret as Belle’s presence here in the woods that he and she had met, had spoken; that he knew Regina’s sick and twisted truth. So, he tried the endearment, tried to imagine what he might have called her, if she had truly been his love, “you must tell no one that you’ve seen me. I wasn’t supposed to come, and they’ll be angry.”

“But—” she said and he face creased in sadness.

“They warned me that it might hamper your recovery,” he told the lie that he imagined might be the truth if this madness were truly the circumstances in which they found themselves. “Too much, too soon.”

She took a deep breath then, and he could see her push back her sadness and gather her resolve even as she lifted their joined hands to her cheek, and nuzzled at his fingers. He fought not to snatch his hand away, instead he lifted their hands to his lips and bestowed a chaste - and appropriate to their friendship - kiss to her knuckles.

“I have to go,” he told her.

“I won’t tell,” she assured him. “I want to get well, so that we can be together again… all of us.”

“I want that too,” he said, and it was truthful. He wanted nothing more than for Belle and Rumplestiltskin to be reunited, and for him and Grace to once again spend evenings by the fire with their dearest friends. “More than you can know.”

[theflashdriver]

Waves of Fate (A Silvaze Modern/Soulmate AU)

Beaches were supposed to be happy places, books always described them that way at least. People came to the beach to have fun, to play games and relax. It was supposed place of joy, where smiles supposedly reigned supreme and you could count on the sun parting the clouds to grant a blue sky.

A grey sky hung over the pale white sands of the secluded, manmade, beach the belonged to the Sol estate. A family made wealthy through inheritance and investment; the sole monarchs of the estate had built themselves a high castle, separate from the common rabble, to settle and grow. Unfortunately for them however, perhaps due to their greed, the pair’s first and only child had arrived with a certain abnormality. That grey sky also hung over that very child, the twelve-year-old Blaze the cat, as she stared down at her workbook.

It was peculiar for her to take lessons by the beachside but, with some effort from her tutor to convince the feline’s parents, a bizarre and impromptu lesson had been quickly organised. Sat atop a thick picnic blanket, wearing a smile so caring that the young girl could practically feel it, was the in-house tutor for the estate, Vanilla. Contrary to the scowl Blaze wore as she carefully considered what to write next, the youngster didn’t dislike the rabbit. She had in fact, even at this young age, come to truly appreciate the role the tutor filled. The feline’s parents were always either distracted or busy, she couldn’t particularly tell or care which, but Vanilla, a mother herself, always found time to listen and care. Even in situations like this… even when the young girl claimed that she wanted nothing more than to be alone.

“How’s it going Blaze? Are you stuck?” Stubborn as ever, trying not to listen, the kitten bit her tongue, “You don’t need to write too much, just think of this as practice writing letters.”

Attempting to make a show of it, the feline (dressed in dungarees rather than her school uniform) silently continued her cursive work until she harshly dotted the end of a sentence, “I’m fine Vanilla,” As she looked up and caught the rabbit’s eyes, Blaze realised that, though she had technically answered the question, something further had been revealed. Of the people she knew, Vanilla was the only one who could peer into her heart and see the truth. The child’s eyes returned to the page, “I’m writing fine I just… you know…”

“I know you don’t believe in this and you think it’s foolish but that’s fine. A hint of whimsy is just what you need right now. Just think of it as a break from boring maths questions and everything else,” It was fortunate that the words everything else were cut off by a certain rummaging sound and a bread triangle entering the corner of her vision, “Gardon made these while I was talking with your parents, would you like to partake?”

Unable to resist her gentle charm any longer, regardless of how arduous today had been, Blaze set her book aside and claimed the wrapped meal with a muted, “Thank you.”

“It’s not the best day for a picnic, but it’s far from the worst,” Vanilla mused, claiming a sandwich of her own, “Not too windy and the forecast doesn’t call for rain, it’ll be smooth sailing for your letter.”

“Assuming it doesn’t just wash back onto the beach,” She glumly shrugged, undoing the wrapping and taking her first bite. Salmon, probably fresh from this morning. Once she’d swallowed, Blaze couldn’t help but look up to her tutor again, “Is it really cold? Are you okay?”

“Oh, no, dear. It’s not that cold, just a little chilly. I’ll be fine, honestly,” Blaze met her smile with an incredulous stare. The rabbit’s face somehow grew even softer, “Well, I suppose I wouldn’t mind just a little warming up,” Without even hesitating, the tutor reached across again; this time an empty hand was extended.

Blaze took the comparatively large hand in her own and, trying her hardest to be gentle, allowed a few small flames to build on the back of her knuckles. The heat immediately began to radiate, even though the flames were stagnant in terms of both position and size. Absentmindedly, ears drooping without their owner’s consent, she spoke, “It’s not hard to control them when I’m comfortable. It’s easier when it’s just you and me.”

“I know dear but, one day, it’ll be easy all the time. I’m certain of it,” Vanilla promised, drawing back her hand and pressing it to her cheeks, “That was lovely of you, thank you.”

A half mile behind them, in the estate’s main building, cindered remains were likely still being swept up. An attempt to set up a playdate with the children of another wealthy family hadn’t gone over well, but the issue wasn’t as mundane as that. To say Blaze didn’t get along with the other children was certainly an understatement, the feline’s very first encounter with those infants had ended in tears and a ball of fire. Today, when her parents refused to see reason, a similar explosive display had ignited the living room couch before spreading to the wallpaper. Of course, plans were in place for this sort of occurrence, the house’s sprinkler system had gone off, but it hadn’t cooled her parent’s scorn. She’d scarcely been able to dry herself and change before Vanilla had plucked her from the house.

“You’re welcome,” Was all she could manage to mumble.

“And whoever gets this letter will surely love you for your gift,” A seriousness lingered in the rabbit’s tone, despite the multiple layers of foolishness behind her claim, “Not despite it.”

Blaze scoffed before quickly finishing her sandwich, not yet returning to her work, “Who even thought this superstition up? I know I’ve read about it before but never like this…”

“This one in particular was thought up by the wives and children of widow sailors, as tragic as that is,” The bunny half cringed, “As I’ve told you, when a destined pair send messages out to sea, they’ll receive a sign of their connection. The ocean will take you letter and, just and only this once, deliver it to your soulmate as long as it meets the right conditions.”

“It has to be fully written by one person, it can’t include that person’s name, physical description, hints to find that person or to try and organise a meeting. It also has to be the first message a person sends to sea and no one else is allowed to read it until it reaches the intended individual,” Blaze recalled aloud, “Making it seem all the more pointless. All you can really tell them is what you’re like and what’s happening to you and, regardless, it’s not going to reach anyone. How are you even going to mark this if you’re not allowed to read it?”

“Come on Blaze, when I was your age, I wanted so badly for a handsome prince to sweep me off my feet. I must have rewritten my letter a hundred times,” Vanilla chastised, plainly ignoring the kitten’s question, “You can tell them what you think loving them will be like, your hopes and dreams. No one else will ever get to read it, only you and them,” Admittedly, that was true. Whatever she wrote down here would likely be lost to the sea, “And even if it doesn’t work, no one who finds it would ever know it came from you. It’s a thought exercise as much as it is a writing one, a way to air your frustrations and ambitions.”

The kitten claimed her journal again, trying her hardest to ignore the cloudy sky above. For whatever reason, her pen felt heavier than it had just a moment prior. She let her thoughts flow onto the page, their pace kept by a modest barrier of consideration, and tried her hardest not to overdo it. In truth, she’d never really considered what she wanted from a partner or what a partner might want from her. Did she even want a partner? Part of her didn’t, and she was certain that would come across in her writing, but she couldn’t deny that she saw the appeal. The idea of someone loving her for her flames was more than a little farfetched but someone who could see past them and still love her? Someone who actively, genuinely, wasn’t afraid of her? How could she say no to that?

Finally, Blaze clicked her pen closed. Vanilla perked up, “Is it done?”

“I think so…” The young feline hummed before drawing her eyes to the page and giving it a final read.

To whomever comes to possess this note,

I hope we can meet and that, when we do, that the reason behind our link becomes clear rather than being the mere whim of coincidence. I have been instructed that, in this letter, I am to tell you about myself. While I was born into fortuitous circumstances, I have not lived the most fortunate of lives: though I am privileged in some ways, I am far more socially handicapped than the majority of my peers. I handle criticism poorly as I always try to give my all, regardless of the actual importance of any given assignment.

My peers don’t think too highly of me, many of them fear me, but the few truly close to me claim that I am mature for my age and intelligent. I’ve recently started to play the violin and have practiced ballet for as long as I can remember. As for other interests, though they’ll undoubtedly change by the time we meet, classical literature and music has always appealed to me. If we are destined to be together then I doubt you are a pilot, so this is probably unimportant, but I do have a fear of heights. I’m sorry if you wanted more details but I’m quite confused as to what is safe to include, in accordance with this dubious tradition.

I don’t think I’m the easiest person to love, both for reasons that should become clear to you and my inherent defensiveness. Though my investment in this idea of soulmates may be limited, the thought that there is someone out there who will love me for who I am is, undeniably, appealing. I may not be the best at displaying how I feel but, if we are to care for each, I will try my best to show you that I care. To be honest, I don’t know what to expect or to ask of you beyond that you keep an open mind if we do meet. Perhaps, just as this rumour being true would, you will surprise me.

Please stay safe and write soon, from your soulmate.

“It’s a little… melancholy,” Blaze admitted, trying not to wince, “But I don’t want to rewrite it. It’s good enough.”

It was all written in her neatest handwriting, entirely cursive and eloquent. There wasn’t a single spelling error, not one that she could identify at least, and it looked professional enough? She’d written it in the manner she’d learned to write all of her letters and, perhaps, that was a little too formal for the occasion. Then again, it wasn’t as though it would actually reach anyone.

And, of course, she hadn’t mentioned her flames; not in explicit terms at least.

“Is it how you truly feel?” Vanilla questioned, “Is it how you want to introduce yourself to them.”

Blaze took another moment, considering it for just a moment more, before tearing the paper from her jotter and rolling it into a tight scroll, “Yes.”

The tutor turned to rummage through her bag again, this time drawing forth three things: a ribbon to bind the note, a small (cleaned and untinted) glass bottle and a whittled down cork from an old wine bottle. Blaze took the ribbon first, gently securing her note, and trying not to crumple it, before gingerly sliding it into the bottle’s narrow mouth. She let Vanilla secure the cork in place, not much trusting that it’d hold if she did it. Then though, curiously, the rabbit produced another object from her bag. A small violet tealight, brand new and untouched.

“I think it might be nice to seal the bottle in your own, unique, way,” The rabbit explained, tilting the cantle upside down and holding it above the now sealed bottle, “With a little bit of fire, we can make a wax lid.”

The tealight exchanged hands, Vanilla held the bottle in place. Just as her prior heating, the tutor was likely the only one who would trust her to do this. Well, perhaps Gardon would too on a good day. Blaze snuck her forefinger around the tealight’s metal casing and birthed a burgeoning flame directly into the wax. The reaction was almost immediate, purple, lavender scented, wax began to drip down in gooey clumps and gather atop the cork. It took a while, and some shifting, to completely cover both the entryway. Most of the candle was diminished by the time it was done, the bubbling mass gradually cooling on the glass.

Vanilla drew it back, gently blowing on it, “Good job, Blaze. That’s perfect.”

In the silence that hung as the wax cooled, Blaze couldn’t help but dwell on her future a little. She knew she was young, far too young to be seriously considering these things, most children her age would still be focused on becoming a pop singer or filling some other extravagant niche. Her parents wanted her to focus on law, become a judge or an attorney, but, despite how important those callings were, they didn’t appeal to her. The only thing she knew that she wanted was to be away from here, to find somewhere that she could settle herself and actually be free to think, but that was so long away. She was bound to this place, bound to her parents, for the-

A gentle hand pushed up the feline’s chin and brought her to look the elder rabbit in the eye, “You might not meet whoever gets this letter for some time, but I promise you, Blaze, you will find them. You won’t be here forever; you feel so trapped forever. With their help or otherwise, I know you’ll do great things.”

The tutor rose, passing the bottle to its first owner. The kitten stumbled to her feet, taking it but quickly reaching out and holding her teacher’s hand. Barren white sand crunched underfoot, the clouds refused to part even now. It wasn’t long until she was at the cusp of the water, the lapping waves mere centimetres from the toe of their shoes. The older of the two drew up the hem of her skirt, Blaze awkwardly fumbled with her dungaree’s legs before retaking the rabbit’s hand. Vanilla took the first step into the foamy waters, but Blaze was quick to follow after. They waded until the sea reached the young feline’s knee, a glance from Vanilla informed her that was far enough.

Gently, Blaze set the bottle in the water. They stood for a moment, just to see that it would leave their sight. The tide was receding, they’d see the bottle bob above the waves every so often as it was gradually being carried towards the horizon. It was off to either meet with a watery grave or find some person somewhere else in the world.

“Well, now we just have to wait and see,” The rabbit smiled, turning and gently retaking her hand, “I’m sure it’ll reach someone wonderful. I can’t wait to see you two together. Its been so long since I’ve seen young love, I’m sure your Prince Charming will be wonderful.”

“M-Miss Vanilla,” The little girl couldn’t help but whine, “I don’t want a Prince.”

“Oh? What is it you want then?” She asked, nearing the water’s end.

“I don’t know…” Blaze murmured, giving it just half a moment’s thought, “I just want a friend. I just want someone else who will be nice to me.”

“Can’t they be both?” Vanilla laughed, taking the first step onto dry land.

The young girl hadn’t considered that, but she wasn’t sure that she liked it. She was about to speak up in defiance when she felt something peculiar. A wave had passed behind her, lapping just above her heels, but it had hit differently somehow. It’d almost felt too hard.

Turning to look over her shoulder, Blaze frowned as her eyes scanned the water. Among the waves, hitched in the sand, was a bottle. Had her note followed them back? Breaking off from Vanilla, the young girl crouched to get a closer look. Something about this bottle looked different. It wasn’t sealed with wax, it had a screw on lid. What’s more, this bottle was tinted green. Dumbfounded, without so much as thinking, she reached down and plucked the bottle from the water.

“Miss Vanilla?”

-----------

Butterflies flapped in her stomach as though they were giant eagles pursuing some sort of endlessly evasive prey. Blaze the cat, age twenty-two, had just spent the last twelve hours traveling with three overstuffed suitcases and a violin case. She’d departed a train forty minutes ago and had been walking ever since but, prior to that, she’d endured two different taxi rides and a full four hours failing to ignore a window seat view on a flight. To say that she was exhausted would be an understatement, she’d travelled further from her home before but never on her own and never like this, but to say she was unhappy would be entirely false. Blaze the cat was free, free from the Sol estate and free from all that came with it. She had finally claimed control over her life.

She’d never thought that the violin would be her escape; music simply been her hobby, but it had borne an unimaginable fruit. She’d managed to land herself third chair in an orchestra with a high probability of moving further up the ranks. The concertmaster was apparently reaching her elder years, looking for a protégé and to breathe new life into the group. A well-placed audition tape and a handful of politely worded emails had secured her the position. Sure, the job as it was now wasn’t enough to fully support her, but with her education the feline was certain she’d manage to pick up another form of income.

That orchestra job had led her here, Station Square; a city filled to bursting with opportunity which just so happened to also contain a cheap apartment-share near the city’s centre. An application for said lodgings had brought her to the door she was now standing outside of, an entrance to the supposed accommodation that persisted above an old pizzeria. She didn’t know where she’d anticipated her life to restart but the fact it was somewhere this plain honestly excited her. No more private beach; she had to build her own luxury.

First impressions were important, she’d been chastised about them her entire life. She’d tried to dress modestly, what few of her more expensive outfits she’d brought she intended to sell online. Her hair was fixed into a tall ponytail that almost crowned her head, a ponytail that she’d already remade five times today. A long brown trench coat, the brown top button of which she redid, was successfully obscuring a comfortable striped t-shirt and (surprisingly expensive yet unassuming) bootcut jeans.

Once she was certain everything was in place and she had some form of greeting in mind, she dared to press the grimy electric buzzer. Almost immediately, a slightly overloud and static riddled voice answered her call, “Hello? Is that Blaze?”

“Yes, hello. I take it this is the residence of Silver the hedgehog?” She answered.

“Yeah, that’s me! It’s so nice to finally meet you, I hope…” He seemed to catch himself mid-sentence, though he went quiet, the buzzing persisted, “Oh, oops, I should probably open the door. Sorry! I’ll be right down!”

The buzzing finally faded and, once again, Blaze was left alone. That was the first time she’d ever heard his voice and, admittedly, she hadn’t been able to hear it very well. He sounded a lot more excitable than she’d truly anticipated. Their communication up until now had been limited to brief emails and, as a result, she didn’t actually know very much about the man she’d be living with for the foreseeable future. He had no criminal record, the flat itself both looked nice and was affordable, but beyond his job working in the museum and need for an additional housemate, that was the limit of her knowledge. Well, that and the picture attached to his=

Before Blaze could ponder on it for any longer, the white painted door before her swung open and a figure practically burst into view. She wasn’t sure who or what she’d expected out of this museum worker, but she certainly wasn’t this. A set of seven ludicrously long quills immediately consumed Blaze’s vision, followed by a set of excitable yellow eyes and a vaguely sun-kissed muzzle. He was rather peculiarly dressed too; he wore a jumper with a strangely low cut that allowed a seemingly endless flare of white chest fur to slip free. As if that wasn’t odd enough, he wore gloves that were lit by a bizarre cyan symbol on both their front and back.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Blaze!” His smile matched his eyes so very perfectly.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Silver,” She half bowed, already feeling a little overwhelmed. The picture she’d seen had made him look demurer, his quills had been tied back and he’d been in his work uniform. She truly hadn’t considered that he’d be a head taller than her.

Almost immediately, he seemed to notice her luggage. Without even blinking, he gestured past her, “Oh, you must be exhausted. I can help with those!” Blaze’s surprise transmuted into total befuddlement at what happened next. With that wave of the hedgehog’s hand, those cyan symbols began to glow much brighter and Blaze heard shifting behind her. Before she could turn, all four of her bags had taken to the air and hovered above her head, “I’ll take them up and show you around, come on.”

She stood in the doorway for a moment, entirely dumbfounded. She knew people with powers like hers existed, but they were rare enough that she had never met another. To think that the first person she’d ever stay with, the first person she’d encounter, was capable of such a feat though? This Silver was filled to burst with surprises. Catching herself though, butterfly-eagles still running rampant in her stomach, Blaze began to give chase.

The hallway leading up to the flat itself wasn’t very well lit, but it was homely enough. It led up to a landing where (judging by the small pile) shoes were supposed to be kicked off. Following it was a glass door that immediately opened into a small and very well stocked kitchen. It didn’t smell like anything was cooking at the moment but, judging by the drying rack, he had been hard at work.

“I cook quite a lot,” As he called back, Blaze couldn’t help but notice the hedgehog had gone from walking to floating amongst her luggage, “Are you much of a chef?”

“Not particularly,” Blaze admitted, nonchalantly. What few cooking lessons she’d received had gone especially poorly.

“Oh, well, if you’re ever in trouble or want to learn then let me know,” He offered, spinning back around to face forward, “I made a little something to celebrate your arrival, if you’re up for it.”

“Oh, thank you,” She said, now doubly surprised at his fast kindness.

Blaze took a sniff but, curiously, couldn’t smell whatever it was he’d mentioned. The hedgehog had clearly done a good job of cleaning up in preparation for her arrival, but then again… she had no idea whether the apartment had been messy in the first place. She passed an open door that seemed to lead into a small combination dining room and sitting room. Two patchwork couches sat near the room’s centre, a modest TV cresting just over them and a coffee table between them.

“Is this a violin case?” He called back, drawing her attention away from the room.

“Yes, it is,” She responded, noticing that he’d turned mid-flight and was now hovering the violin between them, “I’m joining city’s orchestra. I’ll need to practice fairly often, but if there’s ever a time you need quiet then feel free to say.”

“Oh, no, free to play it all you want honestly, the place downstairs just does take away and, apparently, the floor is pretty well soundproofed,” He said, that excitement still clinging to his voice as he landed outside a door, “That’s amazing, I’ve always wanted to meet a violinist. I can’t wait to hear you play, you must be wonderful!”

“I’m well practiced,” She coyly admitted, not used to barrages of kindness (let alone praise). She could feel herself locking up but tried to fight it, “Is this my room?”

“Oh, yeah. It is,” The hedgehog nodded, patting himself down before seeming to realise something. With a wave of his hand up the hallway, Blaze watched as a small set of keys raced their way from the kitchen area to float in front of her, “Almost forgot these.”

“Th-Thank you,” Blaze cursed her stutter, plucking them from the air. They found their way to the lock but, before she dared to push inside, she decided to feed her curiosity. He seemed so very open, it couldn’t hurt to pry, “How long have you been able to do that?”

“For as long as I can remember. It comes in pretty handy around the house, if you ever need anything moved then just say,” He grinned, clearly somewhat proud to have made a positive impression with his powers.

“I see,” She hummed, turning the key. She certainly wasn’t comfortable immediately revealing her power to him but, then again, her name was probably a bit of a give-away. Ideally, he wouldn’t question it, “It does seem rather useful.”

Blaze pushed the door open and found herself faced, for the first time today, with a sight she’d expected. The room wasn’t even half the size of her prior bedroom, its walls were both blank and painted off-white. Unlike the other rooms in the house, a grey carpet persisted underfoot. Blaze watched as her bags hovered through the door and landed inside in a small, neat, pile.

“I know it’s not especially stunning, but the landlord says you can decorate it if you want. I did my room up a couple months ago, before I moved in. It’s easier than you think, I’d be happy to help,” Blaze couldn’t tell whether it was due to her cold expression or some sudden realisation, but the hedgehog seemed to falter and turn away, “S-Sorry, I’ve never had a flatmate before, I guess I’m a little overexcited.”

“You haven’t?” She questioned though, in hindsight, the underdeveloped room spoke volumes.

“I’ve moved from place to place quite a lot, living in tiny, two-room, apartments,” He explained.

“Well, I’m sure we’ll manage to figure this out between the two of us,” She wanted to give a reassuring smile but was fairly certain it would only scare him off. It seemed like neither of them were particularly good at this, “Thank you, Silver.”

“I’ll leave you to get comfortable. If you need anything I’ll just be, uh, in here,” He tapped the door opposite, assumedly his bedroom, “There’s an en suite in your room and, um, I think that’s everything? If you need me then just call.”

Blaze nodded and allowed herself the smallest of smiles, “Perhaps, once I’ve put everything away, we could look over the paperwork?”

“Oh, sure, okay! Just say when,” He managed to grin again, ducking back into his room but not bothering to close the door.

Blaze matched him, stepping inside and heaving a sigh of relief. She’d made it through her first interaction with her flatmate, she’d made it to her new home, she was so close to relaxation. There was a small, single, bed against the wall with a tiny wooden bedside cabinet next to it. A reasonably sized, yet still small in her experience, closet was set up against the far wall and she could see the door that likely led to the bathroom. This was liveable, she could do this, it was just the first step in something new.

Unpacking her clothes and amenities took quite a lot longer than she’d anticipated, getting everything onto hangers and into the right place was relaxing albeit slow. There was nowhere especially practical to place her violin so it’d ended up propped against the far wall for the foreseeable future. The final of her bags still sat where Silver had placed it, entirely filled. Vanilla had packed it for her, saying its contents were mere food and cutlery, but she had made the feline promise not to open it until she was settled in her new home. Well, it was finally time.

Blaze hoisted the bag onto her freshly made bed, immediately creasing her work but not especially minding. She quickly brought the zip around, popping the top open, and was stunned by what she saw. The rabbit hadn’t lied, cutlery and non-perishables of all sorts filled the base of the bag, but a small note affixed to an object that Blaze hadn’t even thought about in almost ten years sat atop the other goods. A certain bottle that had washed up on the beach just after she had sent her own message to sea.

Vanilla’s note was short and simple, “Enjoy your new life, don’t forget to write and remember, they’re out there somewhere,” Concluded with a small, winking, smiley face.

Slipping onto the bed, Blaze found herself cradling both the note and the bottle. While that day on the beach stuck out in her mind like a sore thumb, perhaps due to the familial chaos that had come before it, the contents of this bottle did not. She hadn’t thought about that day often, especially not in the latter six of those twelve years, but whenever a book or a person mentioned the concept of soulmates she’d recall but never mention the occurrence. Admittedly, the young feline had long accepted that the note had in fact been written by Vanilla in an attempt to cheer her up following her childish strop. She didn’t believe in such nonsense then and she certainly didn’t now. Still, what was the harm in giving the coincidental note another read for nostalgia’s sake?

Blaze unscrewed the lid, giving the green aluminium top a quick once over before setting it on her bedside table. Wherever it had come from, the bottle had long lost any identifiable markings, but it was more bulbous than that containing any drink she’d ever had. She managed to get a finger in and, with some difficulty, pluck the note free. The sheet felt more like card than paper and was riddled with creases from its initial folding so many years ago. The handwriting was, admittedly, awful. She’d written her note as a child, but this letter looked to have been written with extreme haste. Regardless, due mostly to the large spaces between words, Blaze could make it all out.

It read:

“Hi there! If you’re reading this then I guess you know who I am? Just in case; I’m your soulmate! I can’t wait to meet you, I’m sure we’re going to get along great! I can’t write all that much about myself, otherwise the bottle will sink to the bottom of the sea, but I’m supposed to describe what I think our relationship might be like? But I’ve never been in one before, I’ve never had a soulmate before, so I’m not sure what to do or what to tell you.

People tell me that I’m a little blunt and that I wear my heart on my sleeve and that I’m pretty gullible. I’m not so sure, but I guess they’d know better than me? I really like sweet food! I can’t have a lot of it, we can’t really afford it, but that’s okay because it’s not good for me anyway. I also really like history books. The lost worlds of the past are so interesting to me and I’d love to discover more of them. I hope you like them too! I guess I can’t write about this too much, but I have a special skill that comes in useful quite a lot. It helps me tidy up and cook and get to all sorts of places, even ones I’m not really supposed to.

I don’t know you yet, but I hope you’re nice. I don’t really know a lot about love, a lot of my friends think it’s gross but not me! I think it’s nice knowing that there’s someone out there for me and I’m just waiting to meet someone. If I can make a difference, even if it’s just for one person, then I’ll be happy, so I’ll try my hardest to make you happy! I’m learning to cook and bake so you don’t have to worry about that, I can already make spaghetti!

Please stay safe and I can’t wait to read what you send me!

From your soulmate”

Blaze’s nose wrinkled as she reached the end of the note. She’d decided years ago that Vanilla had written this note, perhaps with her left hand so as to forge childish writing, but something was bothering her. The feline’s eyes traced back up the note, specifically lingering on the mention of a special skill that helped the individual to cook and clean. A foolish thought entered her head, a quiet whisper that was still loud enough to break the otherwise peaceful silence. Reading over the page again, the bluntness and earnestness mentioned further loudened that quiet voice.

Catching herself in her own stupidity, Blaze quickly rerolled the paper and returned it to its bottle. Not quite knowing what to do with it now, feeling a bizarre heat on her face, she set it on her bedside cabinet and threw her gaze to her lap. Attempting to escape the heat, and realising she’d been too distracted to do so earlier, she undid her jacket and shrugged it from her shoulders.

The occurrence ten years ago was just one of many bizarre occurrences in the flame producing feline’s life, she’d seen her fair share of oddness and coincidence. There was absolutely no way that this bottle had come from the person she was now living with, she’d long decided it was a forgery made to keep her happy. It wasn’t like anyone was pulling at the strings of fate. Even if Vanilla hadn’t made it, for a bottle from someone else, someone who clearly believed in the superstition, to have drifted to shore while she was out there... that was possible, wasn’t it? Just as it was possible she’d seen some vague familiarities between the man she’d just met and that note’s writer.

She took her head in her hands, she was being ridiculous. It must have all been induced by her nerves, she was in a new city and living with a stranger, of course she was going to overthink things. There was no way she’d just stumbled into living with her soulmate; she didn’t even believe in soulmates. She’d never believed in soulmates and now, of all times, wasn’t the time to start. Blaze rose from the bed, collected the goods from her remaining suitcase and made a beeline for the door.

When she stepped into the hall though, her eyes were unintentionally drawn through the askew door of his bedroom. Though she could only see perhaps the smallest quarter, assuming that their rooms were the same, she’d locked eyes with a corkboard. A corkboard with many sticky notes tacked to it but also a small, curled, notebook page stuck to it rather than pierced by a tack. With each passing second Blaze felt her face grow hotter and heard her thoughts grow evermore foolish. It was as though fate was tempting her to burst into the room and look at it, or at the very least ask him about it. But that was the height of foolishness, she’d surely sound insane or rude at the very best. What self-respecting adult believed in such a fairy-tale, let alone would discuss it with a new flatmate on the first day they’d even met! She couldn’t ask about that leaflet now of all times! That would look ridiculous!

His mention of always wanting to meet a violinist metamorphosed in her mind from a show of kindness to a potential deeply held honesty. She didn’t recall much of the letter she’d written, but Blaze knew that she’d listed some of her hobbies. She’d only just started to play the stringed instrument, it’d surely been included.

Finding herself lost and dazed in the hallway, Blaze couldn’t help but call out, “Silver?”

She heard what sounded like the hedgehog falling over before he rushed into the doorway, quills wildly tossed, “Hey, is everything alright?”

Blaze swallowed, “I’ve just got some stuff to put in the kitchen and I think I’m ready to sign the papers, as long as you’re not busy?”

“Oh no, don’t worry; I was just doing a little reading, let’s do it,” He beamed, taking to the air again and leading the way to the kitchen.

She felt an immediate impulse to enter his room, he’d left the door open, but Blaze knew that was foolish. No, the much louder thought in Blaze’s brain was questioning what he was reading. The hedgehog worked in a museum; it was likely that he liked to read about history. Even if he was, it would have just been another coincidence… but things were lining up more and more. What was today? Was this all just some bizarre dream?

Blaze begrudgingly followed the white hedgehog, finding herself analysing him more than she probably should. His fur and quills were unkempt but it wasn’t as though he was dirty, just fluffy. She supposed his fur must just have grown out like that. The strange cyan energy he produced seemed to let him guide both himself and objects through the air… perhaps even other people. Blaze could certainly see how useful this power would be for cleaning… it probably let him make multiple dishes and clean at the same time too, pending how it worked.

Heat flashed across her face again and, reflexively, she balled her fists. Though she’d long learned to keep her powers under control, their connection to her emotions was a constant worry. Embarrassment, of all emotions, was one she hadn’t yet managed to control. While it lacked the ferocity and excitability of anger, it was still especially important to keep it subdued. If she let them, these thoughts would do much more than reveal her power. She might burn down her new home before she could spend a night-

“Blaze?” His voice tore her from her thoughts, he’d made it to the kitchen while she’d frozen up in the hall, “Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine I’m just,” She scrambled for the right words, marching towards him, “I’ve not settled yet, I’m still getting used to this arrangement. Just getting my bearings.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” He nodded, still smiling so very brightly, “Take all the time you need. You said online that you’d never lived away from home before, right?”

“I’d visit hotels with my family but, outside that, yes,” Blaze answered, stepping into the kitchen, “I know I’m a little old for that to be the case but…”

“No, no. Don’t worry, I get it and I know it’s pretty scary,” He smiled, leaning against the kitchen counter, “I’ve moved around a lot and your first night in a new place is always weird, let alone your first time anywhere new,” His smile faltered just a little, he began to scratch among his quills, “I’m sorry if I’m making it worse. I’ve been trying to make things more comfortable but I’m probably going a little overboard, right?”

“N-No, no, you’re doing fine,” Blaze quickly replied but she knew that her stutter betrayed the truth. Her failure to convey what she was actually feeling was simultaneously a blessing and a curse this evening. She tried to smile, “Thank you, Silver.”

“It’s no problem. You can put your stuff wherever you want, but I cleaned these two cupboards out for you. I keep the pots and pans in the big drawer and the cutlery in the one above that,” He pointed, his grin slightly returning, “Oh and there should be enough fridge space, I hope?”

Setting the bag down again, Blaze quickly began to unload Vanilla’s parting gifts. She kept the hedgehog in the corner of her eye, watching as he pulled a magnet from the fridge and slid free a small bundle of papers. Assumedly, that was the lease. He then, seeming to realise he didn’t have a pen, gestured up the hall again. The face he, likely unknowingly, pulled as he reached for the pen was far too serious, his soft features barely allowed for it. He seemed very innocent, harmless even; judging by his apologies, despite his attempts to appear confident, this was surely all very new to him too.

“Is something wrong? Is there not enough space?” He asked, catching her staring.

“N-No, no. It’s fine, there’s more than enough,” She quickly looked away, shoving bushels of pasta into the cupboard as she tried her damnedest not to ignore the little voice screaming inside her. The voice that kept repeating the line in that note, that the writer was often described as wearing his heart on his sleeve.

Too many pieces of this non-existent puzzle were lining up, far too many. As she shifted to put away her cutlery, lost in thought, she very almost knocked into him. Even if it was all somehow true, even though that was entirely possible, then that didn’t actually mean anything. It wasn’t like just knowing some miraculous coincidence had happened meant they were bound to stay together forever or fall in love or whatever. She didn’t know him, he didn’t know her either! They’d hardly even talked!

As the last pan clattered into place, Blaze dared to throw another glance his way. The hedgehog had set the paperwork down on the unit and entered the fridge. Blaze hadn’t ever looked for a relationship before and she certainly hadn’t intended to now. She hadn’t really looked at boys or girls or anyone for that matter, but something was bothering her. Perhaps it was just a result of his earnestness, perhaps it was because he looked so fluffy and soft, but there was something almost… charming about him. Was he attractive? Was he cute? Beauty was supposed to be in the eye of the beholder and this beholder had literally no idea what she found attractive.

The moment his bright yellow eyes hit hers, she understood that aspect of herself just a little better. He’d leaned out of the fridge, having not actually taken anything, “I noticed that we need a witness, do you know anyone else around here who you’d like to be it? I can witness it if that’s okay with you but, you know, don’t want to impose or anything. Landlord owns the place downstairs and said you can just leave it there.”

“I-I’m fine with that, yes,” She quickly rose to stand straight, taking the pen and papers from him, “Don’t worry, Silver. I’m just getting my bearings; you’ve been nothing but helpful.”

His smile returned, the spark of joy in those eyes rocked Blaze to her core, “If you’re sure. I’ll leave you to it then.”

Blaze quickly threw her eyes toward the document. She’d read it before online, of course she had, but it was her only escape! She quickly filled in her share before blindly passing the sheet back to Silver for his witness confirmation signature, pretending to be distracted by the spice rack.

When she finally dared to look at him, Blaze found that Silver had casually let go of the objects he’d gathered and left them to hang in the air. Though she’d tried to fight it, Blaze couldn’t help but peer at his handwriting. He’d signed his name twice, both on the landlord’s copy and her own. It’d been at least ten years since the message in the bottle had been written, of course the writer’s handwriting would have changed over that time, but Blaze couldn’t help noticing the slightly scrawled nature of his penmanship. His handwriting wasn’t bad per say but it wasn’t in cursive, and it certainly wasn’t what you’d call neat. Though she longed to think of it in any other way, that was yet another strike in the soulmate column.

“Oh, um,” The hedgehog’s hand returned to his quills, “I don’t know if you’ve had dinner or anything, and you don’t need to eat it if you don’t want it, but I was so excited for you coming so,” He gestured into the fridge, “I made a cheesecake. Feel free to grab a slice whenever, it looks like it's properly set now.”

The hedgehog couldn’t just cook, he could bake. Alone that fact would mean nothing but, with all this compiling evidence, Blaze felt her head spin and more heat jumped to her face. She shifted by him, glancing into the fridge, and sure enough, there it sat. A biscuit base topped with a creamy yellow mass and decorated with what looked to be some kind of cherry or strawberry jell or jam. She took hold of the door to steady herself, feeling the heat gather and gather on her face until a single spark ignited near the tip of her nose and, with a small pop, burgeoned into a flame. Blaze ran her free hand down her face, snuffing it immediately, but the thoughts that prompted it still ran rampant in her mind.

“Eh, Blaze? Are you okay?” She heard him shift and felt him looking over her shoulder, standing so very close, “You’ve gone all red.”

She had no idea how much of that he’s seen but, regardless, his innocence was astounding. His reaction to that pop and a palpable burst of heat from the fridge wasn’t to question what had happened but if she was okay. His concern for her was so very plain, his heart truly was fastened to his sleeve, he truly was very naïve. She had no idea what his life had been like up until this point, no idea who he really was just as he had no idea who she truly was. They were just a pair of very socially awkward individuals, albeit in very different ways, who happened to have collided due to the machinations of either fate or coincidence. She still couldn’t just up and tell him about these thoughts or the message she’d received but, regardless of them and whether this was fate or not, it was only right that she got to the bottom of this.

“I-I’ll have some if you will,” She blurted out, turning away from the fridge and towards him. Though embarrassment was surely twisting her face into a grimace, he still looked so kindly, “Maybe we should have a sit down and… get to know each other a little better?” The day’s travel had run her ragged, but nothing could compare to this past fifteen minutes, “I think we have a lot to talk about.”

[tremble-in-the-hips]

All right, you asked for it. A fucking Picture of Dorian Gray fanfiction I wrote in high school. Pine away, gays.

Dorian’s leg bobbed furiously. The cigarette between his fingers smoldered to an ashen stub. On his velvet purple couch, he stretched out, perplexed by the painting strung above the fireplace. He shuddered as his own oil-glazed eyes peered at him. 

They weren’t really his eyes, he thought. The eyes belonged to Basil, whose skilled hands opened the window into Dorian’s soul, now sitting on the mantle. Dorian felt Basil’s presence in the canvas. His hands, cramping around a paint brush; his one eye open as he perfected his vision; his dark hair falling in clumps in front of his eyes. The concentration and adoration Basil put into creating the image was powerful. As he stubbed out his cigarette with a flick, Dorian felt the artist’s careful scrutiny staring back at him as he sat. He rubbed the back of his neck with a chuckle as he thought of being in Basil’s studio just that afternoon. 

“Don’t listen to Harry,” Basil had warned. They were standing, a breath apart in the waning sunlight. Anxiously, Basil dug beneath his fingernails with a pencil to dislodge layers of crusting paint. 

Dorian had scoffed as he straightened his cuffs. “Basil, I’m beginning to see a pattern,” he chuckled. “For someone you trust, you condemn Harry rather harshly, don’t you think?”

Basil smiled politely. Dorian’s smile unraveled. “What,” he cried, “have I said something amiss?”

Basil met Dorian’s eye and laughed as he clasped his rough hands around one of Dorian’s. “No, never, my dearest,” Basil cooed, “I only wondered when I claimed to trust Harry.”

Dorian bent towards Basil. Concerned, he whispered, “You doubt his loyalty to you? Your friendship?”

Basil shook his head with a grin and laid a firm hand on Dorain’s shoulder. Head bowed, he turned back towards the painting on the opposite wall. “That, I don’t doubt,” Basil proclaimed, “ours is a friendship more like a commitment than marriage. We’ve seen too much together, know too much about each other. He will take my secrets to the grave with his cynicism and darkness which he so loves to spread,” he muttered. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. 

Dorian eyed Basil playfully. “So, your lack of trust stems purely from experience? One too many nights of debauchery spent face down in a ditch due to one nefarious Henry Wotton?” Dorian stepped forward and took up all of Basil’s view. “Too many secrets falling out of his pockets?”

Basil chuckled and pushed Dorian away. Dorian giggled and shoved him back. The two poked and pulled on one another until Basil brought his hands over Dorian’s cheeks and held him back, both of them laughing raucously. (Seated on his couch, Dorian grinned at the thought.) Basil sighed and the air was calm. “Maybe,” he replied simply. 

Dorian clasped Basil’s shoulders and shook him once. “My God, Harry dares to decry marriage when he is married to you!”

Basil leaned heavily on Dorian’s shoulder, guffawing as his knees gave out. Wiping joyful tears from his eyes, Basil sighed, “Oh, but only Harry would believe a friendship akin to marriage worth cherishing and the only truly good purpose for marriage besides politics.” Basil stood up straight, eyeing Dorian from beneath his curtain of hair. “More than anything, the man is quick to decry romance.”

“Ironic, for a man with cynically romantic notions,” Dorian cried with a laugh. He looked adoringly at Basil. “What would he think of a friendship akin to romance?”

Basil bit his lip, eyes wandering absently to his left. He scoffed, “More than likely shaking his grim head at us.”

Dorian huffed, emerging from his revere startled and breathless. Friendship akin to romance, he thought, what a delightful delusion. He could hear Henry Wotton’s voice repeat such a sentiment in his head. He shuddered. He sometimes did find Harry outrageously grim, even when he followed Harry with a childlike curiosity and adoration. As embarrassed as he was, he found himself smitten with the lord; Wotton was handsome and charming and enticingly treacherous. Whatever Wotton said felt like honey, despite later burning like vinegar. 

Basil’s warning had shaken him. Dorian paused, considering how the night was to proceed. His party, which was to include Basil and Dorian, were to head to the theater after the club and witness one of Sybil’s first performances after their proposal. He was torn, intrigued and terrified by Harry’s promise of disappointment from Sybil’s love. Part of him wanted to continue heedless, so infatuated was he with Sybil; yet he felt hesitant, and chanced leaving Sybil if he got scared. 

It felt real, his love for Sybil. More real than even Harry’s cynicism could penetrate. 

Could there be a potential for failure in a feeling so strong? If only he could explain it to Harry! He paced the living room, drawing up articulate analogies. His satisfaction with Sybil was as permanent as the spring bloom, as lingering as a smoke cloud from a pipe, as tender as Basil’s affectionate brush stroke. 

Dorian skidded to a halt in the doorway, hand clutching his chest. Why do I still think of Basil? he thought. He flopped into a lounge chair, groaning. One of his servants came to him, mumbling about the arrival of Harry and Basil (did his heartbeat quicken?) to take him to the club, then the theater. His heart thumped as he plucked a flower from a vase on the counter and twisted the stem clean off. He pocketed the newly fashioned corsage. A beautiful tiger lily, muted orange with maroon spots. 

. . . 

His corsage lay crumbled in his hand. His entire body felt heavy, as if sinking into the earth. The theater box, already half empty since the second act, felt cold and bitter. 

Henry put it best. “Terrible,” he stated factually, “just terrible. Ah well - flames burn out. Such is life, such is theater.”

“This isn’t right,” Dorian gasped, barely looking up from the flower in his hand. He studied the creases in the petals. He attempted to smooth them out with his thumb, growing annoyed when the petals curled around his fingers. He huffed, “she must be ill, or upset, or possibly inebriated, or-”

“Oh dear, sweet Dorian,” Henry sighed, laying a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian barely looked up. “We both know those possibilities aren’t true,” Henry crooned. With a sniff, he looked toward the stage exit. “You’ve got to hand it to her thought,” he sighed, “she loves you. It’s clear in her face, the way she looked out into the audience, the way she breathed. That’s love. But it’s normal love, average - and acted love will always be more potent. Or at least it will present better on stage -”

“Where’s Basil?” Dorian cut in, shrugging off Henry’s hand with an irked groan. 

“Home by now,” Henry relayed in a monotone, “he left partway through the curtain call, had to attend to a friend or a casserole or his own melancholy or something.” Dorian heard the click of a pocket watch opening. “Well,” cried Harry conspicuously, “your Juliet has more than likely returned to her dressing room now. I suggest you have a chat with her.”

Dorian grit his teeth, prickling against his clothes and skin. His annoyance felt like bile rising in his throat and he felt like spitting. Suddenly he was up, throwing the corsage against the floor. Through the unsettled curls of his hair, Dorian saw Henry step back with wide eyes and a smile.  

“Dorian, love, what’s got you flying like this?” he questioned playfully.

Dorian huffed and crossed his arms. He felt inflamed, like a deceived child. Was this the product of love? A loss of sense, a loss of purpose? Sybil was supposed to be Dorian’s greatest prize, the person for him to be proud of forever. When she flitted across the stage, he wanted nothing more than to claim the moment, claim her, with a fiery passion. She was something to behold (in her prime, Dorian thought bitterly, which seems to have ended) and she was something he wanted to behold constantly. 

Dorian flew, a trail of orange tiger lily petals falling at his boots. He felt confident in his ability to tell her just how he felt and nervous of her reaction. But he was angry! Truly angry! To watch her perform on any other night was to watch the gods of grace and whimsy in flight. What would become of the world, his world, without her gift, his pride? For her to fail or give up performance would be like if Basil put down his brush. 

Dorian hovered hesitantly in front of Sybil’s dressing room. He could feel his heart clattering against his breastplate. He reached for the doorknob and felt his ill intentions bubbling in his throat. She’s a charlatan, Dorian thought wickedly, and I am a willing sucker to her ruse. She embarrassed me in front of my friends! She doesn’t deserve my advances, my praise. What a failure! I’ll see to it she realizes the shame, the embarrassment. I mean, what would Basil think - 

Dorian’s hand shook violently as he grasped the doorknob. His breath escaped in sharp gasps. His grip loosened. To his left, he peered through a window and a vision formed of his own living room through the darkness. In the projection, he saw Basil smoothing the ruffles in Dorian’s jacket. His face was splattered with paint and a playful smile pulled his lips. 

“You really are a wonder, Dorian,” Basil’s voice echoed. Dorian’s mirror image blushed. “So youthful, yet so open; so beautiful, yet so kind.” The vision of Basil looked away from the vision of Dorian and stared, knowingly, at Dorian in real life. Terror gripped Dorian and shame overcame him as the vision smiled at him, concern in his eyes and a slight, adoring tilt in his head. The vision whispered, “I can always trust you to handle important things with care and thoughtfulness. It’s what I like best about you.”

Dorian let go of the doorknob and stared at it pointedly. His face twisted and released. What was my plan? he thought. What would I have accomplished with such anger?

The door creaked open and Sybil’s heart-shaped face appeared like a moon over the horizon. She beamed. “Oh, love!” she yelped and pushed the door open.

Dorian looked forward and straightened his back. He swept his hair back and gave Sybil a polite smile. “My dearest,” he muttered shyly. 

“I was hoping I had seen you on the balcony,” Sybil squealed with delight. She stepped into the door frame and swept her hand over the room. “Will you join me, good prince?”

Dorian met her eyes and sighed, feeling light and giddy. Despite the embarrassment, his physical feelings for her were strong. Sybil held her hand out for Dorian to take. Before he reached out, he thought of Basil’s unruly dark hair and affectionate smile.

The right thing? Dorian questioned fearfully. He took Sybil’s hand delicately and kissed her fingers. “I would, darling,” Dorian chuckled, “but I must attend to personal matters.”

Sybil recoiled slightly, but soon returned a polite smile. “Oh, that’s fine. Before you go, I was wondering what you thought of my -”

“You were lovely,” Dorian cried, “and I will explain away my hastiness later!” He leaned forward and gave her a sweet kiss on the lips. Once he was out the door, he began sprinting down the street. 

. . . 

Basil’s door flew open and he laughed with surprise and delight before pulling Dorian into his embrace. “I’m more than shocked,” Basil cried, “you came back for me! The night is alive with clubs and youthful spirit and you come to these unlit suburbs.” Basil sighed and leaned against the doorway to his living room with a jaunty grin. “Of course, the night’s youth allowed you to deduce that I had returned home.” Basil raised the wine glass he had been holding in respect. “You know me too well,” he chuckled. 

Dorian giggled, “have you been drinking, Basil?”

Basil bit his lip against a smile and moved the glass behind his back. “Who’s to say,” he deflected, barely containing his laughter.

Dorian clasped Basil’s shoulder with a grin. “It’s no matter anyway. May I?” Dorian inquired, pointing lazily at Basil’s glass.

Basil shrugged and handed his glass to Dorian. “Why not? Here, have a head start.”

Dorian blushed, touched by the gesture. He took Basil’s glass, raised it to him, and took a sip. It felt like stinging, sweet ginger as it ran down his throat. 

Basil poured another glass in the corner of the room. He eyed Dorian kindly. “I’m terribly ashamed of my behavior tonight,” he admitted, “I’m sorry for leaving the theater without so much as a goodbye. Sybil’s performance was important to you.”

“Whatever you are sorry for, you are forgiven, believe me,” Dorian assured, “I was only worried for your well being.”

Basil looked away, smiling to himself. “Thank you,” he whispered, “though, you could have called. You didn’t. You ran here. I’m curious as to what compelled you to do so.”

Dorian laughed. “I’m curious as to why you fled when you claimed you were eager to join us!”

Basil shrugged with an innocent smile, his lips touching his cup. Chuckling, he said, “I’m still not sure. I thought myself a bore on such a joyous night. Shakespeare often depresses me.”

Dorian nodded attentively, sipping at his drink. “I believe that is his point actually,” he wondered. “The dramas are meant to strike a chord with our humanity, to tell a story of unrequited or unfulfilled romance.”

Basil scoffed, staring into his swirling glass. He met Dorian’s eyes tenderly, sighing, “My dear, often it is the romance that depresses me.”

Dorian turned his head, brow furrowed, and Basil laughed, “it is nonsensical to anyone but me. I find myself incompatible with romance. I don’t hold onto relationships. I am quick to turn inward, quick to anger, and unable to respond to a lover’s cry for attention.” Basil huffed with eyes downcast. “Lovely, lovely Dorian, I am impossible to love.”

The room stood quiet. After a moment of discomfort in silence, Dorian sat on Basil’s dark green couch and beckoned to Basil. Basil shuffled over with tepid steps and flopped into the seat next to Dorian. Dorian turned his shoulders towards Basil and took his hands. He turned them over, lightly drawing on Basil’s palms with his thumbs. He whispered to Basil, “I left the theater tonight after the show because I was inspired by the idea of what you’d think of my actions.”

Basil leaned back against the arm of the sofa, surprise alight in his eyes. His lips drew taut as he tried to suppress a smile. “Go on,” he whispered.

Dorian cleared his throat. His palms were sweating and he cupped them lightly around Basil’s, trying not to dampen them. “I was inflamed,” he continued, “both by Henry’s words and the events at the theater. I felt mean like a snake, wanting to lash out.” Dorian chuckled darkly. “I thought myself deserving better. I thought of telling Sybil so, harshly if need be.”

Basil stared at Dorian with concern. He looked down, grasping at empty words. “I’m . . . sorry to hear you were in such a state, possessed by evil like that.” He clasped Dorian’s hands gently. “I am, however, proud and delighted that you thought of me and made a better choice.”

Dorian averted his gaze, beaming. “It seems I think of little but you lately, Basil.”

Basil blushed deep red and his face lit up with a delirious smile. Dorian hopped closer, encouraged by Basil’s response. He took a shaking breath, continuing, “Basil, whatever compels you to believe you are impossible to love, it is a false pretense; you create beauty out of nothing; you adore your friends with great and genuine enthusiasm; you corale me towards the right path,” Dorian declared. Running a hand through his flyaway hairs, he leant towards Basil with a serious look. “Despite my influences, you get me to see what is right and good with only the thought of your care, your kindness, and your love for me.”

Dorian let out a final breath. Basil’s eyes were locked with his, shining with earnest and insane happiness. His head rested relaxed to his left and he rubbed Dorian’s hands between his fingers. Dorian’s heart quickened and he looked away, clearing his throat again. Timid, he looked into Basil’s eyes. He whispered, “Who are you to say you are immune to romance? What about us? Fools in a friendship akin to romance?”

Breathless, Basil reached out, cupping Dorian’s face gingerly in his hands. Dorian lightly traced his fingers over the back of Basil’s hands. Basil shook his head in disbelief. He rubbed his thumb along Dorian’s cheekbone. “I,” he stuttered, “I, you, you’ve surprised, I’m . . .”

Dorian slid his hands down the length of Basil’s arms and dug his fingers into Basil’s shoulders. “Whatever you’re planning to do or say,” he breathed, “do it now. I despise suspense.”

Basil burst into laughter and Dorian joined. When both had caught their breath, Basil pulled Dorian towards him for a kiss. Dorian closed his eyes, sinking with relief as he wrapped his arms around Basil’s neck. Basil ran his fingers through Dorian’s hair and let his lips drag over Dorian’s sluggishly, intoxicated by the intimacy. Dorian pressed his forehead to Basil’s and Basil pulled back, gasping for breath. With a grin, Dorian nuzzled Basil’s nose, causing the two to giggle with childish giddiness. 

“Do you believe you’re wrong now?” Dorian cooed. “About being incompatible with romance?”

“Possibly,” Basil retorted, playing with one of Dorian’s curls. 

“I think you’ll do fine,” Dorian sighed, catching Basil’s eye and grinning. He reached into his shirt and pulled out a stem of lavender. Basil’s brows drew together in a question and Dorian explained, “I pulled it out of the vase at the theater..” Basil rolled his eyes and Dorian flicked his nose. “Enough,” he laughed, “I’m trying to perform an incredibly romantic gesture.”

Basil laughed heartily. “Okay,” he cried, “you’ve gotten me to believe in love again. Happy?”

Dorian beamed, “Always, with you.”

[constantfluxx]

FAREWELL WANDERLUST BY THE AMAZING DEVIL FOR THE TUNE CRUISE * SCREAMS *

HI I AM THE ONE WHO REQUESTED FAREWELL WANDERLUST AND FORGOT TO SPECIFY WHICH SHIP. OF COURSE. GERASKIER OR JASKIER POV WHATEVER REALLY, OK? THANKS. ILU.

🎶The Evening Earworm Tune Cruise: The SS 200��

Port of Call: Geraskier! 🐺👨‍🎤Itinerary: Farewell Wanderlust by The Amazing DevilCaptain: @kiomaya 🧜‍♀️

Farewell Wanderlust, you’ve been oh oh so kindYou brought me through this darkness but you left me here behindAnd so long to the person you begged me to be

He took in a deep, steadying breath. His fingers trembled around the neck of his lute. Eyes closed, he mentally coached himself, willing his nerves to settle at least long enough for his voice to sing true. It’s just another performance. How many times have you done this before? It’s no big deal.

Except he knew he was lying to himself.

This was hardly “just another performance.” Far from it. It took him forever to finally write a song sharing Geralt’s “defeat” of the dragon with the world. Even longer to perform it. And, when he finally did, it was… not his best work. One could hardly expect him to sing such a tale with such passion and intrigue when its epilogue was laced with a pain he couldn’t bring himself to bare. It was technically perfect, as his work of late usually was, but the emotion was missing. He was missing.

This song… This performance… This is where it had run off to. Where it’d been hiding ever since his return from that mountainside. It took him longer than he’d like to admit to finally recognize it as the problem - or perhaps he’d known all along, but refused to acknowledge it because it would reopen too many wounds, resurface too much hurt. Finally, the lacerations across his heart had begun to scar just enough for him to look, to examine, to embrace.

All that had happened… It was an indisputable part of him now, no matter how much pain it caused him, and would continue to cause him. He couldn’t move forward while leaving a part of him in the past - it was all or nothing, and he understood that now.

He doubted the unsuspecting townsfolk filling their bellies at the local tavern particularly cared to hear about his heartbreak. Songs of joy and adventure and triumph tended to draw far more coin than songs of misery and suffering and defeat. But this wasn’t for coin, not primarily anyhow. For this one song, this one performance, it wasn’t about the job.

It was bout reclaiming himself. About owning his life. About declaring his agony so irrefutably that he would have no choice but to recognize it as his own and finally, finally, start to address it head-on.

And wasn’t that a kind of personal victory, in its own, awful way?

He opened his eyes. He gazed out upon his feasting audience, upon their grumbling banter and stomping feet and clanking flagons. And he saw hair of white, and swords of silver, and eyes of yellow.

Delicate, flitting fingertips plucked away the beginning notes, deceptively light and whimsical. His voice followed in sweet accompaniment, painting the first syllable in a long, arcing embrace before twirling into its prancing opening measure.

“You look like I need a drink he winked as he slipped from my grasp to the barAnd you are?”

As he rounded out the opening lyrics, the catchy, playful tune drew those listening ears into a light nodding alongside his rhythm. Just as he’d once been distracted by Geralt’s splendor, so too were they taken by his light sing-song, and even as something more sinister began to sneak between his words they sooner suspected the start of some grand tale than the foreboding of tragedy.

Sooner just evidence of the Witcher’s social neglect than a pattern of distancing dissent.

“Every time that you fumble, I’m the laugh from the backWhen you think about him, my wings start to flapWhen you make a mistake, my feet lift from the floorAnd when you lie there awake every night love, I soar”

The notes were turning darker. The words weren’t turning towards a new tomorrow. Rather than circle back, they basked in their darkness, reveled in the furrowed brows and wary glances. His pace built, the ebb and flow of his song’s tide swirling into a tumultuous churning from shore to shore. Too late to swim to safety, the listening hearts searched for the sun - surely it was just around the corner, just after the next typhoon?

Surely, he’d come to his senses and warm up to the company?

“I’m the heartbreak that aches far too much to be shownAll those letters unsent and that garden ungrownI’m the captain of courage you’ve eternally lackedI’m the Jesus of wishing to Christ he’ll come back”

The wave crashed down upon them. Hope of survival glimmered in its wake, breaking free of the surface for a vital breath of precious air. A single ray of sunlight touched their faces… but it proved only to be the eye of a surmounting storm, one which raged more furiously than anything before it. It dragged them back down into his suffering, and like troublesome dogs their faces were forced to behold his wretched distress. But rather than recoil away from the filth, they stared, held in place by the voice that wrapped around their necks like nooses. They witnessed the unfolding of his wounded heart, the casting aside of the love that had poisoned it, and the thrashing of his despair in this pit he’d been left in.

How could someone so beautiful be capable of something so cruel?

“Come devil come, she sang, call out my nameLet’s take this outside cos we’re one and the sameOur god has abandoned us, left us, insteadTake up arms, take my hand, let us waltz for the dead”

The notes of his lute had slowed once more, heavy and trudging. Where once had been whimsy now there rang spite: a lesson learned, and with it the reckless abandon of love’s unburdened prisoner. Only here, at the very depths of his sorrow, could all his emotion at last gather into a crude ladder he could use to pull himself out. Because Love had cast him down, he stood up. Because Love had said he couldn’t, he did. Because Love demanded he stay, broken and defeated, he threw Love away, put himself back together, and reached for something new.

He didn’t know what kind of life could possibly come after Geralt, but he knew, at least, that he’d rather search and know than never even look.

“Farewell Wanderlust, you’ve been oh oh so kindYou brought me through this darkness but you left me here behindAnd so long to the person you begged me to beHe’s down. He’s dead.Now take a long look at what you’ve done to me?”

It was hardly a happy resolution. It was ugly and gritty and tormented, but then what else could have ever come from this war? Nonetheless, as he led his audience into this final arch of their journey, his song blossomed into a kind of vindictive triumph, one that dared the world to try, just try and drag him back into the darkness. It would not, it must not, they collectively swore.

Perhaps, one day, Geralt would come back. It’d be splendid if he did - truly. For then, he could see the rotting carcass of the man Jaskier had to shed in order to forge himself anew. Then, maybe, he’d realize the sins he’d committed, recognize the way he’d sheared Jaskier’s heart to shreds and cast them off the mountainside.

But whether or not he ever did would no longer be a thing Jaskier concerned himself with.

“He’s down, He’s deadHe’s gone, He’s lostHe’s flown, He’s fledNow take a good long look at what you've all done to me”

As Jaskier declared his final words to the crowd, his fingers flew along the strings of his lute, releasing its last, swelling vibrato through the small tavern. The sound grew and grew, until at last it burst into an abrupt silence that swept in and suffocated what few lingering embers might still yet burn for the captivating Witcher.

For a suspenseful moment, not a soul dared disturb it, and even when the daily rumblings of the tavern began to creep back into place no one offered applause - such a thing just didn’t seem right after such an emotional experience as the one which had just unfolded all around them. Not even Jaskier himself offered any levity to the situation, trading his usual bow and playful quip for a simple nod of his head, more for himself than his audience. A small, silent affirmation of his deed, a thanks he afforded himself for finally releasing his pain to the winds of change.

He turned from them and retreated back to his sparse belongings, joining the rest in the tavern in a strange normalcy that pretended like nothing had ever happened. Not but a single soul challenged it, stepping towards him so quietly he hadn’t noticed them until a tiny, trembling finger touched the sleeve of his doublet. Startled, he turned to regard his visitor, a now-distant corner of his mind wondering if he’d find a calloused hand gloved in black.

Of course not. The touch had been too small, too flighty, too careful.

She stared up at him with a round, teary-eyed face, mouth hanging slightly ajar as she still searched for something to say. Studying him, seeing her own shaken state reflected in him, her brow furrowed, and in her eyes he saw an approaching understanding. At last, she murmured, taken with frightful awe, “That... was miserable... ?”

His eyes flickered down, catching the glint of a small trio of coins sequestered in her upturned palm. He knew well what her drifting, questioning inflection reached for, but he only smiled and shook his head, folding her fingers closed around her coin.

“Sometimes, my dear,” he whispered, voice still shuddering from lingering passion, “life is miserable.”

He paused. Chuckled. Hoisted his lute upon his shoulder by the strap of its case.

“And that’s okay.”

[listdepot]

Top 10 Indie Games of the Decade (5 - 1)

5. Celeste

I don’t find difficult games fun. I can understand and appreciate people who enjoy the challenge and I’m not afraid to dive into something hard as long as its balanced right but more often than not, I find it purely frustrating and the result often gives me a headache. Celeste is... a hard video game. There are moments in the game where I had to put my controller down, take a breath, and pick it up again before dying a bunch more times on a single screen. But never once did I feel frustrated as I often do with games that are difficult. Because that’s what Celeste is about.

Madeline, the protagonist, is just coming off of what’s implied to be a big mental breakdown and her bad brains and anxiety-riddled feelings feel the best way to defeat it is to climb Celeste Mountain. Despite warnings from others, and offers of help from fellow climbers, Madeline is determined to make it on her own. She has to do it by herself. And soon her determination is taunted by her own internal monologue, manifested on his mysterious mountain by a spectre-like mirror vision of herself.

But Madeline never stops. And despite my occasionally need to put the game down, neither did I. The game at no point pulls a dirty trick, even during the vastly more difficult B-side challenges it provides. Its pure pattern recognition. So every so often I would put my controller down, take a breath, and pick it up again. Because I was as determined to control my frustration as Madeline was to conquer her fears. The headaches I often get with hard games never manifested. Sure, my hands hurt after every level from gripping the controller but, in the end, I had felt satisfied, even proud, to have scaled Celeste Mountain along with Madeline. Even if well... take a look

16 hours and 3000 deaths and it was fully worth it.

4. Cuphead

I remember it fairly vividly. A quick cut of indie games for the Xbox One back in 2013 at E3. Just a sizzle reel of the games coming and I saw Cuphead. I believe my exact reaction on Twitter was “HEY WAIT WHAT WAS THAT HOLD ON” or something similar. 

As someone passionate about animation history, it stood out strong for all the reasons everyone loved it. The bouncing rubber hose animation (fully hand drawn and digitized), the echoes of Fleischer Studios and extremely early Warner Bros, the intensely jazzy soundtrack full of washed out audio. But what made Cuphead really unique to me was it wasn’t just a tribute to one old form of media.

Sure, of course, the 30s animation style was my big draw, but as more stuff came out about it, I noticed it was essentially just Gunstar Heroes, Treasure’s incredible frantic run and gunner for the Sega Genesis. With that element, Cuphead transformed for me from a game that looks pretty and has a fun concept to a game I knew I would love. And, despite waiting 6 years for it to come out on a platform I could actually play it on, I absolutely did love it.

Unlike Celeste, I did eventually put down the punishingly difficult ode to old school cartoons, but I know its there waiting for me to pick it up again and marvel at every focused enemy encounter and every lushly animated boss fights and stages. 

3. What Remains of Edith Finch

Annapurna Films came out swinging hard in 2017 with their game publishing branch Annapurna Interactive by releasing Unfinished Swan creator Giant Sparrow’s follow up game, a simple “walking simulator” focused on familial lineage.

Edith Finch returns to her old family home located off the coast of Washington. A large estate full of locked doors full of rooms frozen in time, preserved as shrines. You see, the Finches are, in a way, unfortunately cursed, forever plagued with dying in often odd circumstances. As you explore this home and Edith’s narration guides the player. Each room lets you experience a minigame of sorts, a vignette of that very death, told often from the perspective of that very Finch, each one interpreted in its own way.

As morose as that sounds, and there are plenty of sad moments (you play as a damn baby who drowns in a bathtub for crying out loud), its a game who’s whimsy and gallows humor is proudly worn on its sleeve. One story has you playing as a hermit Finch who lives in the home’s basement, desperate to avoid the curse, as you open cans of food over the years. That’s it. That’s the gameplay. And as soon as that Finch feels confident to have survived the curse, he walks out through a hole in his bunker, only to find himself on the railroad tracks with a train approaching.

And in a lot of ways, that’s what Edith Finch is about. Its a game that exists to be about the absurdity and peculiarities of death, what makes it sad, what makes it often funny and how it affects those who love those who have died. Edith Finch is like playing an interactive eulogy to a family that never existed and there are multiple moments that gave me a good laugh and plenty that made me tear up. 

2. Undertale

I don’t have anything to say about Undertale. Its an insanely popular video game and for good reason. A story full of heart and a weird sense of humor, a game that subverts traditional RPG mechanics by not only letting you whether to fight or spare your enemies but turns an enemy’s attack into an always cool bullet hell sequence. 

Its a game who’s characters are well known, its lines are repeated often, its soundtrack has been turned into memes and is intensely beautiful constantly.

I have nothing to say about Undertale because Undertale speaks for itself. It is an independent underdog game that blasted into the stratosphere of video games. Its good. Play it sometime.

1. Frog Fractions

I wish I could even begin to describe what Frog Fractions is but I can’t begin to express my love for this free weird browser game. Ostensibly a parody of edutainment games, you play as a frog eating bugs to keep them away from fruit and those fruits you collect go toward upgrades. Its fairly simple until, uh... it isn’t.

The ultimate joke of the game is that this fraction game about frogs is barely about frogs and, of course, never about fractions. The only fractions that you actually see are the weird points you gain when eating the bugs. And then that edutainment game becomes a shoot-em-up, which becomes a maze, which becomes a text adventure, then a DDR-like, then it just keeps going on like this until it just suddenly ends. Frog Fractions just kinda never stops until it very quickly does.

What makes Frog Fractions incredible to me is there aren’t many other games that came out this decade that, despite the vast connection between people that now exists with social media and chat platforms like Skype and Discord, elicited such a strong “Hey you gotta check this thing out” reaction as Frog Fraction did in my circle. I remember there being a lot of talk about both not spoiling what happens in it and helping each other try to solve that goddamn text adventure section where you’re fixing a spaceship.

Frog Fractions, for its pure word of mouth weirdness, managed to create enough buzz to even make a sequel, one that came out years after the first one that was slowly revealed with an insane ARG that included hidden images in other indie games (Firewatch included) and eventually launched inside ANOTHER game that you had to dig deep to find. And as fun and weird as Frog Fractions 2, it only has its progenitor to thank for the pure weirdness that it. A game that exists to be “Check this out”, especially in an era of social media, and a game that is just so fantastically bizarre that sends you on a journey through Bug Mars and beyond. That’s the best indie game of the decade.

[rubbishmauf]

Wonders of the Younger: An In-Tents Album

The Plain White T’s are relatively famous for their song “Hey There Delilah”, which hit #1 on the Billboard charts in 2007. Wonders of the Younger, which came out in 2010, takes a slightly more electro-pop approach to songwriting, with the indie guitar and vocals taking a backseat to upbeat drums and synth-like effects. 

As somebody who is very attached to both the Plain White T’s in general (I did spend most of my formative years listening to Hey There Delilah on repeat, after all) and albums that sound very similar to this one, I adored this album. Wonders of the Younger gets a solid four stars from me. 

The album art, a desolate carnival and a single tent with light shining out of it, already gives us an idea as to what the focus of this album is going to be- something about finding whimsy and mystery in a place where all seems somewhat lost. The actual music delivers on this promise of bittersweet nostalgia in a fantastic way, from the instrumentals reminiscent of something you would find blasting from the speakers in a circus booth to the lyrics about finding your place in an ever-changing world.

The very first song on the album, “Irrational Anthem”, sings of games played in childhood, imagination, and “reclaiming” the idea of the rollercoaster of emotions that is adolescence. The theme is continued in songs like “Boomerang”, about the twists and turns of teenage relationships, and Map of the World, in which Tom Higgenson sings about how difficult it is to find your place in a community, with the lyric “where do I fit in” ending almost every verse and chorus.

At the end of “Map of the World”, as well as a few other songs on this album, the quality fades into that of an old-school radio, an effect that draws my attention to any song. It’s this pseudo-vintage quality that Plain White T’s employs to keep you listening, and this album from ever getting boring.

Another thing that keeps this album from ever getting boring is the constant variety of styles in Wonders of the Younger. Some of the songs (songs like “Last Breath”, “Rhythm of Love”, “Our Song”, “Body Parts”, and the title song “Wonders of the Younger”) are gentler and a little more melancholy. The guitar is plucked a little softer and the vocals return to the soft indie of their chart-topper.

“Our Song”, which sings of physical distance between two lovers making it hard for one of them to live his life as normal, almost feels like a direct homage to “Hey There Delilah”. The song itself, however, is not the most memorable on the album. “Cirque dans la Rue” takes that trophy, with its heavy circus imagery- after all, the translated title is “Circus in the Street”- strong marching drums, and lyrics of this hard-hitting attention-grabber providing plenty of vivid imagery pertaining to the subtle anxiety over the incredibly teenager-specific feeling of constantly being “on display” for your peers and the world. Higgenson sings about wanting to make friends with “the freaks” of the acts, and later likens himself to aforementioned freaks. He once again calls on the teenage anxiety of being under scrutiny constantly, during a portion of the song that is more spoken-word than anything. Higginson takes on the voice of a carnival barker, “Come one, come all,” he beckons, and goes on to talk about the amazing things at Cirque dans la Rue. While transitioning back into singing, he pulls out the anxiety one final time to tell the listener that “while you’re watching us do the things that we do / we’re watching you!” All components considered, this is probably the best song on the album, though not my favorite.

My favorite song on the album, personally, is “Rhythm of Love”. Full confession, this has been one of my favorite love songs since I first heard it. It holds an incredibly special place in my heart for both the sweet instrumentals and the themes of juvenile love and how intense it is. “Rhythm of Love” sings of the idea that the world turns on its axis “to the rhythm of love.” The idea that adolescent life is tough but having someone to share it with makes it easier comes through in many of the albums lyrics, but most strongly in “Rhythm of Love” when Higgenson sings “when the moon is low / we can dance in slow motion / and all your tears will subside / all your tears will dry.” The bittersweet undertone in the chorus and in the idea that “long after I’ve gone / you’ll still be humming along / and I will keep you in my mind / the way you make love so fine” gives the listener the sense that while things change, it’s for a good reason- you can’t stay in one place forever.

Some of the songs, like “Last Breath” and “Broken Record”, don’t particularly fit with any styles of the album. “Last Breath” has an arbitrary violin at the beginning, and “Broken Record” has crunchy guitar paired with tired, cliché lyrics that reminded me of corny 90’s breakup songs. They aren’t terrible songs by any means, but they definitely don’t fit with the tone or styles of the album at all.

Some of the songs want to take you to a place where your problems and issues are gone, which is something that most teenagers can certainly relate to. Some of the songs, like the title track, take you to years past where you can play games like “ghost in the graveyard” with your childhood friends and not worry about the stresses of growing up. Some songs, like “Make It Up As You Go”, promote the idea that we can’t predict where life is going to take us, so we just have to “go with the flow.” 

All in all, this is an incredible album with a few minor problems in the form of songs that just don’t fit. The album comes full circle, with the last minute and a half of “Wonders of the Younger” being a quirky fading instrumental that perfectly loops back into the beginning thirty seconds of “Irrational Anthem”. This makes it so if you wanted to listen to the whole album on repeat, like I’ve done all morning, you can do that without interrupting the flow of listening. Ultimately, I believe this album deserves 4 out of 5 stars.

[7-wonders]

Blame It On My Youth

Summary: You’ve seen enough of Michael’s world to last you three lifetimes. Now, it’s time to show him some of your world.

Word Count: 4907

A/N: Did that sound a bit like the Little Mermaid? Yes. Do I care? No. Hope you guys enjoy, feedback is always appreciated and, if you feel so inclined, I would love if you reblogged, liked, and commented.

Read Mad Love (part one) HERE | Read Totally F***ed (part two) HERE | Read The Isle of Flightless Birds (part three) HERE | Read A Hard Day’s Night (part four) HERE | Read Pour One Out (part five) HERE | Read Where Angels Fear to Tread (part six) HERE | Read Naked & Afraid (part seven) HERE | Read Ironically Alive (part eight) HERE

Out of all of the fantasy books that you read as a child, none was more frustrating than Lewis Carroll’s classic Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland. It was a fine book, filled with whimsy and adventure, all things that a child can devour like candy, but one particular passage captured your attention and warranted your problem-solving abilities for an entire week after you first finished the book. The famous question of “why is a raven like a writing desk?,” posed by the Mad Hatter to young Alice at their tea party, drove you nearly as mad as a Hatter in trying to solve it. It’s not as if there was an answer; the protagonist, herself, declared that “I think you might do something better with the time than wasting it in asking riddles that have no answers,” but you were determined to be the first to solve this unsolvable riddle. Obviously, you didn’t solve the riddle, and the answer still eludes you to this day. You haven’t thought about that old riddle for quite some time, but your current predicament, and the amount of time spent thinking about it, gives you an odd sense of deja vu and reminds you of Lewis Carroll’s question with no answer.

It’s been two weeks since your trip to the Murder House, and your mind has spun with hundreds of questions that seem to have no answer. Michael, of course, hasn’t been any help at all. The man seems to be a walking paradox; when you don’t need him, he’s impossible to get rid of, and on the rare occasion that you do need him, he can’t be reached. You’ve been able to talk to him, your weekend visits to his mansion forcing you to make some conversation, but Michael has diverted every question you’ve shot at him. He doesn’t get mad that you’re constantly coming up with questions that, to you, have no answers, which only confuses you even more. Although you shouldn’t be pushing your luck after his show of mercy at his childhood home, you feel that you’re entitled to some answers.

Michael, the infuriating, confounding, caring husband that he is, has patiently reminded you time and time again that your finals are more important than any questions you may have. You hate it when he’s right, especially when he pulls out the contract and points out that it was you who made it a point to refuse dropping out of school. Your questions, he tells you, can be answered after you’ve finished the semester and gotten the grades you know you’re capable of. If you’re being honest, at this point you would take a year of being trapped in the Murder House over a week of finals (“Your dramatics truly never get old,” Michael commented dryly when you complained to him during a study break on Sunday). Finals week, you’ve decided, is certainly the work of Michael’s father.

Regardless of your opinions on the week of tests that largely decide your grades, the feelings of joy and relief that flood through you upon walking out of the classroom in which your last final of the semester was held. You have a high enough grade in the class to be able to keep your ‘A’ even if you flunk and, if you were brave, you would have just completely skipped the final. Worst-case scenarios, however, prevented you from doing so and made sure that you actually studied for this test. No matter how you did on the tests, you walk across campus feeling like you’re floating on air. No more school for an entire summer! The bliss that accompanies a last day of school does not, thankfully, fade with age.

Part of you wants to literally put the school in your rearview mirror and stay at least a mile away for three months straight, but you’re also a good person who promised to meet her friends for lunch and isn’t about to back out of a commitment. College dining halls, contrary to popular belief, are not nearly as clique-y as high school lunch rooms. Although there’s a few tables that everyone knows the athletes sit at, the rest of the tables are up for grabs. This can make things difficult when you’re one of the last to an already-packed dining hall and you have to awkwardly stand in the middle of the room while you search for your ‘group.’ Having friends like yours makes this move a lot easier, waving at you to get your attention once they notice that you’re looking around for them.

“You had finals today, right? How’d they go?” Kate and Brennan sit across from you, a bowl of cucumbers sitting between them. You grab at one when you take your own seat, deciding a water-based vegetable is better than nothing.

“They went okay, especially considering they were my last finals,” you reply, glancing around the table to catalogue who is and isn’t here. It’s the usual crew, but you take note of a new face. Shooting Kate a glance, she quickly picks up on your question.

“Oh yeah, you two haven’t met before! (Y/N), this is Mallory. She’s in my Russian Lit class, her other friends have already left for the summer so I invited her to come sit with us today.”

Mallory’s beautiful, her large doe-like eyes and golden leaf headband nestled in her brown locks giving her the appearance of some sort of angel. She’s wearing a black dress that’s cinched with a belt that matches the headband, her outfit looking like it costs as much as a couple of textbooks.

“Hi, I’m (Y/N),” you smile warmly, Mallory returning your smile and waving at you.

“It’s really nice to meet you, (Y/N),” she says.

“Why haven’t I seen you around campus before?” Although it’s a large and populated college, you’re sure that you would have remembered seeing someone as unique as Mallory.

“Oh, we must just run in different circles.” The buzzing of your phone draws your attention from the conversation, sending Mallory an apologetic look before checking the notification.

“How did your tests go?” You can’t help the smile when you see Michael’s message, thumbs flying across the keyboard to type a reply.

“I think they went really well, thanks!” 

Barely thirty seconds pass before Michael’s responded, and you stifle a laugh at the mental image of Michael sitting at his desk and just waiting for you to check your texts. 

“You should call me when you get a chance, maybe we can go out and celebrate?” After the Murder House escapade, you had become a lot more lenient with your “two phone calls a week” rule. Sometimes it’s actually you that calls him first, much to the shock and surprise of both of you. 

“Wow, our second date? Amazing, maybe we can even go steady after this lmao,” you can’t help the sarcasm, especially not when the opportunity is right there.

“-and--(Y/N),” Kate whines, drawing your attention back to the people in front of you.

“I was listening!” You unconvincingly insist.

“Really? What was I talking about, then?”

“Um...Brennan?”

“No, but nice try. I was talking about the end-of-year party at Colin and Noel’s.” Colin and Noel are two best friends who live together and, at least once a month, throw the type of parties that are the stuff of legends. The first, and only, time you went to one, Noel got so drunk that he body slammed himself onto the pong table, somebody tried to crowd surf, and multiple people ended up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning. 

That was on a regular Saturday in January.

“I don’t know, Kate, I’m still trying to recover from Thirsty Thursday at the Stadium House.”

“That was almost a month ago.”

“That’s the point,” you say jokingly. “But really though, I don’t like crazy parties, and I’d rather not deal with the cops.”

“They’ve scaled their parties back so much since the last time you came to one! No hospital visits related to events at their house, even!”

“Really?” You can’t help but be skeptical at her claim. 

“Really. Listen, you don’t even have to stay for long, but I’d really like to hang with you one last time before I go back home for the summer.” Kate smiles when you sigh, knowing she has you. A good chunk of your friends are all going off to the far corners of the country for the break, and this will probably be the last time that you’re all together for three months. 

“Alright, let me talk with, uhh--yeah, I should be able to swing by for a bit,” your friends don’t know about Michael yet, and you’d prefer to keep it that way.

“Yay!” Kate squeals, drumming her hands on the table in excitement. 

“I should get going.”

“I’ll see you tonight though, right?”

“...Right.”

“Are you going to the parking lot? I’ll walk with you if you are,” Mallory says, a twinge of guilt running through you at the realization that you practically forgot about the poor girl.

It’s impossible for you to say no, and you find yourself walking side by side with Mallory towards the parking lot. It’s a bit of an awkward silence, as it usually is when two people who don’t really know each other are left alone.

“Seriously though, how have we not met before? Are you a freshman?” You ask.

“No, but this is my first semester here. I transferred from a school in New Orleans.”

“Oh, I love New Orleans! I went there for a week last year, it was amazing.”

“Yeah, I, uh,” Mallory looks down towards her heeled shoes, nodding, “I miss it a lot.” Your heart aches at the sudden look of homesickness on your new friend’s(?) face, causing you to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Well, at least the school year’s over and you can go home now.”

“Actually, I think I’m sticking around for the summer. My aunt thinks it’s good for me to get out of New Orleans and out of my comfort zone. My best friend Coco’s letting me stay with her.” Mallory’s phone starts to ring, and she laughs when she looks at the caller ID. “Speak of the devil; it’s my aunt.”

“I’ll see you at the party tonight?” Mallory nods. 

“See you tonight, (Y/N).” Mallory watches you continue towards the parking lot, only answering her phone when you’ve rounded the corner. “Hey, Cordelia...Yeah, it’s her alright.”

////////////////////////////

Michael, as per usual, is in his office when you arrive at his home. Even though he has no logical way of knowing that you’ve arrived, the opening of his office door before your hand even makes contact with the knob gives you the sneaking suspicion that his Antichrist powers give him an advantage. You stroll in, Michael looking a little too nonchalant as he reads through some papers on his desk.

“Some serious Cooperative business?” You ask, falling into a chair on the other side of his desk. 

“You could say that,” he looks up at you, smiling. “How was your last day of the semester?”

“It was fine, finals were fine, it’s all fine, fine, fine.” You spin yourself in the chair, head falling back as you watch the blur of the ceiling above you.

“That’s a mood.” Stopping suddenly, you look at Michael in surprise before laughing loudly.

“Look at you, catching up on your slang!”

“Figured I’d try and actually learn what you were talking about.”

“Speaking of ‘moods,’ I might have something that would help to raise both of ours.” Michael raises an eyebrow, urging you to continue. “Some...friends of a friend are throwing a huge party tonight for the end of the year. Would you wanna go? I know you had talked about celebrating, but maybe we could celebrate this way?”

“You want me to go to a...college party? The same type of party that you drunk-called me from and where I had to get you from?”

Your face heats up at the reminder. “I’m not even going to be drinking at this party, I learned my lesson last time. Look, I know that you didn’t have the most normal upbringing, so maybe this could be your chance to experience some of the things you missed out on. You can’t tell me that you’re perfectly fine with going from a child to running your father’s army and planning the apocalypse practically overnight.”

Michael’s thinking about what you’ve said, which you’re not sure is good or bad yet. You know that you’ve made some good points, and he knows that you’ll go to the party even if he doesn’t. Maybe this is a question with no answer, like so many that you’ve encountered lately. Michael and parties don’t seem like they’d mix, and it’s impossible for you to read his mind like you can read his.

“Will I be out of place there?”

“Michael, there’s going to be so many people there that nobody will even look at you twice.” A lie; Michael’s far too beautiful for just one look.

“What time?” You aren’t even aware that you were holding your breath until he sighs and looks at you again.

“Really?” Michael nods. “Uh, probably nine or ten?”

“Is there not a set time for these parties?”

“Not really, just whenever people show up.” You stand up, smiling widely at Michael’s sudden apprehension and choosing to leave before he can change his mind. “I’ll leave you to your work!”

The good thing about being at the home of your Antichrist husband is that your wardrobe is limitless. A red satin top and a pair of black jeans (tightened with a Gucci belt, because how are you not going to take advantage of that?) is dressy, yet casual enough to be worn at a college party. When you trek down the stairs at a quarter to nine on a quest to scrounge around the kitchen for a quick meal, you’re not at all surprised to see Michael standing at one of the counters.

“You haven’t gotten dressed yet?” You ask, hopping up on the counter next to him and tearing apart a bread roll before popping a bite in your mouth.

“I figured I could just wear this to the party.” Michael’s expression sours when you laugh.

“I’m sorry, I promise I didn’t mean to laugh! It’s just--if you don’t want to attract a bunch of attention, then I wouldn’t suggest wearing a cloak, a suit, and a pair of red bottoms.” He looks down at his outfit, as if suddenly realizing how overdressed he is.

“But...I don’t know what else to wear?”

“C’mon, I’m sure we can find something in your closet for you to wear.” Michael hesitates when you grab his hand, obviously unsure of what to do next. “Kind of need you to lead the way, since I’m assuming your closet is in your bedroom that I’ve never been to before.”

“Right! Let’s go.”

The uncertainty that you feel at the threshold of Michael’s bedroom holds you back like a tether. It’s not as if anything unscrupulous is going to be happening, but the idea of invading the sanctity of your husband’s private bedroom is a little jarring. Peeking into the room, you’re reminded of a conversation you had with Michael during your first weekend here.

“Does every room look like this?” An unspoken question dangles in the air: does your room look like this? Michael grins widely, but it’s devoid of any of the emotions that a regular smile would accompany. It’s the smile of the devil. 

“Guess you’ll have to find out for yourself, won’t you?” He chuckles at the withering glare you give him, loping back towards the door and resting a hand on the silver handle. 

“So, every room does look the same,” you comment with a smirk, finally getting over your sudden fear and following Michael into his room.

“I had to have a little mystery surrounding me.” Michael smiles. “Are you going to help me or not?”

////////////////////////////

“Everybody here is in khaki shorts and printed shirts,” Michael hisses in your ear. Your hand grips Michael’s firm bicep, and you give it a teasing squeeze.

“Yeah, and you look a thousand times better than them. You always do.” Cars were already inconspicuously-but-not-really parked up and down the block, and you have to maneuver through at least fifty people just in the entryway and the living room. “College guys don’t really have a sense of style.”

“So I won’t lose you to one of these ‘boys,’ then?” Michael’s style, in your opinion, is timeless. You managed to work with his formal wardrobe, finding a white t-shirt and pairing it with an unbuttoned black shirt. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows (although that part may be totally self-serving), and his black jeans are cuffed into a pair of boots. He still looks more formal than everyone else, but it’s way better than him showing up in a goddamned cloak.

“You never even had me in the first place,” you chuckle, shooting Michael a playful wink. “C’mon, let’s see if we can find any of my friends around here.”

There’s coolers set up in the kitchen to keep the different cans and bottles cool, as well as an array of liquor on the kitchen island. Michael looks like a fish out of water, standing around awkwardly while you start peeking into the coolers.

“I thought you said you weren’t drinking,” Michael comments.

“I’m not, I’m just trying to find some soda or water.”

“(Y/N)!” You turn around, smiling when you see Noel standing before you.

“Hey, bud.” Noel, one of two party throwers of legend, is a shorter guy who makes up for his lack of height with his absolute insane stockpile of never ending energy. His black hair is always carefully gelled and combed into place, and he dresses like a middle-aged rich dad who’s going boating for the weekend.

“Who’s your friend? If he’s a part of Sig Tau, he needs to get outta here before Colin sees him, because Colin still has a huge problem with--”

“No, don’t worry, he doesn’t go to our school.” Noel nods, drumming his hands on the table and picking up a bottle of tequila.

“In that case, can I get you two some shots?”

“I don’t know, Noel, I wasn’t really planning on drinking tonight.”

“C’mon, (Y/N), one shot’s not gonna get you fucked up. I’ve seen you drink before, you’re barely even gonna get buzzed.” He winks, already knowing that you’re going to say yes when you sigh.

“Two shots, then.”

Noel expertly pours two shots, sliding them your way with a friendly “enjoy” before leaving to continue his hosting rounds.

“What’s Sig Tau? Is that some sort of a cult?” Michael asks once Noel’s gone.

“It’s a fraternity, so close.” You slide a shot to Michael and pick up your own, downing it with a grimace. Michael just stares apprehensively at the clear liquid in the shot glass. “Are you not going to drink that?”

“What is it? It looked like you were drinking gasoline.”

“It’s tequila, which is kind of the same thing.”

“If I die, I’m holding you responsible.” Michael throws his own shot back, coughing and hacking as you cheer. “Satan, that was terrible. Why do people drink that?”

“I dunno,” you shrug, grabbing two bottles of water from a cooler and tossing one to Michael, “quick little buzz, palate cleanser, there’s a million different reasons.”

Michael grabs your hand and pulls you out of the way when a girl, clearly already drunk, nearly bumps into you on her search for another drink. She mumbles an apology, choosing to take the whole bottle of Jack Daniels with her instead of pouring it into one of the hundreds of red Solo cups stacked on the counter. His blue eyes meet yours and you both chuckle, silently agreeing to move out of the cramped kitchen and somewhere with less people. While the living room’s not any better, you do manage to run into Kate and Mallory.

“You made it!” Kate exclaims, pulling you from Michael to hug you. Her eyes are wide while also managing to droop at the same time, and you can almost guarantee that she’s crossed. 

“I told you I would be here,” you say, giggling when Kate affectionately boops your nose. Mallory’s standing awkwardly to the side, eyes flickering between you and Michael. Kate also seems to pick up on her friend’s sudden change in demeanor, and smirks when she notices the man trailing behind you.

“And just who is this, (Y/N)?”

“Oh, this is my--uh, my friend Michael.” ‘Friend’ seems like a good term to settle on; you can’t explain your true relationship, Michael is not your boyfriend, and ‘acquaintance’ would be weird to say. Kate wiggles her eyebrows at you, sticking her hand out for Michael to take.

“Helloooo, (Y/N)’s friend Michael.”

“So, do you two have the same classes?” Mallory asks politely.

“No, Michael isn’t in college. He...well, he does--”

“I work for my father,” Michael interjects, smiling down at you. “I’m learning the ropes before I take over for him.” It’s technically not a lie, and you’re impressed until you remember that this must be one of his Antichrist powers. Mallory nods, but you can see a hint of something--doubt, or maybe suspicion?--in her eyes. Kate gasps before anymore words can be exchanged, grabbing yours and Mallory’s hands excitedly.

“I love this song! Dance with me, please!” You don’t really have a choice, the small woman amazingly strong when she wants to be. You look back at Michael apologetically, but he just smiles and gestures for you to go with. 

The familiar bass that underlays all hip-hop songs thumps loudly through you, acting as some sort of an electric charge. Where you had once been bored and ready to quietly slip out of the front door, you’re now controlled by the beat of the song. The congregation of partiers who have also decided to dance grows larger with each passing second, enveloping your trio in the middle. While the dancing isn’t so much dancing as it is bouncing in time with the rhythm, it’s carefree in a way that you didn’t know you needed until now. Mallory takes your hands, both of you laughing as she spins you in a circle.

Michael leans against the wall, head tilted as he watches the dancing college students. More specifically, he intently watches you dancing with your friends. He’s intrigued, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a smile as you move in a way he’s never seen you move before. While you’re more relaxed around him now, you’re still so reserved in your mannerisms. Here, Michael sees a glimpse of who you once were before he dragged you into his life. You smile widely, singing the lyrics at the top of your lungs along with everyone else in the group of dancers. Your hair flows freely around your face, and he finds himself enraptured by the movement.

Would things have been different between you two if Michael wasn’t the Antichrist? Maybe, in another life, or another universe, you both would have attended the same college. The image pops into his head like it’s burned there; Michael sitting next to you on the first day of some nameless class, becoming friends with you first. Slowly but surely, your bond would only deepen, and from friends would spring lovers. Michael shakes his head imperceptibly: a fantasy. He can’t dwell on these silly theoretical questions that have no answers. It’s a fruitless pursuit, and nothing good will come out of fixating on the ‘what if’s.’

Michael jumps in surprise when you’re suddenly in front of him, being too wrapped up in his thoughts to notice the song ending and you making your way back over to him. You laugh, obviously delighted at finally catching him off guard. 

“I let you startle me that time,” he jokingly argues.

“Uh-huh, if that’s what makes this crushing defeat easier for you. Anyways, do you wanna get out of here? Kate and Mallory are the only ones I really came here to see, and if we’re not going to drink there’s not really any reason to be here.”

“I’m ready to go home if you are.”

“Actually, I might have a little detour for us…” you trail off, smiling conspiratorially.

“Oh?” Michael’s not sure if he should be excited or nervous for idea of yours, something that you easily pick up on. 

“I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting on opposite sides of a booth in a small diner that you frequent with friends during the school year. A basket of french fries sits in the middle of the table, two tall glasses that are already beading with condensation standing guard next to the food. Amidst the fluorescent lighting, scratchy country music, loud ceiling fans, and run-down booths, you’re struck by how out of place Michael seems here, in your world.

He had stuck out like a sore thumb at the party, his uncomfortable posture and expensive clothing practically screaming that he did not belong in that small house. Here, in a restaurant with patrons ranging from a young family to an elderly couple, a middle-aged businessman to a homeless woman, he looks like some far-away traveler who landed in the wrong town. He’s a Renaissance piece of artwork, something far too beautiful and celestial for the eyes of these mere humans who couldn’t begin to comprehend the masterpiece that is Michael Langdon.

“Just what are we doing here?” Michael asks after the waitress, an older busty woman with red hair straight from the box, sets your order down and leaves. 

“We’re enjoying a late-night snack,” you say simply, grabbing at a fry and savoring the first bite into the just-fried food.

“A late-night snack consisting of french fries and--are these milkshakes?” Michael picks up one of the glasses, investigating its contents. 

“Uh, yeah? Have you never had a milkshake before?”

“(Y/N), my grandmother hid me away and refused to let me out of the house. Of course I’ve never had a milkshake before.” Your face falls, proving that you’re still not good at hiding your emotions like Michael is. Pushing the other glass towards him, you lace your fingers together and place them under your chin. 

“I’m honored that I get to be a part of your first milkshake experience, then. There’s vanilla and chocolate; try them both, and then you can have whichever one you like best.”

Michael looks uneasily between the two glasses, as if trying to decipher if one is poisoned. “Which one do you prefer?”

“I like them both,” you shrug. 

Finally, he takes a cautious sip of the chocolate. You’re mildly disappointed when he doesn’t have any sort of reaction, silently cataloguing his opinions on the flavor before taking a less-cautious drink of the vanilla. Without any fanfare, he pushes the chocolate back towards your waiting hands.

“They’re both good, you’re right, but I like this one better.” You smile, sliding the glass towards you and sipping the shake that he’s rejected.

“Um, Michael…” you trail, not sure how to phrase what you’ve been thinking of for the past week.

“Yes?”

“Would--is the offer to move in with you still on the table?” Michael smirks widely, and you rush to explain yourself. “It’s just that my rent is going up next month and it’s not worth it at this point, and your place is closer to campus. Plus, my cat likes you better than she likes me.”

You’re not sure why you’re nervous, since he’s obviously going to say yes to your request. You living with him was one of the only things he desperately wanted during the contract negotiations. When you think about it, you just don’t want him to get the wrong idea. It seems as if you’ve finally reached a comfortable relationship with Michael, a place where you tolerate him and could even see him as one of your friends. But an actual romantic relationship is so far down the list of things that you and Michael are, and you don’t want him to think that you’re finally going to be the loving wife that Satan wanted you to be. For lack of better wording, there’s no way in hell that will happen.

“Only because I like your cat better than you, and I wouldn’t want her to go homeless.” Your mouth drops and you laugh, picking up a fry and throwing it at Michael who, of course, deftly catches it in his mouth.

“You jerk!”

“You said it first, not me!”

“Fine,” you sit back against the booth and cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your best poker face on, “but you should know that we’re a package deal.”

“Hmm, I suppose I can cope with that.”

“Do we have a deal, then?” Yet again, you’re struck by the irony of making a deal with the Devil (well, the Devil’s son, but close enough). Michael picks up his glass and waits for you to do the same, clinking your milkshakes together in agreement. 

“We, my dear, have a deal.”

////////////////////////////

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[ainarosewood]

Whimsy

@gatheredfates​

“And so Esteemed Lords, Noble sirs I humbly request that I be given leave to begin this endeavor.” Lelulu stated looking at the assembled Houses of Lords and Commons of Ishgard.

Quiet murmurs filled the room as both groups discussed at length her proposal.  She stood quietly awaiting their decision.  Deep inside beneath her Warrior of Light mask was a gnawing concern.  The last time she had attempted something this ambitious she had be dismissed from the Studium due to offending the wrong individual.  She did not wish for a similar issue to happen again. She also hadn’t added the final stipulation she had for the project yet fearing that it would be objected outright.

Finally the room fell quiet and Sir Aymeric spoke, “Due to the noted fact that the clergy themselves have already given you the go ahead to repurpose that old hot house, the House of Lords feels that there is naught more to discuss.”

“The House of Commons raised the concern of what said endeavor will cost.  Much and more has already been placed into the Firmament Restoration Effort, a worthy cause to be sure.  However, since you have not given the full details of this project only the statement that it has the support of the clergy. We feel a need to ask.”

Lelulu nodded she had honestly more expected the House of Lords to raise such a concern but then again the nobles of Ishgard were not know for frugality with money.  

“I have already contacted, courtesy of the Adventures Guild, the artisans required for the project.  All of them will be paid via the Guilds coffers for I took the liberty of putting the project in as a Leve Prospect” she stated

“And if it was refused what would have then happened?”

She gave him a smile of reassurance, “Naught, those artisans involved would have simply be informed of the projects closure and would have turned to a different one to obtain payment.  Such shifts are not uncommon within the Levemet.”

“So you will not require Ishgard to pay for an endeavor that from what you are implying will benefit the City State?”

“Correct sir,” she responded, “Think of this as a gift, from me to Ishgard for the aid it gave the Scions and myself during the unrest in Ul’dah.”

The Speaker of the Commons paused turning to his fellows who all nodded in agreement before he stated, “Than like the House of Lords, the Commons has no objections provided that the financial situation remains as presented,”

Lelulu beamed then said, “Thank you honored sirs, my lords, you will not regret this decision.  However I have but one further stipulation concerning the project.”

The room once again erupted in murmurs and discussion before Aymeric raised a hand for silence, “Given all that you have done for Ishgard and her people and that you are now graciously giving more pray what would that be?”

“That upon its completion, all of the peoples of Ishgard be permitted to enjoy it.  From the High Houses to the Brume.  That no one be permitted to use station or prejudice to bar others from it and such attempts be met with the removal of the offender.”

Once again the room burst into sound and Lelulu just simply smiled sweetly.  Inwardly she was now amused she had anticipated that the reaction would be thus but was confident given all of the strides forward the City State had been making that this would be granted.  

She also secretly knew that she would have Aymeric’s approval as well as Lord Francel’s and Antoriel’s.  The later Lord caught her eye a gleam of approval in his eye at her ruthless imparting of it.  He could see she had learned well how to play the game.

Aymeric raised his voice to be heard over the low clamor, “I do not foresee this as sort of difficulty.  After all we are endeavoring to learn from our ancestors mistakes and make a nation of unity.”

The noise died down and the silence was almost more defeaning.  After an uncomfortable moment the assembled gave their assents to Aymeric’s words.  He gave a warm smile gratitude shining in his eyes to her as he stated, “Go then dear friend and may Halone bless this project.”

*******************************************************************

Hours later a veritable horde of adventurer artisans appeared in the Ishgardian Atheryte Plaza to be shepherded to the vault by an excited Warrior of Light and her trio of carbuncles.  Covers were placed over the hot house and construction for the project began.  Even before its completion it began drawing Ishgardians from all walks of life attempted to catch a peak at this gift from the Warrior who had already given them so much.

After several weeks it was finally announced that the project was finished and the gathered artisans left returning to their home Cities eager to retrieve their payment for the job.  An assembly was called outside of the building and all were met with the grinning face of the Warrior of Light as she stood before the cloth hiding the building.  In the foremost were all of the children of Ishgard from the orphans of the Brume to the sons and daughters of the Highborn.

“Brothers and Sisters of Ishgard,” Lelulu called her voice easily reaching the whole crowd.  Allow me to present, the Garden of Tranquility and Unity.”

She then raised one of her hands in a gesture that Aymeric found quite amusing for he knew she was mimicking the very one he had used to reveal the carving at Falcons Nest.

As the drapes fell away he gasped as did all assembled.  A soft snow fall was covering the roof of the hot house but within appeared as if it were a summer days in old Coerthas before the calamity.  It was almost like a fairy tale land within the building and the children all squealed in delight as the impish Lalafell led them inside.

Several of the peoples gathered outside also strode in Aymeric included and all were shocked at the warmth they had entered.  Once inside it was as if they were standing in said meadow the sun shining down a light breeze ruffling hair.  It was as if they were transported back in time.

Aymeric made his way over to Lelulu his eyes wide in wonder, “Dear friend, how...pray tell have you done this?”

“She grinned back stating, “A little bit of botanical know how, a little bit of arcanima and a whole lot of glamour magics.”

“Glamours?” he asked his eyes wide in complete shock, “Tis as if we are actually standing in a highland meadow yet this is glamoured?”

She nodded emphatically, “Aye I have always had quite a bit of skill at getting them to be very realistic.” she then gave a sigh, “It was actually said realism that got me expelled from the Studium.”

“Well then their loss, is Ishgard’s gain,” He replied smiling down at her, “Thank you my friend and I swear this Garden shall be enjoyed by all of Ishgard.

[kattloaf]

Unexpected Guest (Dinner Party pt. 2)

Following the tour Tidus and Kamila had given her, Kat found herself with more time than necessary before the night’s festivities began in full. The well-chaperoned tour of the manor showed off its finer features, the grand, opulent rooms, the breathtaking views, the sheer wonderment the manse provided. During it, however, Kat had taken note that, while they covered most of the manor, there were certain gaps that lacked appreciable reasoning. Private quarters were a given, of course, but other parts of the building had been left sight-unseen. 

As her escorted tour of the place concluded, they had offered her a room to retire before the celebration began. As she had so many times during the tour, Kat couldn’t help but marvel at the opulence of the room they’d shown her to. Sapphire blue carpeting with gold patterns near the walls, the pattern reflected in filigree on the baseboards and throughout the wall, which was a deeper shade of blue. As with the other rooms she had seen, there were a number of paintings and pictures with ornamented frames adorning the wall to break up the sea of blue and gold. The furniture, interestingly, was red with silver accents, as though to stand in stark defiance of the ocean they resided in. Against one wall sat an enormous, plush bed with a canopy also of red. Reaching the far wall of the room, there was another set of doors leading to a balcony. Nearly every room facing seaward had a balcony, she’d noted. 

At first she simply spent some time thinking, allowing herself to process all she had seen -and what she hadn’t-. Should she need to run, having a mental map of the estate could prove a matter of life or death. Once that matter was addressed, she surreptitiously took stock of the things she’d brought with her. Tucked into slip pockets along her waistline were three of the wolfram-cored kunai she was fond of. Strapped to her thighs, and glamoured to be unseen, were the two daggers Laplace had forged for her, Fuyakaze and Harukaze. She’d mentally taken to calling them the ‘Twin Winds’, but they had proper names all the same. Lastly, she’d tucked several vials in various places, mostly in her dress, but also her boots. 

Inventory taken, she rose, ambling about the room before inevitably making her way to the balcony. The view was, as she was coming to expect, breathtaking. She stood at the midpoint of the river the manor was built over, gazing out first to the waterfall that cascaded down, then to the valley itself. The sun setting to her left cast long shadows over the near valley, the cliff facing she sat atop curving along the shore. Such brought an early nightfall to the town below. As Kat watched, streetlamps and windows began to glow with light as life began to wind down for the evening. Out at sea, ships lit their lanterns as they sailed in to the docks, seeking safe haven for the darkness of night that was approaching. At her vantage, night was yet to arrive, but down there, in that town, it had begun to descend in earnest. 

Unfortunately, she only had so much time to dwell on the tranquil, beautiful scene before her. Tonight was not a night to let her mind wander to the frayed ends of possibility. Tonight she had to focus. She was in a Garlean province, at the estate of a lifetime politician and, she was fairly certain, the intelligence officer he had as a wife. She couldn’t afford to let whimsy take hold. And so, after several deep, controlled breaths to re-center, she set off to meet the night head-on.

When she had heard there were to be other guests, Kat had expected a half-dozen or so, maybe twenty. Instead, there were over forty that had arrived thus far, with little signs of slowing. They arrived in ones and twos at first, some in carriages, some in magitek vehicles of varying fashion. As the time for the beginning of the party drew nearer, and it was a party, or gala if one wanted to be proper, the guests began to arrive more densely. It was not long before the rotunda was bustling with vehicles coming, dispensing their occupants, then leaving. It’s rather marvelously orchestrated. Just enough chaos to keep it from pure order.

I should like to take a look at some of those magitek rides, not that we’ll get the chance. I’m more concerned about the people -in- the vehicles, as you all should be.

At least we don’t recognize many.

Indeed, quite mercifully so, none of the arrivals thus far had been recognizable outside of name recognition by Kat, or vice versa. She stood in the entry hall, that grand checkerboard entrance that had so entranced her mind when she first entered it. Now, rather than echoing vacuously with the footfalls of two people, it rang with the clamor of  dozens of voices all speaking at once. There were cushioned benches and even end tables lining the spaces between archways now, many of them occupied in some way by the attendees. For her part, Kat had kept mostly to herself, offering greetings to those who passed and took interest, but largely letting the rest of them mingle. It made it easier to listen, watch. To learn who liked whom and who they avoided.

Garlean, red jacket, black pants. Baleful look at the hyur woman in the green dress. Portly balding man, black jacket and cravat. Ill-liked by those around him. Laughs at his own jokes.

Black-haired hyur with the blue shimmering dress. Has a small baby bump. Likely pregnant. Man with her is not her husband. No ring. I like her dress. The pregnant one. Oh! Also, man with her is only half-Garlean. 

So went the beginning of the party for Kat, cataloging as much information as she could about the attendees and trying to draw conclusions from it. It did help that each arrival was announced by one of the servants. Kat recognized the servant in question, though only in passing during her tour. She spent most of her time this way, until the herald at the entry declared another name that shook her from her data assessment. 

“Now presenting his excellency Cassian fae Victus, Vicarius of the Southeastern province.”

In with the announcement walked a man that was, lamentably, familiar to Kat. He was Garlean, with sharp, angular features and a smile that was altogether too self-assured and self-satisfied for Kat’s taste. He was tall, with blonde hair pale green eyes, a hue that matched the color of the vest he wore beneath a dark jacket that had gold trim. The trim, naturally, continued down onto his trousers and even his shoes. The ensemble, which Kat found fitting, but garish in the details, only served to complement his upturned chin as he ambled through the hall. 

Moving furtively, but with caution to appear as though she weren’t being evasive, Kat moved her way further into the hall, taking residence in another of the archways that led into other rooms. Greeting other guests as he meandered, Cassian almost missed her. Such potential success was, inevitably, foiled as his moved his gaze to Kat in spite of her efforts. A ripple of confusion played across his lean features, followed by a haughty, bemused smirk as he made his way through the crowd toward her. 

Ah shit.

Damn.

Why did he have to be here….

Fuck this asshole. 

“Well well, now what do we have here? We are quite far removed from the island of Thavnair, for such a rare variety of desert flower.” Reaching out, he neatly took Kat’s hand, which she had held out in way of customary greeting, and kissed the back of her palm. 

Kat smiled a politician’s smile, full of good cheer without an ounce of warmth in her eyes. “You should have paid closer attention to the gardens on your approach. The gardeners have quite the skill for making desert flowers bloom here. I counted four different varieties native to Thavnair.”

Cassian just chuckled at that, somehow managing to fill the sound with as much casual disdain as possible without making an openly mocking gesture. “Is that so? I was, regrettably, occupied with… other matters that required my attention on the ride in. I shall have to pay attention next I have the chance.” Still smiling that smug, triumphant smile, he finally let Kat’s hand go, which she quickly retracted. 

Changing tact slightly, since Cassian was the sort that could spout platitudes until the sun died, Kat steeled herself. “So, you are a Vicarius now, replete with the title. Last I’d heard, you were still an Eques at the embassy in Radz-at-Han.” She plastered on another of those politically-savvy smiles. “Moving up in the world, aren’t we?”

Cassian simply nodded, his ever present smile not wavering. “Indeed. My efforts and diligence at the embassy were recognized, and thus I ascended to my current position.” He waved blithely with a hand. “It’s all.. So very according to plan and procedure, if you’ve an appreciation for such.”

She lifted a hand to her chin, posturing as though she were thinking fervently. 

Do we?

Logically? No.

Yes, but we really want to.

Really, really want to. 

Kat smiled at length.“I can appreciate following protocol. Remind me, though, how many female serving staff did you go through in a moon? What’s the procedure for that?”

Immediately, Cassian’s demeanor grew frigid, his posture stiffening as the cold delight in his eyes turned to a burning venom. Immediately, his voice lowered, its timbre heavy with implication of malice. “Not so many as the number of beds your back has sullied.”  

With an icy smile, his voice and demeanor returned to the air of casual indifference he wore as a badge of honor. The venom still in his gaze as he stared Kat down, he continued in a voice that carried to those nearby. “Please do forgive my brevity in our reacquainting, there are a number of people I have yet to greet. Perhaps we will be able to… better familiarize ourselves later?”

Inwardly, Kat sighed. He’d bested her in this small move, even if she had gotten under his skin. It wasn’t entirely false that they knew each other, but one night of a drunken Garlean groping her like she was a sack of popotos before passing out was hardly something to discuss openly. No, there was no way she could decline his general offer without committing social suicide this evening. While being associated with him would make it easier to navigate the social scene, he was the last person she wanted to be attached to in the minds of others.

So, she did what she could, and smiled graciously, nodding as she spoke clearly and loudly, “Should the opportunity arise, and our cups be full, I would like nothing more.” It was a small barb, one that she didn’t expect to be discerned by the crowd around them, but it was a barb meant for him. With an achingly subtle sneer, Cassian turned to find other party-goers to greet. 

It took less than a minute for another to step into Cassian’s place. By greeting her deliberately and associating with her, he’d rent asunder the stigma that surrounded her. Now Kat would have to deal with the parade of faces, many of whom she had already met and catalogued, once again. 

You’re right, One. Fuck that man.

Ironically, we haven’t. 

That’s the point.

Blue dress is coming over! And yes, fuck him.

It was not terribly long before the dark, lacquered doors at the end of the hall swung wide, the aged head servant from Kat’s arrival acting as herald. “Good Lords and Ladies, Gentlemen and Women. At your leisure, the dining hall is now open.”

Immediately, there was a cordial, patient rush of people to the dining hall. Naturally it was, in essence, purely a case of migrating from one area for gossiping to another, but it was progress of a sort. Making her own way into the dining hall, Kat once more had to take in the spectacle borne of wealth and appreciation for interior decor. The checkerboard marble floor gave way to one that was of solid black marble, seams of gold in the tiles giving it a splash of decadent color. Adding to the color palette were red banners, some with the Garlean emblem, others without, spaced evenly along two of the walls and between the twin staircases that curved up to the second floor. The fourth wall, while also bearing red drapes and curtains, primarily consisted of large windows flanking sets of open doors, leading to a grand balcony.

The table, which stood as the centerpiece of the entire room, was massive. A red cloth runner split the table in twain visually, but by all appearances it was a single, seamless expression of extreme craftsmanship. A warm sienna, the wood grain was almost indistinguishable from all the work that had been put into it. As she was led to her seat second to the right of the table’s head, Kat tried to suss out whether it was a single object, or if there were sleeves cleverly disguised. 

That HAS to be multiple trees. There’s no way that it’s a single piece.

At a glance, I don’t see any divisions. It looks solid. 

I’m with Four, no way it’s not composite. 

Still looks good. 

Her chair held out for one of the servants -the same miqo’te woman who had first greeted her, curiously, she claimed her seat, the servant woman helping her scoot in to a comfortable degree. Kat turned her head to offer the woman her thanks, but she was already gone. Off to tend to another guest, no doubt.. Shrugging, Kat turned her attention forward, just in time to see Cassian being seated across from her, next to a spindly, anxious-looking man she recognized from earlier as one Bicchus nan Dichus. 

Dinner was going to be interesting. And long.