#theodore decker -> father

[totheidiot]

if you sit down and Think about Everything for a little bit, eventually you will have the sudden epiphany that you have based every man above the age of 25 from fictional media that you Think about a lot, either after your father or your math teacher from 7th and 8th grade.

[carduelism]

The horrors of being your father’s daughter

‘—flipping through the channels past an old American cop show, I stopped astonished at the sight of my twenty-five-year-old father: one of his many non-speaking roles, a yes-man hovering behind a political candidate at a press conference, nodding at the guy’s campaign promises and for one eerie blink glancing into the camera and straight across the ocean and into the future, at me. The multiple ironies of this were so layered and uncanny that I gaped in horror. Except for his haircut and his heavier build (bulked up from lifting weights: he’d been going to the gym a lot in those days) he might have been my twin. But the biggest shock was how straightforward he looked—my already (circa 1985) criminally dishonest and sliding-into-alcoholism father. None of his character, or his future, was visible in his face. Instead he looked resolute, attentive, a model of certainty and promise.

After that I switched the television off.’

[chaoss-incarnate]

i don't think I've ever seen anyone talking about this but all i can think about since finishing the goldfinch is how theodore decker never truly left new york.

okay so we have 13 year old theo, whose mother just died in the museum, living at the barbour's, and meeting hobie and seeing pippa again. this much is obvious, he's still living in new york, wandering the streets and places where he and his mother frequented, being a shadow of his previous life. at night he dreams of the museum, and wakes up screaming.

his father appears, takes him to vegas. and despite meeting boris and doing all sorts of things with him (drinking, drugs, you name it), he's still 14 year old theo believing his mother is waiting for him back home. he wakes up from the museum more often than not, but i believe this is also when his dreams take a different turn; back in new york, places he would go with his mother, knowing she was there but never seeing her, never being in the same place as her. he longs for her, longs for his old life, believes her death was his fault. he tries to distract himself. like boris says: 'i drink to be happy, but you wanted to die'. boris, who has lived in so many countries, always moving, and theo, with his longing to return to the place he knows.

and then his dad dies and he goes back to new york. 15 year old theo is back in his home city, around the places he knows. places he was with his mother. and of course he goes to hobie's. what else can he do? he goes to college, learns the furniture dealer's way, and for the next eight years he lives in new york, working, wandering the streets. his longing for his childhood with his mother has subdued, mostly, thanks to the controlled (as he believes) substance abuse. he gets engaged to none other than kitsey barbour, and he continues to live his life. he takes her to places he went with his mother, places she never appreciated ('the dingbat'). he continues to love pippa (though, as we all know, that love wasn't healthy - it wasn't really love. he appreciates pippa, her friendship, but he latched on to her because they both share the same trauma and he believes no one will understand him better than she, now that his mother is gone. as the narrator in fight club says: 'you met me at a very strange time in my life.')

the boris appears. he's there and it turns out that he stole the painting. because the painting had followed theo since he was 13, going wherever he went. and now? its halfway across the world. and so now theo follows the painting, all the way to amsterdam.

new york used to be called new amsterdam until the english took over the dutch that lived there and renamed it new york. coincidence that theo ended up in the former namesake of the city he can never escape? the country where fabritius, the painter, was from. it would make sense for the painting to maybe be in delft, the place where it was discovered, where fabritius died, to make it a full circle, but no. amsterdam.

there, theo saw his mother again. he actually saw her. halfway across the world and yet he's somehow still in new york. with her.

the end of the novel is very open. theo travels, of course, to rectify the false furniture he sold, but everything ties him back to new york. his engagement to kitsey isn't over, the barbours expect him to return, someday. he still works with hobie.

'but vivian,' you might think, 'what about pippa? she went through the same thing theo did and yet she spends most of her time out of new york.'

the truth is that we don't know much about pippa. she wasn't present during most of the novel, mostly in theo's mind. we know some things about her: her parentage, music she likes and so on, but we barely know how the explosion affected her.

as she remarks in her letter at the end, she and theo would be bad for each other due to their extreme similarities. she has difficulties because of the explosion. she goes to texas, then switzerland, then london, then california. she can't seem to stay in new york, but she's there a lot of course, hobie's there, and so is theo.

i believe that in this, pippa and theo are opposites: theo, no matter what he does, is always in new york, always returning. somehow he wants to be there, for the memories of his mother. he wants to walk those streets and go to those places they went to together. its painful for him but he'd rather that than be somewhere new. pippa, on the other hand, leaves voluntarily. a lot. of course she wishes to be close to hobie, but she just can't stand to be in new york for the same reason theo stays. pippa walks the streets of new york and thinks 'welty used to take me here, and here' and its unbearable for her.

even so, most nights they both return to the same point, and they both know they'll never leave it, or rather, it'll never leave them.

[yourfavorphankid]

INTRODUCTION‼️ (this is a rp account. Not impersonating.)

• Name ~ Jordan Souzar

• DOB ~ December 13th, 2008. current age is 15 1/2.

• Sex ~ female but prefers to look more masculine.

• Sexuality ~ bisexual

• Jordan was born in Puerto Rico.

• Family information ~ unknown.

• Current living status ~ lives alone in a small apartment down in New York City, and also is an orphan.

• Jordan was abandoned by her mother at birth. And was taken care of by her father who abused her at times and eventually also abandoned her when she was five. Jordan has no memories of her father as she blocked them out completely as a trauma response. She’s lived on her own since.

• Allergies are ~ strawberries and peanuts.

• Hobbies ~ Jordan likes playing basketball, baking, video games, drawing, and comic books. She collects rocks, marbles and a lot more.

• Jordan had never been to school, but she has a very high IQ and managed to get an internship at some random company.

• Jordan has ADHD, autism (very mild but does still A LOTT.) and also undiagnosed bipolar disorder.

• OC ~ Theodore decker/oakes fegley.

• Random ~ Jordan can eat 10 Oreos in one go!

• that’s all for now. If u wanna know more js ask :).

Side note :: I need friends on this, and family maybe, but yeah! :D hi, and goodbye!

[http-soukiebb]

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt Book and Movie Review 🖼️

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt Book Review

Summary :

I’m gonna preface this by saying I will read anything Donna Tartt writes and love it and this book is an understatement to that and is a showcase of her more than talented writing skills and beautiful prose in this story. The Goldfinch tells the story of Theodore Decker and how his life is changed after he is a victim of a terrorist attack that leaves him in the possession of a very valuable painting, Fabritius’ “The Goldfinch” and how the knowledge of owning this very valuable painting weighs on his conscious into adulthood. This huge (literally and figuratively) coming of age novel navigates topics that people search their whole lives to understand, such as love, life, and death, and Tartt’s ability to write about these topics from the perspective of her male characters is thought provoking, dramatic, and more often that not unpredictable.

Spoilers*** I think that Theo’s development from his teenage to adult years going through multiple tragedies was interesting to see as he constantly grieves his mother, finds no love with his father, and his own found family with Hobie, Boris, the Barbours, etc. which makes him beg the question of fate, and how it has a hand in our lives. Grief is seemingly the biggest thing Theo is consistently struggling with, and the last pages of the whole book are what got me the most, when Theo finally comes to a resolution with what the painting means to him and how he interprets (to put it literally SO SIMPLY) the meaning of life in relation to Death with one of my favorite quotes being, “And in the midst of our dying, as we rise from the organic and sink back ignominiously into the organic, it is a glory and privilege to love what Death doesn’t touch” (p. 771).

The Goldfinch (2019) Movie Review

*Spoilers and minor criticism

Despite the novel being nothing short of a masterpiece, sometimes a lon-gterm story cannot be delivered satisfactorily into a tw- hour film. I loved the movie and personally think the casting is amazing, and Ansel Elgort as Theo was very talented, but it is ALL IN THE PACING!! which I believe was the most contributing problem. I think they should have focused more on Theo’s relationship with his mom prior to the explosion, the negative one with his dad, and absolutely should’ve shown how Hobart and Blackwell was struggling, then leading to Theo bargaining and eventually ���scamming” customers. Kitsey is also unbearable in the movie compared to the book but. In short, more focus on a few plotlines as opposed to little bits of every plotline would’ve been preferable. The soundtrack and visual aesthetics were very beautiful, and the portrayal of Theo and Boris’ relationship was better than I could imagine it being in the movie. Besides the general criticisms, this movie is not BAD okay.

OVERALL 7.5/10.

[novelsmini]

About The Goldfinch novel

  "The Goldfinch" is a novel written by Donna Tartt, published in 2013. The book is a coming-of-age story and a complex exploration of art, loss, and the consequences of our choices. Here's a full description:

Set primarily in New York City and Las Vegas, the novel follows the life of Theo Decker, a young boy who survives a tragic terrorist bombing at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. In the chaos of the explosion, Theo's mother dies, and he takes a priceless Dutch painting called "The Goldfinch" with him. This event sets in motion a series of events that shape Theo's life in profound ways.

Theo bounces between the care of different guardians, struggling with the trauma of the bombing and the loss of his mother. Throughout the years, he becomes entangled in the world of art forgery and crime, all while holding on to the stolen painting, which becomes both his burden and his solace.

The novel delves into themes of love, friendship, addiction, and the power of art to provide meaning and redemption. It's a richly detailed and emotionally resonant work that has received critical acclaim for its intricate storytelling and complex characters.

"The Goldfinch" by Donna Tartt features a diverse cast of characters, each with their own unique personalities and roles in the story. Here are some of the key characters in the novel:

1. Theodore "Theo" Decker: The protagonist of the novel, Theo is a young boy who survives a terrorist bombing at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. His life is forever changed by this event, and he becomes the keeper of the priceless painting "The Goldfinch."

2. Boris Pavlikovsky: Boris is Theo's best friend, a Russian immigrant with a troubled past. He plays a significant role in Theo's life, both as a friend and a partner in various illicit activities.

3. Samantha "Pippa" Barbour: Pippa is another survivor of the museum bombing, and she becomes an important figure in Theo's life. He is deeply infatuated with her, and their connection is a central theme in the novel.

4. Larry Decker: Theo's estranged and alcoholic father, Larry, is a complex character who reenters Theo's life at various points in the story.

5. Mrs. Barbour: The Barbour family takes Theo in after the museum bombing, providing him with a stable home. Mrs. Barbour is a wealthy and reserved woman who becomes a maternal figure to Theo.

6. Hobie: A kind and skilled antique restorer, Hobie becomes a mentor to Theo and introduces him to the world of art and antiques.

7. Xandra: Xandra is Theo's absentee mother, who reappears in his life later in the novel and introduces him to a different way of living.

8. Welty: A friend of Theo's mother and a fellow survivor of the museum bombing, Welty has a significant impact on Theo's life, even after his death.

9. Platt Barbour: A member of the Barbour family, Platt is Pippa's older brother and Theo's close friend during his time with the Barbours.

10. Lucius Reeve: An art dealer who plays a pivotal role in Theo's involvement with the art world and the illicit art market.

These are just a few of the many characters who populate Donna Tartt's "The Goldfinch." The novel is rich in character development, and each character contributes to the complexity of the story.

Donna Tartt's writing is known for its lush prose and meticulous attention to detail, and "The Goldfinch" is no exception. The novel won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 2014 and has captivated readers with its compelling narrative and exploration of the human condition.

For more info click here -https://novelsmini.blogspot.com/

[reneewalkersknives]

Thinking about Boris being so friendly to Pippa, calling her a dear friend, saying of course she knew who he was, talking about Theo with her, asking so familiarly could he steal Theo from her. And it makes me think of them dicsussing Theo’s father “your enemy? My enemy” but maybe it goes two ways. Your friend? My friend. Maybe because Theo and Boris are so bound together Boris is automatically connected to the people Theo cares about. And it’s like; if Theo and Boris can share in each other’s hatred they can share in each other’s love too, and if that’s not soulmates then what is?

[imayormaynotbeadeadrat]

me happily* scrolling through the boreo tag, trying to forget that 75% of everyone theos close to died-

*trying to stop crying after watching tgf

[marxistjughead]

me talking about dean: he contains multitudes. i don’t understand dean critical blogs i have love in my heart for him

me when i see dean on screen: who is this bastard man

[vegasera]

Running Towards Home - a Goldfinch fanfiction

On November 2nd 2005, two boys sit in a children's park, drunk and high and waiting on something. With little contemplation and years of necessity, they choose to run away.

rating: general audience | ship: boreo | word count: 688

One.

July 2nd 1999. Boris is ten when he runs away for the first time. He has no intention of coming back to his father, not after he smelled the alcohol on his suit before even seeing the hand crashing down towards his face. This is Papua New Guinea, and it’s warm enough here to never need the blessings of a roof over one’s head to stay warm. Boris has absolutely no intention of doing anything but sleeping on the beach for the rest of his life. Maybe he could even survive on shellfish when they wash up on shore! It sounds like a splendid life, and he decides to start it right then and there by taking a nap right there on the beach he just ran to.

He wakes up in the arms of Bami, his father’s cook, who carries him to what looks like the house they are living in up until Boris tells him that he will never go back. He lives on his own now, independent and free. 

Bami doesn’t agree to let him go back out on his own. Instead he says, “Badr al-Dine, let’s pray on it. How does that sound?” 

As if it were a Friday—and Boris hadn’t known one could do this on any day but Friday—Bami takes him to the Mosque and helps him wash at the door, taking off all the sand that has accumulated on his shoeless feet. 

In the end, Allah gives him no sign that it’s time to leave, not until Boris' father does and takes Boris with him. Then, Boris gives up his faith. Allah should’ve given him the signal to run before he got to Ukraine.

Two.

August 8th 2003,The second time Boris runs away, he does so in the Ukraine winter. He finds two friends, Maks and Seryozha, who teach him the proper way to get properly drunk as opposed to just sipping on beer. The three of them build trash can fires like in those American movies, and it does a decent enough job of keeping them warm, but not warm enough that Boris doesn’t go home. Because he does. He always does. Whenever his father sobers up. On one of the best days of his life, he arrives just in time to see his father packing a bag. Boris rushes to do the same, and finally, they are off to somewhere warm: Las Vegas.

Three.

Theodore Decker has never run away from home. The closest he comes is April 11th 2003, when two Social Workers come up to his door and tell him they will be placing him with a family. With quick thinking, he offers up another name: the Barbour’s whose son he used to be friends with. He can stay there rather than at a stranger’s house.

He never dreams of running away. Sure, sometimes he lies about where he’s going when he runs off to an antique store three buses away, but he wants to stay with the Barbour’s for as long as they let him, if not longer.

He arrives home just in time to see his father standing there ready to take him away. He would never run away from this home; he is only stolen from it.

Four.

It starts with the simple ask of “Do you want to come with me?” And it shouldn’t end with “Yes,” but it does. 

On November 2nd, 2005, sitting in an empty, sandy playground, watching the stars like kaleidoscopes, waiting for the acid to kick in, Theo makes what may be the second most important decision of his life without even knowing where he is going.

The bruise on his jaw, given to him by his father just hours before, makes his head ache with the knowledge that it may happen again. “Do you want to go tonight?” he asks.

Boris’ eyes get big like a bug’s—but that was probably the acid at work—and he says “No,” with an urgency that shouldn’t come to a stoned person. Theo thought maybe the drugs just hadn’t kicked in yet when Boris said, “Tomorrow. Leave in the morning”

[carduelism]

Ever since I started kinning Theo my life has began to reflect his like why tf is my dad now more deadbeat and absent than ever

[yourneighborhoodbibliophile]

September Monthly Reading Wrap-Up

I read five books this month. ✨

1. The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde — ★ 2.5/5 stars ★

2. Maurice, E.M. Forster — ★ 3.5/5 stars ★

3. The Secret History, Donna Tartt — ★ 5/5 stars ★

4. The Little Friend, Donna Tartt — ★ 2/5 stars ★

5. The Goldfinch, Donna Tartt — ★ 5/5 stars ★

Keep reading for my unsolicited opinion on what I read this month.

1. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

The Picture of Dorian Gray follows Dorian Gray, a handsome, but sheltered, young man who serves as a model to artist Basil Hallward. Lord Henry Wotton, a friend of Basil Hallward, warns Dorian Gray of ennui. As a result, Dorian Gray pursues diverse forms of distraction in order to escape ennui. (In Chapter 11, Oscar Wilde writes detailed descriptions of these distractions which lead the reader to an ennui comparable to that of Dorian Gray.) These diverse forms of distraction lead to the corruption of Dorian Gray’s youth, innocence, and beauty. (Ironically, a method in which Lord Henry Wotton escapes ennui is through the influence, and ultimate corruption, of susceptible, young men, like Dorian Gray.)

2. Maurice by E.M. Forster

Maurice follows Maurice from childhood, through adolescence, to adulthood as he comes to terms with his homosexuality during a period in which homosexuality was not only socially unacceptable, but also illegal. Maurice is a confused, conflicted, and complicated character. Maurice’s innate “humanness” is central to this character-based novel. As a whole, I felt that Maurice was a subtle, but thoughtful novel. However, I felt that Parts 3 and 4 were not as fully developed as Parts 1 and 2.

3. The Secret History by Donna Tartt

The Secret History features a highly secretive group of friends: Henry Winter, the highly intelligent and highly influential “leader” of the group, Edmund “Bunny” Corcoran, Henry’s dependent best friend, Francis Abernathy, a young gay student, the Macaulay twins, Charles and Camilla, and Richard Papen, the new scholarship student. It is set at Hampden University, a secluded Liberal Arts college in Vermont, where they are the sole students in the highly selective Ancient Greek Classics program led by Julian Morrow. In the introduction, Richard, the narrator, tells us that Bunny is going to be murdered by none other than the people that he considers his friends. Richard narrates the sequence of events that lead up to and follow Bunny’s murder in a “reverse” murder mystery. The characters are highly complex with incredibly dynamic familial relationships, friendships, relationships, and group relationships. Their motivations are also highly complex; these complexities are reflected throughout the plot. As a result, The Secret History is a deeply psychological mystery, where the mystery is not “who”, but “why”.

4. The Little Friend by Donna Tartt

The Little Friend follows Harriet Cleve Dufresnes and her best friend, Hely Hull, as they seek retribution for the death of Harriet’s brother, who was murdered while Harriet was a baby. Although it was masterfully written (as are all of Donna Tartt’s novels), I did not find the setting, characters, or plot compelling.

5. The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

The Goldfinch follows Theodore “Theo” Decker from childhood, through adolescence, to adulthood, as he deals with his father’s abandonment and his mother’s death, as well as trauma, mental illness, alcoholism, substance addiction, and adulthood. The narrative was highly compelling, the characters were highly complex, the existentialist theme was powerful, and the writing was masterful.

[oflightfeet]

WREN + character parallels.

EURYDICE. Young, hungry and desperate, Eurydice chooses to sell her life away in the hopes of finding a place where she can rest and have her belly full, which is very reminiscent of Wren joining Famine. Songs that speak to me especially are: All I’ve Ever Known, Hey Little Songbird, When the Chips Are Down and flowers. More quotes here.

ASTRID MAGNUSSEN. After her mother goes to jail ( ironically played by Michelle Pfeiffer in the movie adaptation! ), Astrid becomes a child of the system at age 12. Her story is a coming of age one that features multiple foster homes, much like Wren’s latter half of his childhood. More quotes here, here, here, here and here.

THEODORE DECKER. Theo is haunted by the traumatic death of his mother, much like Wren is with his father’s. Unhealthy coping mechanisms, a tendency to not let anyone close and the way that trauma can affect your life into young adulthood is a theme for both Wren and Theo. More quotes here, here and here.

AMY BENDIX. I have not finished season two of the Punisher so I can’t give the most in-depth comparison here. But both are criminals who are able to utilise their softer-appearing nature to their benefit and manage to worm their way into the heart a truck of a man. More here, here, here.

CHARLIE. A wallflower in all sense of the world, Charlie just ... gives me Wren vibes. The melancholy, the observant nature, the willingness to adapt for all those he loves, the underlying trauma. More here and here.

ELLIE. More a potential parallel, in all honesty. Wren is not as rough around the edges as Ellie, but I could see him developing in a similar sense as Ellie in the second game if Thomas was to ever die ( a revenge journey where nothing is truly really fixed ). I discussed the parallel between Wren and Ellie too much not to include it. ALSO, the guitar playing. More here and here.

JESS JORDAN. Both of them are assistants to a Big Man in the company, a quiet presence that does not really waver. Jess is present a lot during Succession but is hardly ever heard of. She’s also gained a certain proximity to the Roy family, similarly to Wren worming their way into the Femenias family. Both have wide-eyes. 

[brckenbnes]

* george sear, cis man + he/him  | you know angel beaumont, right? they’re twenty two, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, twenty two years? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to funeral by phoebe bridgers like, a million times this year, which makes sense ‘cause they’ve got that whole atonement in peach soaked chapels, clinical walls spread thin & a hummingbird trapped between molars ; bleeding cries thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is march 15th, so they’re a pisces, which is unsurprising, all things considered. 

pinterest. 

stats.

* / »   full name.  angel beaumont. * / »   nicknames. angel, beau. * / »   age.  twenty two. * / »   sexual orientation.  homosexual. * / »   birthday.  15th march. * / »   star sign.  pisces.

psyche.

* / » compared to.  romeo montague, theodore decker, holden caulfield, eddie kaspbrak, neville longbottom . * / » hair.  brunette. * / » eyes. hazel hues. * / » height. 5′8. * / » distinguishing features. honey pooled hues, strawberry flavoured chapstick, occasional rimless lenses, dimpled smile upturned, bitter replies, asthma pumped arguments, cheeks flushed pink with intoxication.  * / » aesthetics.  hymns that fill empty chapels, graveyard buried caked & dry, unshed tears, picked wounds bleeding unspoken words, swollen lips from open mouthed kisses, bitterness burning with a quick witted arguments,  open casket funerals, honey pooled, knees bloodied, a sickness that churns, a tremor that haunts.

history.

tw : death tw, death of a sibling tw, obsessive parenting tw. 

01. you’re birthed from fear. bloodied mouthed prised open, you recite hymns in sun soaked churches. knees bruised, crosses heavy. you’re scared before you can remember. it becomes a gnawing that grows in a pit in your stomach. it tastes bitter, - wined. your mother calls it the devil. one that sits in the corner of your room, drapes clothes, - sings sweet melodies with pressed kisses. those desires that crawl at the nape of your neck, sticky sweet & cursed. you swallow it whole & visit church each sunday.

02. your brother visits you in clinical painted walls ; pierced shaped lungs have failed you before you are grown and you are bedbound by your mother’s pinched nails. it becomes a game between the two of you ; a moonlight soaked room, whispers in the dark. he speaks of a world outside of irving, you cannot fathom the taste of something other than your room, - it feels heavy, bitter. he leaves before you turn sixteen, he does not return.

03. you dream of your brother for the first time in years. you’re eighteen, and he has written letters that are tucked underneath your bed. your mother speaks in tongues, a bitterness that crawls in the space between you. you don’t speak of him, just like you don’t speak of dad. instead she makes sure that you are confined to her rules, unable to be let out of your sight. it’s funny, almost, - that if you were a princess, - your life resembles rapunzel.

04. he comes home in a body bag and is buried when you turn twenty, and you’re hollowed out. you don’t know where to place this anger. the emptiness that holds open casket funerals ;  grief soaked jumpers, dirt heeled & funeral processions. you want to cry, most nights, hold his memories in that fleeting nostalgia. when he would tousle your hair, or pluck stray threads from mother’s home stitched sweaters. 

05. your heart is mangled in your throat, a bloodied beating that floods your ears. & you cannot pinpoint when your love for your mother has turned to hatred, but it sits in the corner of your room,  - a ghost at the dinner table. shallow breath & shaky hands. you were never strong enough to leave. you weren’t like your brother, or your father.

extras.

* / » major altar boy vibes ( and choir boy ) - thanks mum !!  * / » literally the biggest loser & loner lol - thanks mum !! * / » also hella catholic guilt bc ?? i have to put my own trauma in there ?? * / » has no filter & that’s super gross bc he always says shit he shouldn’t. * / » small and fighty. * / » asthma pump user on another level. * / » really warm and gooey on the inside i swear. * / » misses his brother nick )): 

[iwritefanfictionsometimes]

still growing up now

for @curlymcclain (and myself bc I’m nothing if not selfish)

AO3

Chapters: 1/1

The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky

Characters: Theodore Decker, Boris Pavlikovsky, James "Hobie" Hobart

Additional Tags: Someone You Meet at the Wrong Time Then Re-meet at the Right One, Post-Canon, Open Ending, Kinda, Fluff, Theo sorts out his emotions, Healing

Summary: It’s been six months since Amsterdam, six months since I’ve been home for any significant period of time and, six months since I last saw Boris. Maybe after not seeing him for eight years, six months should seem like nothing, but with the new clarity of my sobriety and the strange knowledge in the back of my mind that I would kill for Boris it's harder to ignore the pull in my chest when I think of Boris’ curls and the smile in the corner of his mouth when he’s about to do something definitely stupid and possibly illegal.

----

or, the birthday fic

It’s been six months since Amsterdam, six months since I’ve been home for any significant period of time and, six months since I last saw Boris. Maybe after not seeing him for eight years, six months should seem like nothing, but with the new clarity of my sobriety and the strange knowledge in the back of my mind that I would kill for Boris it’s harder to ignore the pull in my chest when I think of Boris’ curls and the smile in the corner of his mouth when he’s about to do something definitely stupid and possibly illegal. 

I’m home now, possibly for good. All the Changelings I can remember selling have been bought back, I’ve righted my wrongs. Or at least, most of them. There’s still the wide and horrible divide between me and Kitsey that I don’t think will ever be repaired. It hadn’t broken her heart when I’d called off the engagement, but it had ruined what stability her family had built. I'm not surprised she can’t forgive me for that. I don’t let myself think of what questions I have that continue to go unanswered. 

Popper barely moves when I open the door, I think it’s a wonder he’s still alive. I kept thinking I would get a call in the middle of Europe telling me I needed to come home right away. But it never came. I can’t help but remember the way he’d screamed and jumped around when Boris walked in with me only six months ago. But he’s always liked Boris better. 

Hobie appears in the doorway to the basement. He looks more tired then I can remember since I showed up at his door unexpectedly after Vegas. It’s not a good look. I want him to smile again like he did while business was doing well. He watches me silently as I drop my bags in the entranceway. I stand there unsurely for a moment —it’s not a familiar feeling— before he sighs and opens his arms. I’m not used to this, even from him, but the hug is good. It means I’m forgiven. 

“Go get cleaned up, Theo, I have to run out for a moment,” Hobie says gruffly once we let go. 

“Oh,” I say awkwardly, “I was just stopping to see you and get some of my clothes.”

Hobie frowns at me. 

“I wasn’t sure if I’d be welcome here. And anyway, I thought it was time to start fresh.”

“What are you talking about, Theo?” 

“I’ve rented a place, an apartment, it’s not far but I thought I should give you some time.”

Hobie looks sad for a moment and he puts a hand on my shoulder. 

“I was never that mad, you know you are welcome to stay,” he tells me gently. 

I don’t know how to explain that this was as much for me as it was for him. I am, after all, a selfish creature. Very few things in my life have been done without any regard for my personal gain. 

I nod instead of trying to explain everything to him. He studies my face for a moment and then pulls away. “Tell me where your apartment is,” he says while putting his coat on, “I’ll bring over some things I’ve been meaning to give you tomorrow.”

Again, I nod. There isn’t really anything I feel I can say. He’s out the door with one last searching look and a flap of his coat. The lightness with which he moves still surprises me. 

I stand there for a moment, both at the bottom and the top of the stairs, before I shake my head and take my first step up to my room. Or I guess my old room. 

It takes longer then I thought it would to pack a suitcase. My room is a maze that my sober self doesn’t know how to navigate. Inevitably I end up standing in the doorway with a suitcase beside me and my home for the last nine years looking nearly as bare as it was when I first came. I only look at it for a second before leaving. I don’t put a name to the churning in my stomach. 

-

Boris is at my apartment. I stop halfway down the hallway, and my heart beats a frantic rhythm in my chest. He makes no sense in this hallway. Again, he is a magazine page torn from other chapters of my life. He looks so normal it’s strange, wearing a too-big t-shirt and jeans he looks like any boy waiting outside their friend’s apartment. He looks up when he hears my footsteps stop. There is the startling reality of his face, the paleness of his skin and then how dark his hair is against it, the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones. There’s a tentative smile in the corner of his mouth, not enough to crinkle his eyes but it’s there. 

“Potter,” he says, like this is normal. 

I would ask him how he knew where I was, but I didn’t really want to know.

“What are you doing here?” I sound more rude then I had intended, but Boris knows me well enough not to be offended.

He smiles a real smile then. My feet carry me over to him without a thought. 

“Do you not know what day it is?” he asks. 

I stumble over the dates in my head before oh. Oh. It’s my birthday. 

Birthdays in Vegas were never big affairs, neither of us had the money or the commitment to make actual plans. But the two I had with him were both memorable. I haven’t had one like that since I left. I wasn’t even sure if I’d ever told Hobie my birthday, although he must know. 

“You missed eight of them.”

I’m not sure what else I could say.

“Yes, but misunderstanding. It is all cleared up now,” he grins, “are you going to let me in?”

I can’t do much else but open the door. I’m hardly about to turn him away, not after thinking I might never see him again. He follows me in and kicks off his boots carelessly in the entryway.

“So, new place!” he observes, “it is very empty, Potter.”

I sigh and wheel my suitcase away from him. He follows me back to the bedroom chatting inanely about the weather and how loud New York is in the summer and ‘Potter! Remember how hot we were in Vegas? Always wearing sweaters!’ 

He wanders around my room as I drag my clothes out of the suitcase and get to work putting them away. I’m running on autopilot now, my mind too caught on —he’s here in my room his hands are on my things— him to make any good decisions about what I should be doing. He picks up the few trinkets I have with careful hands and studies them intensely while talking. I’m too caught up in the loop of Boris to immediately pick up when his voice stops. Then suddenly, I realize the room is too silent. I look up from my clothes to see him standing extremely still with his head bent towards whatever he’s holding in his hands. The line of his shoulders is tense. I stand up slowly, there’s a pounding in my chest where my heart is beating double time. I don’t know what’s in his hands, but whatever is coming feels inevitable. He turns to face me when I stand beside him. 

“You kept it,” he whispers.

I look down to see what he has clenched in his hand. It’s his father’s lighter. The heavy gold one he’d left in my bag a few days after the first birthday I spent with him. I know exactly how it feels in my hands. The swirling designs on the sides are worn down from years of my fingers rubbing them when I was nervous, and the lighter doesn’t even work anymore because of how much I’d used it, and yet, I’d brought it everywhere with me for the last nine years. 

His eyes are dark and startled when they meet mine. 

“I had not expected you would keep it.”

“It’s the only thing I had of yours,” I say, laughing awkwardly. 

It’s still difficult to be honest with him, even if I’ve almost gotten used to being honest with myself. 

There’s a silent minute where I have to clench my fists to stop words I’d regret from bursting out of my mouth, and then he lets out a shaky breath. We’re somehow too close. 

“Potter…” 

“Why did you come, Boris,” I interrupt to ask again, a little more desperate. 

“I missed you,” he mumbles, almost unintelligible through his accent.

His arm is under my hand, I don’t think about it too much. He’s warm. I can’t read whatever is in his eyes, but it leaves me a little short of breath. He’s fidgeting with the lighter still and I’ve never been more aware of the change in our height difference. I’m almost looking at the top of his head because he won’t meet my eyes. The fear from years ago creeps into my chest but I push it down. I worked for this, I didn’t sleep for this, I called a therapist a couple of times for this. Whether I take the leap or not it’s possible I won’t see him for years. I’m tired of it never being the right time. 

“I missed you too.”

It sounds like a secret, and Boris reacts like it’s one, jerking his eyes up to mine so fast it looks like it hurts his neck. There’s a defensive smirk just under his skin, I can tell, but he looks vulnerable like I haven’t seen since the night I left Vegas. I wonder what he would’ve said if I hadn’t refused to hear it. His study of my face must give him the answer he wanted because the fake smirk disappears and his eyes widen.

The lighter clatters to the floor. 

His hand is tight on my shoulder, almost painful, and his face is intense: filled with emotions I don’t understand, and fear.

“This is not a funny joke, Theo,” he hisses, and I know he’s serious because he uses my real name. It sounds odd on his tongue.  

“I’m not joking.”

“Are you high?” he asks, pulling away suddenly. 

“Boris!”

“Is a fair question, Potter.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. I have to say this right. There’s years of misunderstandings and unspoken lies to try and explain. 

“I’ve been thinking,” I start, “I know there are things we never talked about.”

Boris’ jaw clenches and he stands a little straighter. The sun reflects in his eyes through the window. It reminds me of Vegas a little, the sun always too bright and too hot, leaving Boris’ skin red and mine brown. But before he burned and peeled he was stunning in sunlight, gold falling on the many high points of his face and making him look like he was glowing. I could never resist him when he looked like that. 

“I also know there are things I don’t remember,” I shift nervously, Boris is completely still. 

“I don’t even know if you have any interest in me, but I just. I’ve been thinking-”

Boris’ hand on my cheek causes my mouth to snap shut. 

“Potter…” he whispers, and that is a secret as well. 

I can’t stop myself from swaying toward him —he’s always had a way of pulling me into his orbit— but I know I need to say this in full. “I didn’t let myself think about anything,” I whisper like the air will shatter if I talk louder.

“Not us, not my mom, and not about my own feelings. I was too empty and too full. And you were dangerous.” 

The brush of his fingers in my hair is distracting, and I want nothing more than to let him pull me in, but I’ve done enough thinking that I know I have to tell him this. There has been too much avoidance in our history. Thankfully Boris is quiet. New York is loud outside, but that hardly matters.

“I still am not sure about most things, but I know there was something-” I still can’t say it.

“Something more?” Boris asks.

“Something I never said.”

He looks up at me and touches the edge of my lips gently. I know there’s a scar there from one of the times he punched me. My breath hitches, I remember his lips on my fingers after both our mouths were bloody, I remember the desperate press of his own lips against mine so long ago. We’re both deathly silent. 

“What was it?” He asks finally. 

I can’t say it. I’ve thought it more times then I can count, and it’s swirling around my head on a loop, but I can’t make the words come out of my mouth. Boris looks like maybe he understands. 

“Is okay, Theo. I understand.”

The air leaves me in a rush and then my lungs are burning because his lips are on mine and I can’t break away to inhale. 

There’s a sense of relief, like this was the inevitable ending to our story —although I’m not sure it really is an end— like if nothing else had been right in my life at least I had given myself this. One thing that was even more perfect for the disaster it started as. I couldn’t help but hate that it had taken so long, even as his hands fist in my hair and shirt, but I know it wouldn’t have been right nine years ago, or even six months. I couldn’t have done this sober and he couldn’t have done it with me high, not again. 

He feels right in a way neither Kitsey or Pippa ever did, no matter how much I made myself believe they were. I place careful hands on his neck and waist and just let myself sink into him. It’s more gentle then I had expected, I had half convinced myself it would be a frantic tumble much like our youth. But of course, when given the chance now he held me like I’d run away. 

It’s several long minutes before I break away. “Are you staying?” I ask quietly. 

He’s silent, stroking his fingers lightly over the lines of my face and staring at me like he can’t quite believe I’m here. I let him. 

“Do you want me to?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want you to.”

He nods like he knew.

“You know I was always waiting for you, Potter,” he smiles slightly mischievously, “you were always the last to know everything.”

I laugh, because what else is there to do when he looks so happy and there’s something growing in my chest that tells me I might be as well. There’s more to talk about, but tonight I just want to sleep and remember what it feels like to have him beside me and not feel guilty about it this time. 

“Sleep?” I ask. 

He searches my face for a moment. 

“Yes, I think that would be alright.”

-

I look down at him the next morning. The sun is still rising —I’ve gotten used to waking up early for flights—  and it just barely shines through his messy hair, lighting it up to gold. The angles of his face are so familiar, even with years of being apart and the haze of drugs I’d been in. I think maybe I’d remember him even if I forgot everything else. I think I’d forget my own mother before him; maybe I already have. Her voice doesn’t sound familiar in my head anymore. In contrast, his had sometimes been the only one I recognized in my delirium. He clenches a fist in the sheets before his eyes open. Everything about him is startling. His dark hair and eyes against my white sheets, the curl of his lips as he catches me staring, the rasp in his voice from sleep. 

“Shall we just stand here tenderly and gaze?” He mumbles.

I fight the smile rising. 

“We aren’t even standing, Boris.”

He laughs and presses his face into the pillow. 

“Is the thought of it, Potter.”

I don’t respond. Eventually, he blinks up at me and rolls a little so he doesn’t have to crane his neck. I wonder how long he’s waited for this; how long I’ve waited for this. 

“Are you alright?” He asks softly. 

I don’t know. There’s an unnamable feeling bubbling in my chest. I remember waking up a thousand times with him, wrapped up together or across the room, and each time felt dangerous. Could I let myself have this? Even a year ago I would’ve said no, I wouldn’t have even thought of it. But a year ago I didn’t have Boris in my bed looking at me with so much hope (even though he tried to hide it). A year ago I hadn’t spent six months trying to fix the wrong I’d done to the world and to myself. Planes and airports leave a lot of time for self-reflection. Sometime in between Las Angeles and Phoenix, I’d come across the startling realization that almost everything I made myself believe about myself was false in one way or another. 

It wasn’t hard to accept now that Boris made me better. Better in the worst way, yes, but more myself -messy and angry and the opposite of what I’d built my life around- then anyone else ever has. He knew about the worst parts of me and just let me be broken. He was there, and demanded nothing but my honesty.

I’d called Pippa sometime in London. She’d told me one thing after I’d apologized for every misguided advance I’d made. She said that the only way she’d moved on was by letting it hurt. She told me that only once she’d cried and screamed and cut her hair did the pain start draining away. Her voice had been so quiet —like she was afraid of scaring me— when she’d asked if I ever had that. I hadn’t. I’d drowned it all in drugs and alcohol before I even felt half of the pain. So I’d tried. I lay in nameless hotel rooms and stared at the ceiling, will for the tears to come. They hadn’t. I thought about the things I’d avoided for so long because I was scared of how I would react. But my eyes stayed dry. I wondered if I was broken. If the drugs had numbed something inside me to the point of it being unfixable. 

Looking at the boy, man really, in my bed now though I can feel the slightest whispers of emotions squeezing in my chest. 

I lay back down and reach a hand out tentatively between us. His eyes meet mine across what seems like miles of pillow. His fingers slide to meet mine. I can’t look at him. 

“Theo?” his voice is soft and careful, his accent tripping messily around my name. 

I close my eyes. His hand leaves mine but I don’t flinch when his fingers brush my cheek. 

“Open your eyes, Potter,” he whispers. 

His hand spreads across my jaw. His thumb brushes under my eye. I know my eyes are wet when I open them. He raises his eyebrows at me, it’s almost familiar. But not quite. We’d never been this gentle before. I know there is much more to talk about, but I’m determined to ignore that knowledge for as long as I can. For now it’s just this, I can allow myself this without panicking. 

“Are you alright?” he asks again.

‘As long as you stay with me I will be.’ I think, but that feels like too much. 

“I think so,” I say instead.

I hope he hears the rest when I reach a shaking hand across to smooth away his frown.

[thegoldenfnch]

in every time (p.4)

They’re in a different timeline, and Theo stays in New York. Larry never comes for him. The Barbours take him in and he’s as happy as he could be, but the school counsellor makes them take him to therapy after he falls asleep in class every day for two weeks in a row. 

It’s painful for the universe to see the empty space next to him, the place Boris should have already stood. That’s fixed a month later when the therapist suggests a pen pal. Someone for Theo to talk to. She says it might be easier for him to connect with someone outside of his past. Naturally, Theo hates the idea, but it’s set up anyway. 

And there’s the spark. 

Hello Theo-,

Boris is just as reluctant as Theo, which seems to help, and originally his letters have a hint of derision to them, like he can’t believe this private school kid could have any problems significant enough to warrant extensive therapy. 

Then Theo calls him an asshole and sends a newspaper clip with the coverage of the explosion. It’s not hard for him to put together the pieces. 

Boris quickly finds himself attached. It’s hard not to be, there’s a kinship with this boy that he doesn’t feel with any of the boring, dusty children of Vegas. 

Eventually they talk on the phone. 

Boris finds himself whispering forbidden thoughts into the darkness. Things like, ‘would you take me away?’ and, ‘would you come to California with me?’ 

Theo always laughed and never responded. In fact, Theo never seemed to really say anything about his future, and if Boris asked Theo always had to go. 

It all comes to head the night of Theo’s sixteenth birthday. 

Theo is drunk, or high, or maybe both, when he calls. Boris laughs at him slurred greeting. 

“Hello, Theo,” he says (there are no references to Harry Potter in this life). 

A hum from the other side of the phone. 

Now, to understand the differences of this Theo, you have to know his past as the universe did. This was not Theodore Decker, a man looking for his mother in everyone, and this was not Theo, the boy who grew up with no one who loved him. This was Theo Barbour-Decker, who grew up with a brother and a family that loved him in a certain way, and who had a gay man he spent maybe evenings with. This Theo was still afraid, but he was not stupid. He knew who he was. 

This Theo took a deep breath and whispered quietly to his best friend: “I have something to tell you.” 

And this Boris held his breath and said: ”what is it?”

And Theo says, “I think I like you.”

And Boris doesn’t reply. 

There’s a broken thread in that world’s tapestry for many years after that conversation, cut short by Boris laughing and saying ‘no’. He hung up when the silence became too telling. They don’t speak for many years. 

This Theo, the one who jumps first, doesn’t come around in many worlds or times. He’s a rare combination of love and therapy that Theo doesn’t get in worlds with his dad or his mom. The worlds where he isn’t Theo would deny that his mom was anything but perfect, but she had things she’d never say. Like that she would love Theo whoever he was. Or that the two men holding hands were right and okay. Theo with Hobie and Theo with therapy can recognize his mother wasn’t alway right. That she was wrong for not accepting things he couldn’t change. Or at least, for not telling him she would accept him. 

But this Theo almost always loses Boris. 

Sometimes for a few days, and once, for the rest of his life. 

He gets him back in this one, a man on the street calls his name as he is about to go into the Barbour apartments and when he turns there’s a dark-haired, grinning, eggshell-pale Boris staring up at him. He doesn’t know how exactly he knows, but he thinks he would recognize Boris even if the pronunciation of his name wasn’t so distinctive. 

He’s wary at first, for months really, but Boris explains himself (and his father, and the place he’d grown up) and really, Theo’d never stopped missing him and his loud voice. 

It takes time, and so much talking. Theo makes Boris go to therapy, Boris makes Theo hundreds of apologies. But they get there, eventually. 

The universe breathes a sigh of relief when the cut thread ties itself back together. If it had favourites, that life would be near the top, because they both heal. They’re both okay, with time. And they don’t take their anger out on each other. All of the good things about the times before and after are multiplied here with communication and Theo’s family. 

When they die, they are happy and together, which is two things more than they’d ever hoped for.

(ao3)

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