#this old man talks in rhymes and metaphors man

[hauntingblue]

Happy memory flashbacks we are so over....

[thunderhel]

Fratt Week Day 1 - Blood

Pairing: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock Word Count: 2089 Rated T Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Blood, Not quite actually Fratt yet, More Frank just making some observations

I haven't actively participated in anything fandom or posted any writing in over a year so shout out to @frattweek for giving me the inspiration to actually do something. Even if that something is writing 2k in a day and posting it unedited because it's late and I'm already a day behind 😬

Read on AO3

Frank thought a lot of things about Red.

About The Devil. Daredevil. Murdock. Matt.

All stupid names in Frank’s opinion. Red suited him better.

The Devil was probably the stupidest of all. I didn’t pick it, Frank. Though Daredevil wasn’t much further behind. Again, I didn’t pick it. Murdock was so unfortunate he almost felt bad for little Red, having to deal with that on top of everything else life had heaped onto him. I genuinely can’t tell if you’re just trying to be rude or if you’re actually just racist. Matt was too human. I…Frank, I am human. You know that right?

Frank knew. He just liked, every now and again, to hear Red say it out loud. Maybe to remind Frank, but maybe also a little to make him remind himself.

They didn’t always fight together. They didn’t even frequently fight together, but sometimes things just lined up in a way that Frank refused to classify as either good or bad, and they ended up on the same trail.

It had been the same shit as always, just under a different name. Drug dealers this time. The real deal, not kids trying to be inconspicuous in the alleyways, but the main runners, meeting suppliers at what was supposed to be an empty warehouse. The drugs weren’t the reason Frank nor Red were really after them, but putting a stop to that felt like a bonus.

They’d split up shortly after they’d arrived, Red slipping in through an open window, high enough it hadn’t been considered a priority to guard, while Frank had taken the perimeter, eliminating any threats -with beanbag rounds, Red, don’t be a bitch about it- before they could notice anything was amiss inside.

The bored guards outside hadn’t been an issue, but the armed security just past the bay doors had given Frank a bit of a run for his halfhearted promise to try to use nonlethal force. The problem was, nonlethal was much more difficult and time consuming than simply painting the concrete with brain matter, which meant Frank was slightly behind schedule when he finally made it to the sounds of Red’s fight.

He had intended to be backup, and he didn’t intend on slouching the responsibility. Frank took up his position alongside a wall of half broken crates, the stock of his gun pressed hard to his shoulder just in case anyone seemed about to slip past Red’s defenses, but he doubted he would be needed. Not with the way Red was fighting tonight.

It’s something my dad used to say, Red had told him one night, speaking low and slightly detached, the way he always did whenever he shared something about himself. About his past. There never seemed to be any rhyme or reason to his sudden decision to share. Frank half wondered if he was just talking to himself when he did, forgetting Frank was even there. When he’d go dead eyed in the ring and just turn into a monster as he beat the shit out of the other guy. He called it ‘letting the Devil out’.

Frank had never met Red’s old man, and he knew exactly three facts about him. He was a boxer, Red had loved him more than anything in the world, and if his version of letting the devil out was anything even close to Red’s, he was a fucking force to be reckoned with.

Because Red didn’t act like that devil business was a metaphor. Red was a fucking demon when he fought.

For everything he’d done and everywhere he’d been, Frank knew he’d never seen anything move the way Red fought. He moved like he was created to fight, like everything else he could possibly do with his life was just tossed on at the end like a bonus if he ever got bored of the incredible way the universe had decided to put him together. Every move was coordinated, almost liquid in the way he ducked below punches and arched himself out of the way of kicks.

Everything about him was power and speed, moving in ways Frank knew he hadn’t been able to bend at even in his prime, before delivering hits hard enough that Frank could hear the other guy’s bones snap from across the room. A pipe flew clumsily past Red’s head and he dispatched of its thrower so quickly, Frank wasn’t even sure exactly what he did to get the guy to make that exclamation of pain before he was slumping to the ground in a spray of blood.

A few drops of it hit Red’s chest plate, but the marks were lost among the myriad of streaks already decorating it. The red and black of his stupid devil suit made it hard to tell what was clean and what was filthy with blood, but the entire picture came together to create something so unsettlingly otherworldly that it hardly mattered. Blood streaked across his mask and was running over his chin, either from a lost tooth or a broken nose, or maybe none of it was his at all.

The bandages on his hands were a darker red, the color so thick it looked like they’d been dyed and not just stained. Blood was flecked and splattered across his chest, the wet spots glowing against the matte red and black. It was running down his chin, dripping onto his neck in a way that reminded Frank of an animal after a hunt. If he had turned right then and had taken a bite out of one of the men on the ground, Frank couldn’t say he would have been too terribly surprised.

Red tilted his head in that unnatural way he had, assessing the last man lying prone at his feet, or maybe the room as a whole. His shoulders were still hunched, fists curled at his sides as he remained locked in fight mode, his body clearly uncertain how to proceed without something else in front of him to punch. His lips curled back in what might have been a grin or a snarl or maybe just an animal reaction to the adrenaline still coursing through him.

Frank, for all his flaws, was 100% human. There was no mutation, no alien DNA or secret government experiment gone wrong. Just normal government black ops shit that went sideways and a stupid jarhead they’d tried to make a patsy. Just a human man with a short fuse and the memory of his daughter’s limp weight in his hands and nothing left to lose.

Red was a different story.

This was why he couldn’t call Red Matt. Matt - Matthew- was a human name. A normal name for a normal man, and Frank for all of his eye rolling at Red’s choir boy bullshit, didn’t think he would ever fully be convinced that Red was human.

Frank could see it in the way he moved, the way he slipped when he stopped talking. When he stopped trying to force himself down into that tiny box whose walls were made of religion and society and legality. When he let the devil out and went out hunting for blood.

He’d never tell him, had to keep the thought down low, but Frank thought he understood why Red didn’t kill. Not because God told him it was wrong, and not because of the law or whatever other bullshit Red liked to tell whoever had to listen to him talk about it. No, Red didn’t kill because of that animal thing inside of him.

He didn’t kill, because Frank was almost positive Red might like the feeling a little too much.

Red didn’t kill, because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

It had to have only been seconds, not more than a brief pause in the chaos of the night, but Frank felt time slow down for the first time in a while as he stared at Red’s form in the half light, his chest rising and falling with the effort to breathe through the fight he’d just finished.

In those brief seconds Frank thought of the leopard he’d once seen while on tour, dragging a carcass up a tree. Thought of the way its fur had shown in the sunlight and the blood had marred those distinctive spots. He thought of the sound his old man’s GTO had made when it started up, that deep vibration that echoed in his chest. He thought of the glint of moonlight on his Ka-Bar, the kick back of his gun against his muscle, of the look Maria gave him over her shoulder the first night they spent together.

The last one kicked him back into reality, and he cleared his throat, spitting the taste of copper out of his mouth before he lowered his gun. Red’s head jerked the other way, a dog picking up a scent, as Frank finally approached.

He could forgive himself for the mix up of his thoughts, blaming it easily on the adrenaline and the scent of blood in the air.

He thought of that leopard again, of the way its muscles had moved beneath its fur as it had dragged its prey up that tree. Of Red’s fist slamming into the jaw of an idiot who didn’t know when to get out of the way. With a silent prayer of an apology to Maria, he begged her to understand - it was hard to see a predator move the way they did and not think it was a thing of beauty.

Frank had meant to grab Red’s arm, try and jerk him out of whatever blood fueled stupor he’d lost himself in, but his hand landed instead on the side of Red’s face, thumb pushing hard against his jaw as it swept through the blood not yet dried against his stubble. If Frank still felt fear as strongly as he used to, he might have been worried about getting bit.

“Easy there, Alter Boy, they’re down for the count.”

Red exhaled low and long, and Frank watched the struggle happen. Watched as Red tried to fight back that inhuman part of himself to resemble something decent. He made a sound almost like a huff - like he knew he should be annoyed with Frank but was going through the motions just because he thought he should. He didn’t pull away from Frank’s hand.

The idea of Red, of this wild cat in the shape of a man, tucked into a suit and tie and handing over legal documents at the courthouse and calling a judge ‘your honor’ was almost a joke.

“Not for long,” Red finally managed, his voice low and thick. “We need to get going.” He titled his head in a way that if Frank wasn’t careful, he might have said seemed like he was pushing further into Frank’s touch.

Frank thought of the heavy weight of a knife in his hand and the smell of gunpowder. He tried not to think of Maria’s skin beneath his fingers as he dropped his hand to Red’s shoulder.

Red was still tense, still poised to pounce at the slightest provocation. There was a hum beneath his skin, stronger than blood but not quite animal enough to call a growl. It burned beneath Frank’s fingertips, under muscle and blood and bone and leather. He squeezed once before he let go, but knocked their shoulders together as he turned.

“Then let’s get fucking going.’

Red gave a sharp incline of his head instead of a nod. He leaned away and spat a spray of blood, some of it flecking across the face of another man on the ground. The blood was bright red, a superficial wound in Red’s mouth, nothing to distract Frank from the blood still humming too fast through his own veins.

With a swipe of the back of his sleeve, Red halfheartedly cleaned his mouth before straightening back up. When he turned back to Frank, the pull of his lips couldn’t have been anything other than a grin, wide and vicious and sliding straight through Frank’s chest.

“Let’s get fucking going,” he echoed back, voice low and too excited for the amount of blood still smeared across his pale skin. His footsteps were almost silent as he led the way back out.

Frank slung his gun back into position, finger on the trigger and stock his shoulder, focusing on the weight in his hands, and not the sound of echo of Maria’s soft sigh against his ear.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

THE WIND HAS CHANGED

TCINLA

APR 19, 2024

Think of America as an 18th Century sailing ship - think of it as “Old Ironsides”! - the ship has been becalmed in The Doldrums (that area of the planet where the winds shift from one hemisphere to the other without rhyme or reason) for a long time. The citizen crew are seeing the food supplies drop; the water in the barrels looks increasingly “fishy”. They have manned the longboats to try and tow the ship to “catch the wind” for many days, but to no result.

And then, on a day indistinguishable from any other, there comes a moment...

The Top Royal sail on the foremast flaps. Flaps again. And again...

The spar of the Mainsail on the mainmast creaks slightly as it turns...

The other high sails flap...

The crew watch the sails, intent. Can it be?

And suddenly the sails begin to fill with the wind!

It grows stronger - the lower sails fill.

And the ship begins to move again. Slowly, slowly gaining speed.

She turns in the new direction.

The sails fill in the wind, a magnificent sight.

Old Ironsides gets underway in Boston Harbor - May 21, 2021

I was talking with my counselor during our weekly call yesterday, and she asked me what I was thinking about the current political situation. (This was before the Ukraine aid votes in the House last night) I said that as I see it, the tide is turning, the wind is picking up. Nothing really big (like I said, this was before the Ukraine vote, which is Yuuuuuugge!), but all the little indicators are turning the same direction.

It’s like after the Battle of Midway - the enemy is still strong, still dangerous, but the gutting they received in the fight opened the space for America to take action at Guadalcanal that led to the Japanese never taking offensive action during the war again.

Yes, this November is our “Guadalcanal,” or as we call it here at TAFM after the series on that battle was posted last year, our “American Stalingrad.”

The MAGA movement got splintered last night, and I for one don’t think they have the skill to put Humpty-Dumpty together again. (How’s that for mixed metaphors? Good?)

For one thing, J.D. Vance, Moscow Marge, and the rest of the Space Laser Putin Caucus, got thrown under the bus by Fearless Leader last night - who may not be able to do much, but he can read polls. He knows the wind has shifted, that the wind is filling the sails and we are beginning to move out of The Doldrums. He knows he’s losing control.

After last night, Ukraine aid will pass. Mike Johnson and Mitch McConnell braved the FART (Floor Action Response Team) of the Space Laser Putin Caucus and Did The Right Thing.

Trump gave Mike Johnson and Mitch McConnell the green light, while at the same time casting J.D. Vance, Marjorie Taylor-Greene, and the rest of the Russia Traitors over the side.

The essential line of Trump’s “Truthing” post last night is this: “As everyone agrees, Ukraine Survival and Strength should be much more important to Europe than to us, but it is also important to us!” (Emphasis mine)

He’s not doing this because he cares about Ukraine; he’s doing this because the polls are shifting; he needs fewer hassles. The wind is changing.

He’s doing this because his team knows there are a lot of 1st and 2nd generation Eastern European voters in Michigan, Wisconsin, and Pennsylvania; because even with conservative Republicans, Putin’s approval rating is in single digits.

One of the greatest legacies of breaking the MAGA movement on this issue is that no one loses in this deal:

Ukraine gets weapons. Putin gets hammered. Americans get jobs.

Trumpism - particularly its J.D. Vance-led German-American Bund Putinism - is a pessimistic creed. As Trump says, “We’re the stupid ones.” MAGA is a movement of decline, weakness, of dark forces draining America’s power. Trump and the Space Laser Caucus tell their supporters “We need to retreat, withdraw, hide, and let regional warlords like Putin reign over as much territory as they can seize.”

But what last night showed is it’s okay to win. It’s okay to believe in a just and right cause.

Hee, now, Ukraine is that cause.

This is a contest between Russia, Iran, North Korea, and their banker China, who are desperate to beat the demographic and political clock as their kleptocratic and demagogic systems collapse.

The West, and the Pacific democracies are struggling just to make the world stable while they confront a sweeping array of challenges.

Europe didn’t want this fight, but they know what happens if Russia wins.

It’s taken awhile to fully understand the depth of Putin’s ambition to reassemble the Soviet Union without the stupid communism. Almost everyone gets it now.

This is the world’s fight. Putin must be defeated.

The flow of arms to Ukraine will move quickly. The F-16s are about to deploy. The anti-air and artillery supplies will be restocked.

Most importantly - to me at least - my Ukrainian friends are going to survive.

MAGA broke something in the House. Retirements are up. Swing seats are in danger. The endless infighting has soured many “normie” Republicans on the Space Laser Caucus and their strategy of screaming, throwing feces like a rabid monkey in a zoo, and all the performative lying. Even in the right-wing media bubble, the act has gotten old.

Fox has had enough of Marjorie Traitor Goon’s tantrums, her unearned sense of entitlement, and her political terrorism.

The perverse incentives of MAGA rewarded the Space Laser Caucus while leaving the rest - or at least those not representing the most ruby-red districts - fearing electoral survival this fall.

It turns out that shitting in the punchbowl is unwelcome over time. The tell is that Fox has slowly stopped booking the MAGA clowns while Rupert and Lachlan try to find and anoint the Next Star after their major fakakte with Desantis.

Gaetz has burned every conceivable bridge. He may think he can run in and win the Florida Governor’s race, but with a vengeful Kevin McCarthy and an even more vengeful Casey DeSantis in the wings, he’s about to “go through some things.” Last night, ABC News reported, “Matt Gaetz attended 2017 party where minor and drugs were present, woman’s sworn statement obtained by Congress claims.”

Lauren Bobert’s star has disappeared. She’s going to lose a race in the most Republican congressional district in Colorado. Jim Comer is now Jaime Raskin’s public punching bag, so stupid that he still actually believes his own BS.

The House GOP is now staring down the barrel of a political gun; there is no joy in Mudville.

Happy warriors like Jamie Raskin, Jared Moskowitz, Eric Swalwell, Jasmine Crockett and others know who is in charge in the House now.

Chuck Schumer managed to keep his caucus together, pulling in some GOP support, as the Senate schooled the Space Laser Caucus about their impeachment clown show of the House. No high drama; just procedural murder

What has been going on at 100 Centre Street in New York City, where Trump is finally facing the prospect of justice for his crimes in a case that now is seen as far more important than it was originally, is also a good sign the tide and wind are changing.

Attorneys selected the final alternate juror in former President Donald Trump’s hush money case this morning, paving the way for opening arguments to begin next week. Everything moved much faster this week than anyone expected.

The Washington Post reported this morning: “A top leader of the national conservative group Turning Point Action, which has amplified false claims of election fraud by former president Donald Trump and others, resigned Thursday after being accused of forging voter signatures on official paperwork so that he could run for reelection in the Arizona House.”

As David Kurtz put it today at TPM, “We are seeing random citizens who are imbued with an innate understanding of what the rule of law means. That civic-minded understanding of the rule of law is the bedrock foundation for the legal structures we erect upon it. Without it, we have nothing. It’s a small sign of hope in a troubled time.” It is indeed!

This is a moment that reminds me of events aboard USS Enterprise on December 7, 1941.

Admiral Halsey had just poured himself a second cup of coffee when his aide dashed into the cabin. “Admiral, there’s an air raid on Pearl!” and informed him of Enterprise aviators being attacked by enemy aircraft over Oahu. Halsey’s first thought was that the Army’s readiness exercise was taking things too far. He leapt to his feet, telling his aide to radio Kimmel that the Army was “shooting down my own boys!” A second aide entered moments later with a message direct from Admiral Kimmel: “AIR RAID PEARL HARBOR X THIS IS NO DRILL.”

Officer of the Deck Lieutenant John Dorsett ordered General Quarters. Nineteen-year old Seaman Jim Barnill, one of Enterprise’s four buglers, sounded the staccato notes of “Boots and Saddles.” Twenty-eight year old First Class Bosun’s Mate Max Lee played his pipe over the 1MC then called “General Quarters! General Quarters! All hands man your battle stations!” Lee’s enlistment was almost up. After the war, he remembered that he then turned to OOD Dorsett and said “We’re at war and I’ll never get out of the Navy alive.”

Dick Best remembered coming onto the flight deck shortly after general quarters had been called and looking up at the island. “The first thing I saw was the biggest American flag I had ever seen, flying from the masthead and whipping in the wind. It was the most emotional sight of the war for me.”

The December 7, 1941 Enterprise Flag

[thelaithlyworm]

First sentence game

Rule: Share the first sentence of your ten most recent fics.

(Tagged by @evilasiangenius )

All he knows is snow. - from How Zhang Qiling Comes Down the Mountain  which is currently at the top of my feed because I recently did a podfic of it. (The mountain is very real, but it is also a metaphor. And there’s breakfast! (Which is also real, and is also a metaphor.))

It is very peaceful, on Tongluo Mountain. - from It Is Very Peaceful, on Tongluo Mountain - prequel fic for Back From The Brink - how a very woebegone little dragon king was rescued by a daft old lady, and partly how small town life goes.

When Hei Xiazi heard that Jiu-ye was dying he was in a backroom bar in Vietnam, ducking under strings of flypaper and slipping by a charcoal brazier the room didn’t really need in the gentle throes of the southern winter. - from Joy for the brother sun - Of a tired, often-penniless immortal who hears that one of the few people who remember him from when he was young is dying, and the journey he makes to get to the man’s deathbed. And what he finds there.

“Do you have any good rhymes for ‘silver’, d’Artagnan?” - from Song of Songs - Also dragged higher up the queue on account of podfic. D’Artagnan, raw youth, bemoans his tragic lovelife while Aramis, older sophisticate, talks obliquely about his. There’s poetry!

It was a modern set of flats, with the rooms set tight as the cells in a honeycomb and little balconies poking out like bug-legs on the outside wall. - from The Eggs Have It - Again with Hei Xiazi, this time with his old student pawning his new student off on Hei-ye for training, the nerve! the impudence! (It’s kind of a funny story but with teeth here and there.) … In canon, Hei-ye’s existence - both extremely competent and weirdly poverty-stricken - comes with his plot significance like a fragrance does flowers. Like the Brother Sun story, it seemed appropriate to start with something reflecting his physical circumstances. Also, I like the weirdly organic descriptions Xu Lei gives to inorganic things sometimes.

Wu Xie woke awkwardly, slowly, to the calls of blackbirds and what might possibly be the wheeze of a dying bear. - from A World Made Over, Fresh and New - So this is kind of a silly story, and most of it is about Wu Xie being a little ridiculous, so I wanted to start strong.

This fragment of internet ephemera – a pastiche of The Classic of Mountains and Seas – shares some of the delightfully weird world building of Sand Sea (pub. Mustard-Seed Press, Xiamen) and is generally considered to be written by Sand Sea’s author, Guan Gen - also the unattributed co-author of the minor action movie Time Raiders (2016). - from Excerpt from: The Classic of Mountains Underground, attributed to Guan Gen - Not gonna lie, I was inspired by A Field Guide to Dragons of the Circumpolar Arctic (excerpts) by Sholio which doesn’t just have fascinating dragon lore but starts with a chunk of detail about the researcher, academia-style, and it all makes it feel very very real. (It also comes with a delightful podfic! *waggles eyebrows*) And - thinking about which parts of the dmbj series exist as texts inside the dmbj series is hilarious.

They tie you by your wrists and by your ankles and throw you down the tunnel. - from Blood From A Stone - Written at a point of dmbj canon where Zhang Qiling Is Really Not Having A Good Time…

“Damn Pangzi, this is all your fault,” Liu Sang hissed. - from Damn Pangzi - Also not gonna lie, Liu Sang and Wang Pangzi’s bickering energy gives me life.

The pinpoint lights of the chandeliers overhead skimmed into lines as A-Ning stormed out of the ballroom, the delicate wrist of a server pincered between her fierce fingers. - from In the Closet - A-Ning, so forceful of you…

Tagging (if you wish to be tagged): @procrastinatorproject @jazzfic @foxofninetales @merinnan @alxina

[dkniade]

i love the way you write 😭😭 i’ve checked out a bunch of your stuff over the last few days and i am eyeballing your works respectively

from one midnight poet to another — what inspires you to take up poetry as a medium? who are your favorite authors/poets/inspirations?

Ahh, thank you! That’s very flattering to hear!

As for what inspires me to write poetry… Mostly my own feelings and thoughts, I’d say. The same goes for writing and journaling, but when I’m upset I find poetry to be one of the fastest mediums (if I’m in the mood to do so) to relieve my stress, anger— something like that. Personally it works much better for stress and anger towards particular things than sadness because if I’m just sad with no reason, finding words and essentially finding a concrete thing to be sad about makes it worse for me. Though with that being said, I’m trying to learn how to write wholesome poems about healing, as well. (I think.)

Poetry, to me, is an amplifier and a type of freedom, I guess. There are some things I can’t really say to others in real life, but in poetry I’ve no audience (in the sense that I’m not actually speaking to anyone) so I don’t have to worry about my diction and tone.

But also, I think poetry is a great way to tell a character's story concisely, maybe even in-character too, especially if the character is a poet themselves. Writing in-character poems, for example my Venti poems “Flute Song” and “Song of Feathers Fit For Flight”, forces me to think like the character and then kind of create something as the character, which I find interesting. I'm writing as the character who’s writing something themselves.

As for other poets/inspirations… Initially it was anime opening themes, particularly Hello Sleepwalkers’ “Goya no Machiawase” (Overnight Appointment/Midnight Rendezvous) because of the idea of going towards and talking to oneself.

おやすみ　その絶望を受け取って

明日への僕は歩き始めた

また今夜　待ち合わせよう

Good night, I accept this despair and

Started walking towards tomorrow

Let’s meet again tonight!

And then it changed to the VOCALOID producer Neru’s works in his first two albums Sekai Seifuku and My Name Is Love Song. If I had to pick songs then I’d say “How To World Domination”. (Note: This is Oktavia’s translation which conveys the intentions well I’d say)

どうせ愛なんてって薄幸ぶって強がっても

きっと本心じゃ疚しさに襲われて

どうだい現状の僕は

そうかい、どうしようもないな

うるさいなお前なんて大嫌いだ

Even if I say “To hell with love”, embracing my misery and feigning a “I’ve stopped giving a shit” sort of air

I know I couldn’t do that without feeling ashamed for hiding how I really feel

How goes things, my present day self?

Oh I see, it’s hopeless, huh?

God you piss me off, I hate you so much!

and “Terror”

やられたらやり返せ 君の番だ 捨てた夢の全てを拉致しろ

心の居場所を賭したレジスタンス

笑われたその分だけ 笑い返せ 言わば人生のクーデター

勝ちも負けもない延長戦 僕らの反撃前夜

If they strike at you, strike back! It’s your turn now! Take back every one of your abandoned dreams

It’s a resistance where your heart’s place is at stake

Laugh back only as much as you were laughed at! A coup d’état of life, so to speak

Going into overtime with neither wins nor losses

It’s the eve of our counterattack

But recently it’s been the alt-folk band The Amazing Devil’s lyrics. I like their style and their rhythm and rhymes a lot, but also I LOVE their call-and-response sort of conversational lyrics. I guess I’m finally thinking about that more since, well, they write songs in English where the aforementioned aspects are easier to pick out (than in Japanese).

I remember for my “The Immature Liege and the Heartless Joker”, I was inspired by “The Old Witch Sleep and the Good Man Grace”. (You can see it even in the title too.)

'Cause we'll dance together so close we're sharing breath

But now I'm leading, doesn't that just scare you to death?

'Cause I'm all yours, you're all mine

Let's dance together, you and I

'Cause I'm not trapped, oh with you, you see

You're the one who's trapped with me

And then, “Farewell Wanderlust” has the “flirting with your (metaphorical) enemy” sort of vibe that I also really like.

"Come, devil, come, " she sang, "call out my name"

Let's take this outside, 'cause we're one and the same

Our gods have abandoned us, left us instead

Take up arms, take my hand, let us waltz for the dead

Defiance. It seems in the songs and artists I like, there’s always a sense of defiance against unpleasant feelings. I like the idea of telling yourself to be stronger and stand up for yourself, or if you’re not ready for that yet, then at least face your feelings as they are without trying to soften it to make them sound acceptable. It’s what I strive for in my pieces too.

[7r0773r]

The Beautiful Struggle by Ta-Nehisi Coates

Bill heard the admonishments of my father, but Dad couldn’t walk the path for him. We were divided—one foot in America, the other in a land of swords. They told us to act civilized, but everywhere bordered on carnage. Bill became uncomposed. To be strapped was to grab the steering wheel of our careening lives. A gun was a time machine and an anchor—it dictated events. To be strapped was to master yourself, to become more than a man whose life and death could be simply seized and hurled about. (p. 35)

***

I was twelve, but when I heard "Lyrics of Fury"—"A horn if you want the style I possess / I bless the child, the earth, the gods, and bomb the rest"—I put away childish things, went to the notebook, and caged myself between the blue lines. In the evenings, that summer, I would close the door, lay across the bed, and put pen to pad.

At first I felt the words of others pulsing through me—my reforming brother, the esoteric allusions of The God, the philosophy of KRS-One—and in truth, in many years of trying, I never completely touched my own. My hand was awkward; and when I rhymed, the couplets would not adhere, punch lines crashed into bars, metaphors were extended until they derailed off beat. I was unfit, but still I had at it for days, months, and ultimately years. And the more ink I dribbled onto the page, the more I felt the blessing of the Jedi order of MCs. I wrote every day that summer, rhymed over B-side instrumentals, until my pen was a Staff of the Dreaded Streets (plus five chance to banish fools on sight) and my flow, though flicted and dis jointed, a Horn of Ghetto Blasting. The words were all braggadocios, but when done with the recital, even though I was alone, I felt bigger.

I'd walk outside, and my head was just a little higher, because if you do this right, if you claim to be that nigger enough, though you battle only your bedroom mirror, there is part of you that believes. That was how I came to understand, how I came to know why all these brothers wrote and talked so big. Even the Knowledged feared the streets. But the rhyme pad was a spell book—it summoned asphalt elementals, elder gods, and weeping ancestors, all of whom had your back. That summer, I knew what Fruitie was trying to say, that when under the aegis of hip hop, you never lived alone, you never walked alone.

I harried Big Bill until he took me up to Wabash to spit a sloppy verse. Marlon had cordoned off his father's basement. He presided over the 1200s, spinning breakbeats. Joey played with the keys until he found a riff he liked. I just sat on the couch going over my rhymes, while Bill stood blessing the mic behind what was once a bar.

By then I had raided the tall box of my father's old collection of Black Panther newspapers, devoured them during off-hours in Dad's office, and scribbled allusions to them in my book of rhymes. Dad no longer had to assign readings. My comics collections lapsed. Cartoons felt non-essential. I plunged into my father's books of Consciousness that he'd shelved in nearly every room in the house. That was how I found myself, how I learned my name. All my life Dad had told me what I was, that Ta-Nehisi was a nation, the ancient Egyptian name for the mighty Nubians to the south, but I could not truly hear. Where I'm from, Tamika is an American name. But Ta-Nehisi was hyphened and easily bent to the whims of anyone who knew the rudiments of the dozens. But seeing that handle among the books of glorious Africa, I knew why I could never be Javonne or Pete, that my name was a nation, not a target, not something for teachers to trip over but the ancient Nubians and the glorious Egyptians of the 25th.

I felt a light flowing through me. I awoke, excited, hungry to understand this immediate world, how we had all fallen to this. Now I knew Lemmel in a fuller sense, that it was troubled because all things worth anything ultimately are. That my world, though mired in disgrace, was more honorable than anything, was more beautiful than the exotic counties way up Reisterstown and Liberty Road. All the Mondawmins of the world—with their merchant vultures, wig stores, sidewalk sales, sub shops, fake gold, bastard boys, and wandering girls—were my only home. That was Knowledge and Consciousness joined, and when I grabbed the mic, that was the alchemy I brought forth. When I was done, I emerged taller, my voice was deeper, my arms were bigger, ancestors walked with me, and there in my hands, behold, Shango's glowing ax. (pp. 110-12)

***

Nowadays, I cut on the tube and see the dumbfounded looks, when over some minor violation of name and respect, a black boy is found leaking on the street. The anchors shake their heads. The activists give their stupid speeches, praising mythical days when all disputes were handled down at Ray's Gym. Politicians step up to the mic, claim the young have gone mad, their brains infected, and turned superpredator. Fuck you all who've ever spoken so foolishly, who've opened your mouths like we don't know what this is. We have read the books you own, the scorecards you keep—done the math and emerged prophetic. We know how we will die—with cousins in double murder suicides, in wars that are mere theory to you, convalescing in hospitals, slowly choked out by angina and cholesterol. We are the walking lowest rung, and all that stands between us and beast, between us and the local zoo, is respect, the respect you take as natural as sugar and shit. We know what we are, that we walk like we are not long for this world, that this world has never longed for us. (p. 177)

[winebrightruby]

Hi! Hope it's ok to ask - have you any advice for getting into poetry? A lot of the time I think I just don't "get" it - why is it shaped? How does the brevity and the style and metaphors - work? How do you read it with understanding? Thanks!

So, I teach a six week poetry unit in my 9th grade English class. I will try not to dump six weeks' worth of talk on you in this ask!

If you ask ten poets, "What is the point of poetry?", you will get easily three hundred different answers. One of my professors once said, "Poetry is the neutron star of language." It contains only what is essential: the rest is compressed or stripped away. Reading/hearing a poem is an experience before the "meaning" is even engaged with, which is why poets use rhyme, meter, alliteration, and other sound devices that you can also find in music.

When I was in high school, I was taught the TPCASTT method of analyzing a poem. The acronym stands for the steps:

Title: What is the poem's title? What do you expect from this poem?

Paraphrase: Read each sentence (not line) of the poem, and put it into your own words. Focus only on the literal meaning; don't interpret. This step ensures you know what the poem says before you start trying to dig deeper.

Connotation: Identify and dig into each figure of speech (simile, metaphor, personification, etc). This is where we start to ask about meaning.

Attitude: (or tone). What is the speaker's overall emotional tenor, or attitude, in this poem?

Shifts: You can often find shifts between stanzas or signaled by "but". Marking the shifts in a poem helps you follow the poet's train of thought, the argument the poem is making.

Title revisited: Do you have any new thoughts about the title now?

Theme: What's the theme of the poem? By this point, you should be able to state the central message of the poem in a sentence or two.

That's a lot of steps, I know. I'm just including it here to give you a sense of how I was taught to analyze poetry. The general gist is "what does this poem literally say", then "where has the poet packed in extra meaning", then "okay so why is the poet saying that in this way".

I'll give you my own answers to your questions, staccato style. Poetry is shaped like that for the same reasons that we cut gemstones: because the form enriches the content. Line breaks add opportunities for wordplay and emphasis (consider "We are hard / on each other" and how the meaning of "hard" changes when you read the next line). The brevity requires each word or image in the poem to add to it; prose accommodates more fluff. Metaphors add meaning - "Juliet is the sun" tells us that Juliet is bright, she is glowing, she is life-giving, she is the center of the universe, she is what defines day and night for Romeo. That's so much more than simply "Juliet is beautiful". You get to that meaning by asking "what is the sun?" and then applying those answers to Juliet.

I'll close with two fairly short poems by W. B. Yeats, in case you want to test out any of this while you're looking at it. Hit me back with your thoughts if you want, or further questions! I'm trying not to reply with a text wall, but I can literally talk about this forever if you want.

"Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven"

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

.

"When You Are Old"

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

[wygolvillage]

Oooh shanoa, Alucard, and Charlotte for the ask game

shanoa

1. albus. forsaking everything and dooming himself, just for her. it makes me insane. all the little snippets we actually learn about their childhood are really cute too

2. laura. theres a reason the game implies theyre soul mates im just saying. laura is someone who is tenacious enough to try and break through her walls while shanoa broke through hers. theyve faced similar (metaphorical) demons. its like poetry it rhymes

3. daniela!!!! shanoas cool grandma!!! this girl whos faced so much hardship having someone whos so warm and caring to come back to!!! the promise that theyll go on a picnic together!!! aaaaaaaaaa

4. anna and serge (two for one special). shanoa helping out and entertaining the children is Extremely Cute and i think once she has her emotions its really Nice, to her, that there are kids who admire and look up to her. also not to go into something that probably deserves its own post but i think anna and serge are supposed to parallel the ecclesia siblings a bit, theres the line about albus telling serge to be strong enough to protect his sister, but theres also that thing about serge thinking of anna as a bit of a crybaby even though he really cares about her, which we also know is true of shanoa when she was of a similar age. so like i think its interesting bc its like. shanoa and the childhood she never really got to have. but the main point of this is that i think shanoa as a babysitter is fun

5. man i wish nikolai had more dialogue bc i think his being a foil to barlowe is really really interesting conceptually and i would LOVE to see how that interacts with shanoa and her whole healing process post-ooe (and after he says shanoa helped the villagers to heal too, see this is All Connected). but um yeah i think he cares for the people in his community like a family and shanoa too is becoming part of that family, which hilariously makes her an honorary belmont. idk i think theres a lot of potential here

alucard

1. maria, theyre besties. i always like dynamics that are like, a very stoic, guardrd person + someone whos more of a people person who is kind of an expert at cutting through the bullshit and getting to actually know them. i think she gets him

2. graaaant the angst potential is through the roof. a conflict of ones own humanity and the monstrous when you can only see the monstrous in yourself and the human in your counterpart 😂😂😂 "like" if you relate!!!

3. richter theyre narrative foils. something something breaking of the cycle

4. soma... dadson and sondad... "youre not a god or a demon youre only human". "hes looking out for you because you have the same dark powers". screams forever.

5. yoko theyre literally besties

charlotte

1. jonathan of courseeee theyre castlevanias ultimate duo. best friends for LIFE and they have such a fun dynamic. i lovethe differences in how they handle their emotions and how that sometimes ends up clashing (admittedly i read into this more after learning that in the original japanese script she knew john before he died, which blew my mind)- charlotte wants to Talk About It whereas jonathan deeply wants to avoid having to think too hard about those complex feelings. they have so much to work with and their interactions are always interesting and/or entertaining.

2. eric, i wish they got more interactions but i think theres something to the idea of charlotte being the "successor" to the role eric played to his morris sidekick. and whether or not theyll succeed where they failed while hes trapped in the place where he lost everything. charlotte being the one to save his daughters also plays into this. rotating this in my mind

3. john. i think charlotte having known john really does add a whole dimension to the narrative. portrait is, above all else, about putting old ghosts to rest, and sometimes those ghosts are grief, and god damn does john haunt the narrative. im just sayig words at this point but you know what i mean.

4. i think her and the twins should be besties, stella especially. i think maybe she would see a bit of herself in stellas formality and insistence on being the "older sister" tbh, like this desire to be seen as capable and mature while underneath the surface everything is Bad and Confusing and Scary. i think they write letters to each other frequently after the events of por

5. (grimoire of souls-verse, headcanon) LET!!! CHARLOTTE!!! AND!!! ALBUS!!! GEEK OUT TOGETHER!!!! OVER COMPLICATED MAGICAL SCIENCES!!!! i wish i couldve seen more interactions between them

[autolesionistra]

Tim Minchin 2013 University of Western Australia Address “9 life lessons”

Full transcript:

In darker days I did a corporate gig at a conference for this big company who made and sold accounting software in a bid, I presumed, to inspire their salespeople to greater heights. They’d forked out 12 grand for an inspirational speaker who was this extreme sports guy who had had a couple of his limbs frozen off when he got stuck on a ledge on some mountain. It was weird.

Software salespeople I think need to hear from someone who has had a long successful career in software sales not from an overly optimistic ex-mountaineer.

Some poor guy who had arrived in the morning hoping to learn about sales techniques ended up going home worried about the blood flow to his extremities. It’s not inspirational, it’s confusing. And if the mountain was meant to be a symbol of life’s challenges and the loss of limbs a metaphor for sacrifice, the software guy’s not going to get it, is he? Because he didn’t do an Arts degree, did he? He should have.

Arts degrees are awesome and they help you find meaning where there is none. And let me assure you… there is none. Don’t go looking for it. Searching for meaning is like searching for a rhymes scheme in a cookbook. You won’t find it and it will bugger up your soufflé. If you didn’t like that metaphor you won’t like the rest of it.

Point being I’m not an inspirational speaker. I’ve never ever lost a limb on a mountainside metaphorically or otherwise and I’m certainly not going to give career advice because, well I’ve never really had what most would consider a job.  However I have had large groups of people listening to what I say for quite a few years now and it’s given me an inflated sense of self importance.

So I will now, at the ripe old age of 37-point-nine, bestow upon you nine life lessons to echo of course the nine lessons of carols of the traditional Christmas service, which is also pretty obscure.  

You might find some of this stuff inspiring. You will definitely find some of it boring and you will definitely forget all of it within a week. And be warned there will be lots of hokey similes and obscure aphorisms which start well but end up making no sense. So listen up or you’ll get lost like a blind man clapping in a pharmacy trying to echo-locate the contact lens fluid.

(crowd laughs) …Looking for my old poetry teacher.  

 Here we go, ready?

One: You don’t have to have a dream. Americans on talent shows always talk about their dreams. Fine if you have something you’ve always wanted to do, dreamed of, like in your heart, go for it. After all it’s something to do with your time, chasing a dream. And if it’s a big enough one it’ll take you most of your life to achieve so by the time you get to it and are staring into the abyss of the meaningless of your achievement  you’ll be almost dead so it won’t matter.

I never really had one of these dreams and so I advocate passionate, dedication to the pursuit of short-term goals. Be micro-ambitious. Put your head down and work with pride on whatever is in front of you. You never know where you might end up. Just be aware the next worthy pursuit will probably appear in your periphery, which is why you should be careful of long-term dreams. If you focus too far in front of you you won’t see the shiny thing out the corner of your eye. Right? Good! Advice metaphor… look at me go.

Two: Don’t seek happiness. Happiness is like an orgasm. If you think about it too much it goes away. (crowd laughs) Keep busy and aim to make someone else happy and you might find you get some as a side effect. We didn’t evolve to be constantly content. Contented Homo erectus got eaten before passing on their genes.

Three: Remember it’s all luck. You are lucky to be here. You are incalculably lucky to be born and incredibly lucky to be brought up by a nice family who encouraged you to go to uni. Or if you were born into a horrible family that’s unlucky and you have my sympathy but you are still lucky. Lucky that you happen to be made of the sort of DNA that went on to make the sort of brain which when placed in a horrible child environment would make decisions that meant you ended up eventually graduated uni. Well done you for dragging yourself up by your shoelaces. But you were lucky. You didn’t create the bit of you that dragged you up. They’re not even your shoelaces.

I suppose I worked hard to achieve whatever dubious achievements I’ve achieved but I didn’t make the bit of me that works hard any more than I made the bit of me that ate too many burgers instead of attending lectures when I was here at UWA. Understanding that you can’t truly take credit for your successes nor truly blame others for their failures will humble you and make you more compassionate. Empathy is intuitive. It is also something you can work on intellectually.

Four: Exercise. I’m sorry you pasty, pale, smoking philosophy grads arching your eyebrows into a Cartesian curve as you watch the human movement mob winding their way through the miniature traffic cones of their existence. You are wrong and they are right. Well you’re half right. You think therefore you are but also you jog therefore you sleep therefore you’re not overwhelmed by existential angst. You can’t be can’t and you don’t want to be. Play a sport. Do yoga, pump iron, and run, whatever but take care of your body, you’re going to need it. Most of you mob are going to live to nearly 100 and even the poorest of you will achieve a level of wealth that most humans throughout history could not have dreamed of. And this long, luxurious life ahead of you is going to make you depressed. (audience laughs) But don’t despair. There is correlation between depression and exercise. Do it! Run, my beautiful intellectuals run.

Five: Be hard on your opinions. A famous bon mot asserts opinions are like assholes in that everyone has one. There is great wisdom in this but I would add that opinions differ significantly from assholes in that yours should be constantly and thoroughly examined. (audience laughs) I used to do exams in here (audience laughs)… It’s revenge.

We must think critically and not just about the ideas of others. Be hard on your beliefs. Take them out onto the verandah and hit them with a cricket bat. Be intellectually rigorous. Identify your biases, your prejudices, your privileges. Most of society is kept alive by a failure to acknowledge nuance. We tend to generate false dichotomies and then try to argue one point using two entirely different sets of assumptions. Like two tennis players trying to win a match by hitting beautifully executed shots from either end of separate tennis courts.

By the way, while I have science and arts graduates in front of me please don’t make the mistake of thinking the arts and sciences are at odds with one another. That is a recent, stupid and damaging idea. You don’t have to be unscientific to make beautiful art, to write beautiful things. If you need proof  - Twain, Douglas Adams, Vonnegut, McEwan, Sagan and Shakespeare, Dickens for a start. You don’t need to be superstitious to be a poet. You don’t need to hate GM technology to care about the beauty of the planet. You don’t have to claim a soul to promote compassion. Science is not a body of knowledge nor a belief system it’s just a term which describes human kinds’ incremental acquisition of understanding through observation. Science is awesome! The arts and sciences need to work together to improve how knowledge is communicated. The idea that many Australians including our new PM and my distant cousin Nick Minchin believe that the science of anthropogenic global warming is controversial is a powerful indicator of the extent of our failure to communicate. The fact that 30 percent of the people just bristled is further evidence still. (audience laughs) The fact that that bristling is more to do with politics than science is even more despairing.

Six: Be a teacher! Please! Please! Please be a teacher. Teachers are the most admirable and important people in the world. You don’t have to do it forever but if you’re in doubt about what to do be an amazing teacher. Just for your 20s be a teacher. Be a primary school teacher. Especially if you’re a bloke. We need male primary school teachers. Even if you’re not a teacher, be a teacher. Share your ideas. Don’t take for granted your education. Rejoice in what you learn and spray it.

Seven: Define yourself by what you love. I found myself doing this thing a bit recently where if someone asks me what sort of music I like I say, “Well I don’t listen to the radio because pop song lyrics annoy me,” or if someone asks me what food I like I say, “I think truffle oil is overused and slightly obnoxious.” And I see it all the time online - people whose idea of being part of a subculture is to hate Coldplay or football or feminists or the Liberal Party.

We have a tendency to define ourselves in opposition to stuff. As a comedian I make my living out of it. But try to also express your passion for things you love. Be demonstrative and generous in your praise of those you admire. Send thank you cards and give standing ovations. Be pro stuff not just anti stuff.

Eight: Respect people with less power than you. I have in the past made important decisions about people I work with – agents and producers - big decisions based largely on how they treat the wait staff in the restaurants we’re having the meeting in. I don’t care if you’re the most powerful cat in the room, I will judge you on how you treat the least powerful. So there!

Nine: Finally, don’t rush. You don’t need to know what you’re going to do with the rest of your life. I’m not saying sit around smoking cones all day but also don’t panic! Most people I know who were sure of their career path at 20 are having mid-life crises now.

I said at the beginning of this ramble, which is already three-and-a-half minutes long, life is meaningless. It was not a flippant assertion. I think it’s absurd the idea of seeking meaning in the set of circumstances that happens to exist after 13.8 billion years worth of unguided events. Leave it to humans to think the universe has a purpose for them. However I’m no nihilist. I’m not even a cynic. I am actually rather romantic and here’s my idea of romance: you will soon be dead. Life will sometimes seem long and tough and God it’s tiring. And you will sometimes be happy and sometimes sad and then you’ll be old and then you’ll be dead. There is only one sensible thing to do with this empty existence and that is fill it. Not fillet. Fill it. And in my opinion, until I change it, life is best filled by learning as much as you can about as much as you can. Taking pride in whatever you’re doing. Having compassion, sharing ideas, running, being enthusiastic and then there’s love and travel and wine and sex and art and kids and giving and mountain climbing, but you know all that stuff already. It’s an incredibly exciting thing this one meaningless life of yours. Good luck and thank you for indulging me.

[miserablesme]

The Les Miserables Changelog Part 3: 1987 Broadway Production

Hello, everyone! This is the latest edition in my attempt to chronicle all of the musical and lyrical changes which the show Les Miserables has undergone over the years. This time, we're going through all the changes between the musical as it existed on the West End around 1985-1986 and the revised libretto for the 1987 Broadway production.

In some ways, this is a much easier changelog to compile than the last two simply because it is much easier to find audio evidence of the show from this era than from its pre-1987 self. We have a full soundboard of the original Broadway cast as well as a very good quality bootleg of the very first Broadway preview, as well as several audios from the next few years which use exactly the same script. We also have an officially released Symphonic Soundtrack which almost (but not quite) follows this version of the libretto exactly. So no more relying on unclear bootlegs and speculation to figure out what was changed when!

Having said that, the changes in this production were MASSIVE. It's almost certainly the most extensive edit the show's libretto has received to this day. As such, this will be a very long edition of this blog. So make sure you have a bit of time on your hands before reading it! With all that cleared up, let's begin.

The first change literally can be heard as soon as the musical begins. The pre-Broadway show opens up with the same recurring motif also heard, for instance, at the openings of "At the End of the Day" and "One Day More". This music then transitioned to the instrumentals to the opening "Work Song". The post-Broadway libretto cuts right to the chase, with the opening instrumentals to the "Work Song" starting right up without any preamble.

One interesting little non-scripted change occurs later in the "Work Song", but only in American productions. For whatever reason, every American Javert from the original Broadway cast until the first Broadway revival sang "And I am Javert" instead of "And I'm Javert", for reasons that honestly baffle me. Again, the libretto retained the original contraption as far as I'm aware, and the West End production as well as later UK and Australian tours still used it as well.

The next change happens while Valjean is on parole. After Valjean pleads against the farmer underpaying him, this was the farmer's original response:

Do you believe

A yellow ticket of leave

Allows a criminal like you to earn full screw?

Since Broadway, his response is instead as follows:

You broke the law

It's there for people to see

Why should you get the same as honest men like me?

I much prefer this revised version. Though the information is essentially the same, it feels more dramatic, as well as feeling less awkward now that it is in the form of separate sentences as opposed to a single sentence spoken in three lines with pauses in between. Moreover, the phrase "honest men like me" as used here provides interesting foreshadowing for its more well-known usage in "Master of the House". One could spend quite some time analysing the implications of this recurring description, but this blog is long enough as it is so now isn't the time!

In the same number, originally the innkeeper's wife had the following remark:

My rooms are full

And I've no supper to spare

I'd like to help you really, all I want is to be fair

Since Broadway, her line has been slightly modified:

My rooms are full

And I've no supper to spare

I'd like to help a stranger, all we want is to be fair

I suppose "I'd like to help a stranger" sounds less slang-y than "help you really". Presumably this is why it was changed. I find the change of subject from singular to plural far more interesting. My hypothesis is that the writers wanted to make it clear than this is a communal grudge, not a personal one. Everyone around sees it as perfectly fair to deny shelter to a former convict, not just this one individual. I definitely prefer the revised line, but evidently the producers of the West End production didn't; that production held on to the original lyrics for more than a decade after they were originally revised! More on that in a later edition of this blog...

A more minor change can be heard during "At the End of the Day". Originally, Valjean asks the factor workers "What is this shouting all about?" The Broadway script changes this to "What is this fighting all about?" Much less trivial implications now. I'm curious as to whether or not a staging change may have accompanied this. Usually the two workers get into quite a bit of physical scuffle by this point, far beyond the realm of shouting. Did the original pre-Broadway production use more subdued choreography?

"The Runaway Cart" has some noticeable differences. After Valjean asks the townspeople for help, the original response was sung by the entire ensemble, and went as follows:

(SOLO)

Don't go near him, Monsieur Mayor

There's nothing at all you can do

(ENSEMBLE)

The old man is a goner for sure

Leave him alone

The Broadway libretto revised this into a sequence sung by one individual at a time with the following lyrics:

Don't go near him, Monsieur Mayor

The load is as heavy as hell

The old man is a goner for sure

It will kill you as well

A female ensemble member sung "The old man is a goner for sure" while a male member sung the rest. I sort of like it better as an ensemble piece (something that would be largely brought back in later years, as I'll soon discuss) although I think it's cool that it rhymes now. Having said that, I'm fairly confident that no one in the real world has ever actually used the phrase "Heavy as hell"!

An official change in the libretto occurred in "Who Am I?" but listeners to the original Broadway cast would not have heard it. While the pre-Broadway show had Valjean refer to "This innocent who bears my face", the revised libretto instead refers to "This innocent who wears my face". Perhaps a means of avoiding repetition, given that the word "bear" is used again later in the number? Regardless, Colm Wilkinson didn't actually bother to adapt to this change! He still sings "This innocent who bears my face" in the Broadway production (as well as the tenth anniversary concert; not until his 1998 stint in Toronto did he ever start singing the revised lyrics). Since every future Valjean (except Ivan Rutherford for some reason) sings "wears", I still see it as appropriate to mention here.

At the end of the song, Valjean's "You know where to find me!", used on and off in the Barbican previews before becoming a settled part of the production by the final pre-Broadway libretto, is once again removed for the Broadway show. However, the West End production would keep it for a few years - more on that later...

Just listening to the original Broadway cast, one might think Javert's "Dare you talk to me of crime?" becomes "Dare you speak to me of crime?" However, this seems to be a Terrence Mann-exclusive change. Every Javert after him reverts to the original lyrics (as did Terrence himself when he returned to the musical fifteen years later). I'm still making note of the change here for the sake of clarification.

An instrumental change occurs between "Castle on a Cloud" and "Master of the House". Mme. Thenardier's "You heard me ask for something and I never ask twice" was original followed by three bars of notes, then by six more bars of notes that are identical to each other. After the Broadway production, however, those six bars of notes grow increasingly more dramatic as they go on.

A very slight change happens during the preamble to "Master of the House". Originally one of the guests proclaims "Hell, what a wine" while the revised libretto instead has him claim "God, what a wine". Definitely more natural in my opinion, though not a huge difference by any means.

A few subtle differences exist in the "Waltz of Treachery" number. First off, Thenardier originally asks "Have we done for your child what is best?" The Broadway libretto changes "your child" to "her child". I personally like the original lyric better, as it goes back to the idea established earlier that Valjean is metaphorically bargaining through the spirit of Fantine. It's definitely not a difference that makes or breaks the number, though.

Towards the end of the song comes another change that cannot actually be heard by listening to the original Broadway cast. In the pre-Broadway show, Valjean used the line "Let us seek out a friendlier sky", while the revised libretto has him say "Let us seek out some friendlier sky". However, Colm Wilkinson once again doesn't bother to adapt to the change, and unlike the "Who Am I?" change he wouldn't learn it over time either. He continues to sing "a friendlier sky" throughout his on-and-off performances as Valjean, right up to and including his 2002 run in Shanghai!

After the bulk of the number comes a more significant change. Prior to the Broadway production, as was discussed in the last entry, the "Waltz of Treachery" was followed by about forty-five seconds of vamping and then this exchange in the tune of "Castle on a Cloud":

(LITTLE COSETTE)

We're going home right now, monsieur

What is your name

(VALJEAN)

Now my dear

I've names enough, I've got names to spare

But where I go, you always will be there

Nor will you be afraid again

There is a sun that's shining yet

(LITTLE COSETTE)

I'm going to call you my Papa

(VALJEAN)

I'm going to call you my Cosette

The Broadway libretto replaced it with just under twenty seconds of vamping, followed by a sequence in the tune of the "Waltz of Treachery":

(VALJEAN)

Come Cosette

Come my dear

From now on I will always be here

Where I go

You will be

(LITTLE COSETTE)

Will there be children

And castles to see?

(VALJEAN)

Yes, Cosette

Yes it's true

There's a castle just waiting for you

This is followed by another fifteen or so seconds of vamping, and then the humming duet between Cosette and Valjean carries on as before.

Arguably the biggest change in the entire edited libretto happens now. Whereas the number was originally directly followed by "Stars", things have been moved around so that it instead transitions directly into "Look Down". "Look Down" itself receives a lot of adjustments. First off, the number began in the pre-Broadway musical with a bar of music that was then repeated. The Broadway version only plays the bar of music once, and the sung part happens immediately afterwards.

Gavroche's verse receives some lyrical updates. Originally it used the following lines:

This is my school, my high society

From St. Denis to St Michel

We live on crumbs of humble piety

Tough on the teeth, but what the hell?

If you're poor, if you're free

Follow me, follow me!

The Broadway production rewrote that sequence a little:

This is my school, my high society

Here in the slums of St Michel

We live on crumbs of humble piety

Tough on the teeth, but what the hell?

Think you're poor? Think you're free?

Follow me, follow me!

Better lines in my humble opinion; "slums" conveys the poverty of Gavroche's community much more effectively than the original line, and phrasing the "poor" and "free" lines as questions is more dramatic than their original statement form.

The old beggar woman's original "You give 'em all the pox" becomes the less grammatically accurate "Give 'em all the pox" for Broadway, though I have no idea if the original "You" was part of the libretto or simply an improvisation. Since seemingly all actresses used that line for the first few years of the West End production, it strikes me as warranting a mention.

Right after this comes another change. In the pre-Broadway show, the argument between the beggar woman and the prostitute was followed by an exchange by a few individual beggars. All of the following lines were said by one person at a time, the first three being said by female beggars and the last one by a male beggar:

When's it gonna end?

When're we gonna live?

Something's gotta happen, dearie

Something's gotta give

The Broadway libretto changes this to an ensemble piece performed by all the beggars simultaneously:

When's it gonna end?

When're we gonna live?

Something's gotta happen now or

Something's gotta give

I really like the switch to a group effort, as it really emphasizes that the beggars are a community sharing the burden of poverty. It really feels like an epidemic to an extent that it doesn't when it's just a small conversation. Evidently the producers of the West End show didn't agree with me though, as they held onto the original sequence for more than a decade after the official change, and by that point it had already been largely reverted worldwide! More on that in a later blog...

Originally, the exposition about General Lamarque was given by a few random students (supposedly not specified in the libretto, but in practice portrayed as Combeferre and Feuilly). Some ensemble dialogue between beggars was put in between. Feuilly sings over the end of the ensemble's lines - but many have speculated that this was not intended by the writers, as the background music sounds super out of sync with his singing! Here's how the scene went:

(COMBEFERRE)

As for the leaders of the land

As for the swells who run this show

Only one man and that's Lamarque

Speaks for the people here below

(BEGGARS)

Something for a meal

Something for a doss

Something in the name of Him who died upon the cross

On the cross, come across

On the cross, come across, come across

(FEUILLY)

Lamarque is ill and fading fast

Won't last the week out, so they say

With all the anger in the land

How long before the judgement day?

Before we cut the fat ones down to size?

Before the barricades arise?

Fortunately, the writers of the Broadway libretto had the sense to change the purveyors of the message into people actually relevant to the show's plot, namely Marius and Enjolras. Moreover, the beggars' dialog was rewritten into a sequence that feels far less clunky to me. The background music was fixed to account for the solo singing (now done by Marius) overlapping the beggars' lines, so it is now perfectly in sync. Here's the edited exchange:

(ENJOLRAS)

Where are the leaders of the land?

Where are the swells who run this show?

(MARIUS)

Only one man and that's Lamarque

Speaks for the people here below

(BEGGARS)

See our children fed

Help us in our shame

Something for a crust of bread in Holy Jesus' name

(SOLO BEGGAR)

In the Lord's holy name

(BEGGARS)

In His name, in His name, in His name

(MARIUS)

Lamarque is ill and fading fast

Won't last the week out, so they say

(ENJOLRAS)

With all the anger in the land

How long before the judgement day?

Before we cut the fat ones down to size?

Before the barricades arise?

Much better in my opinion! It should be noted that David Bryant instead sings "these people here below", but as far as I can tell every future Marius (or later Enjolras - more on that later) sings "the people, which is the actually phrasing in the libretto.

One final change in Look Down: Gavroche now says that all of Thenardier's family is "on the make", as opposed to the original "on the take". A rather pointless change in my book, though it certainly doesn't hurt anything.

"The Robbery" is another heavily edited number. Thenardier's line after acknowledging Brujon, Babet, and Claquesous was originally as follows:

You Montparnasse, watch for the p'lice

With Eponine, take care

You've got all the hash, I've got all the cash

The Broadway show rewrote those lines into their still-current form:

You Montparnasse, watch for the law

With Eponine, take care

You turn on the tears, no mistakes my dears!

This changed lyric more naturally transitions the scene into the gang's actual plan, though the original is an interesting continuation of Gavroche's recollection of Thenardier once running a hash house.

Mme. Thenardier's response is also altered from the original lyrics:

Here come a student from our street

One of 'Ponine's peculiar gents

Our Eponine would kiss his feet

She never showed a bit of sense

Into the current ones:

These bloody students on our street

Here they come slumming once again

Our Eponine would kiss their feet

She never showed a scrap of brain

It's interesting how the edit shifts the focus from Marius in particular to the students in general. It seems that Mme. Thenardier is less aware of the specifics of her daughter's personal life now, something that makes sense for her character.

After Mme. Thenardier's "You'll be in the clear", there was originally just eighteen seconds of a musical motif (the same one which opens "At the End of the Day" and "One Day More") followed by Thenardier's speech. Since Broadway, it's instead been followed by a few more lines of dialogue:

(MARIUS)

Who is that man

(EPONINE)

Leave me alone!

(MARIUS)

Why is here?

Hey Eponine!

Only now does the musical motif play. But instead of staying silent upon seeing Cosette, Marius now sings "I didn't see you there, forgive me..." Interestingly, in this video of a 1987 performance of the original West End production, Marius just stops without bumping into Cosette as he usually does. This makes me wonder whether or not the bumping was added into the Broadway version, and the lyric was added to accomodate for the blocking change. Of course, this is all speculation; I have no way to know for sure.

Thenardier's con job is also quite a bit different post-Broadway. Originally it used the following lyrics:

How you do? Spare a sou

God will see all the good that you do

Look monsieur, lost a leg

Hero of Waterloo now has to beg

Wait a bit, know that face...

The Broadway libretto edited it into its current form:

Please monsieur, come this way

Here's a child that ain't eaten today

Save a life, spare a sou

God rewards all the good that you do

Wait a bit, know that face...

It's interesting how Thenardier's facade shifts in focus from his own supposed hardship to that of an alleged child. I suppose the latter would be a good bit more effective in convincing passersby to donate!

During "Javert's Intervention", Thenardier now says "It was me that told you so, as opposed to the original "Wot told you so"; however, this seems to be a regional choice to account for a lack of Cockney accent, not an official libretto change. British productions retain the original "Wot".

“The Robbery” ends quite differently. Its pre-Broadway form had Gavroche’s remarks directly follow Javert’s “Clear this garbage off the street!” However, now Javert’s line is instead followed by some instrumentals to a slower version of the same tune as, for instance, “Honest work/Just reward/That’s the way to please the lord” and “He will bend/He will break/This time there is no mistake”.

After these instrumentals come the “Stars” number, now in a much more natural location given that Javert now has a logical reason to be thinking about Valjean!

The number itself is mostly the same, up until the final segment. After Javert’s “Those who falter and those who fall must pay the price”, he originally had the following lyrics:

Scarce to be counted

Changing the chaos

To order and light

You are the sentinels

Silent and sure

Keeping watch in the night

Keeping watch in the night

The post-Broadway show replaced this with a much more climactic remark:

Lord let me find him

That I may see him

Safe behind bars

I will never rest ‘til then

This I swear

This is swear by the stars

WOW, what an improvement! Now the stars are tied much better to Valjean himself, and Javert’s motivation is much clearer!

Now that “Stars” is over, we finally get Gavroche's remarks. The lyrics are the same; however, instead of the tempo progressively getting faster as it goes along, it now gets progressively slower. Interestingly the audio of the first preview has Gavroche saying "mother dear" instead of "auntie dear", but it's back to the original line by the second known original Broadway cast audio. Both audio feature Braden Danner; whether the "mother dear" was a choice on his part or a director's, a flub, or a libretto change that was later reverted is unknown.

"Eponine's Errand" has some significant changes. First off, the original libretto gave Marius and Eponine this exchange:

(MARIUS)

Did you see that lovely girl

(EPONINE)

A lovely two-a-penny thing

The Broadway libretto edited it a little:

(MARIUS)

Eponine, who was that girl?

(EPONINE)

Some bourgeois two-a-penny thing

Marius' request has also been changed from its original lyrics:

Eponine, do this for me

But careful how you go

Your father mustn't know

He'll strike another blow

'Ponine, I'm lost until she's found

Into some far clearer and more direct instructions:

Eponine, do this for me

Discover where she lives

But careful how you go

Don't let your father know

'Ponine, I'm lost until she's found

And yes, the line was "your father" right from day one. Michael Ball flubs it as "her father" on the complete symphonic recording, leading many to assume that was the original lyric which was changed later. But I'm not aware of a single live performance to use that lyric (which doesn't make a lot of sense anyway).

Another side note: Some Marius actors have very slightly changed the third line to "Be careful how you go" or "But careful as you go", though neither lyric is the standard.

Post-Broadway, as the instrumentals to "Red and Black" play, a student (I'm not sure which one) now shouts Enjolras' name before the singing begins.

During "Red and Black", Michael Maguire changes the original "It is easy to sit here and swat 'em like flies" to "Oh, it's easy to sit here and swat 'em like flies". However, this is an individual choice of the actor, not an official libretto change. Every future Enjolras I'm aware of (except Ramin Karimloo for some reason) uses the original line.

An actual libretto change occurs soon afterwards. After Marius' entrance, Grantaire originally asks, "Marius, what's wrong with you today?" The post-Broadway show changes this to "Marius, you're late. What's wrong today?" This makes it much clearer why Grantaire might suspect something is wrong.

Soon afterwards, Grantaire's original line "We talk of battles to be won, and here he comes like Don Juan" is slightly tweaked to "You talk of battles to be won". This is a little more appropriate, since Grantaire isn't actually doing a lot of talking!

After "Red and Black", Gavroche's part is very slightly changed. First off, American performances for a few years would have Gavroche whistle right before everyone quiets down, though I have no idea if this was in the libretto or not.

Secondly, Gavroche's original remark, "It's General Lamarque! He's dead!" is shortened to just "General Lamarque is dead!"

In another contender for the biggest change in the entire edit, the entire "I Saw Him Once" number is totally removed. I have mixed feelings about this. It does give Cosette, a frustratingly underwritten character, some additional content. However, stylistically it's not all that much like any other number in the musical, and it doesn't really add enough information to the show to warrant a whole song. So I say with regret that it was probably for the best to delete the number.

To compensate for the lost number, "In My Life" is lengthened to include the establishing character moments that "I Saw Him Once" originally did. Originally it opened as follows:

(COSETTE)

Dearest papa, can I tell him of this?

How can I tell him the things that I feel?

How could he understand?

(VALJEAN)

Dear Cosette, you're such a lonely child...

The post-Broadway opener is instead as follows:

(COSETTE)

How strange, this feeling that my life's begun at last

This change, can people really fall in love so fast?

What's the matter with you Cosette?

Have you been to much on your own?

So many things unclear

So many things unknown

In my life

There are so many questions and answers

That somehow seem wrong

In my life

There are times when I catch in the silence

The sigh of a faraway song

And it sings of a world that I long to see

Out of reach, just a whisper away, waiting for me

Does he know I'm alive? Do I know if he's real?

Does he see what I see? Does he feel what I feel?

In my life

I'm no longer alone

Now the love in my life is so near

Find me now, find me here

(VALJEAN)

Dear Cosette, you're such a lonely child...

After Valjean gives Cosette his cryptic defense of his secrecy, Cosette had a remark that is sadly incredibly hard to understand in the quality of the recordings we have. It apparently went something like this:

There are voices I hear

That come into my mind

Full of noise, full of fear

When the noise was unkind

In my life

I'm no longer afraid

And I yearn for the truth that you know

Of the years, years ago

Her post-Broadway response is much shorter:

In my life

I'm no longer a child

And I yearn for the truth that you know

Of the years, years ago

Shorter, but just as effective in my book. Plus, the use of the word "child" nicely ties into Valjean's initial remark that Cosette is "such a lonely child", as well as Cosette's frustration that he still sees her as "a child who is lost in the woods".

The next number, "A Heart Full of Love", also has a LOT of rewritten lyrics. First of all, after Marius' "I do not even know your name", these are his original lyrics:

Dear mademoiselle

I am lost in your spell

The Broadway production changed the lyrics into:

Dear mademoiselle

Won't you say? Will you tell?

I suppose this fits a little better with his remark about not knowing Cosette's name.

After Marius and Cosette finally learn each other's names (an important step in a relationship if you ask me!) this was their original way of showing their affection:

(MARIUS)

Cosette, your name is like a song

(COSETTE)

My song is you

(MARIUS)

Is it true?

(COSETTE)

Yes, it's true

The Broadway production rewrote it into the following:

(MARIUS)

Cosette, I don't know what to say

(COSETTE)

Then make no sound

(MARIUS)

I am lost

(COSETTE)

I am found

In my opinion, the rewrite captures the slight awkwardness of young love much better, as well as making a lot more sense!

Immediately afterwards, this is the original exchange:

(MARIUS and COSETTE)

A heart full of love

A heart full of you

(MARIUS)

The words are foolish but they're true

Cosette, Cosette

What were we dreaming when we met?

(COSETTE)

I can sing

(MARIUS)

Dear Cosette

(COSETTE)

A heart full of love...

The Broadway libretto redoes the scene as the following:

(MARIUS)

A heart full of love

(COSETTE)

A night bright as day

(MARIUS)

And you must never go away

Cosette, Cosette

(COSETTE)

This is a chain we'll never break

(MARIUS)

Do I dream?

(COSETTE)

I'm awake

(MARIUS)

A heart full of love...

Almost a totally different scene! The post-Broadway variant is better structured, but I do like the original too.

As the trio of Marius, Cosette, and Eponine exchanges inner monologues, Marius originally has the line "I saw her waiting and I knew". The Broadway libretto changed this to "A single look and then I knew". I kind of prefer the original, as it implies a little more than something as trivial as a cursory glance.

In the closing lyrical overlap of the song, Cosette originally sings "Waiting for you", but post-Broadway she sings "I knew it too". Then, she originally sings "At your call" but post-Broadway she sings "Every day".

During the opening to "The Attack on Rue Plumet", Montparnasse refers to Valjean as "the one that got away the other day" as opposed to his original "the bloke wot got away the other day". However, this is another regional change made for the sake of making sense outside of a cockney accent. The official libretto still had the original lyrics.

A tiny change occurs during Thenardier and Eponine's fight. Claquesous originally thinks it's a palaver and an absolute treat "to watch a cat and its father" picking a bone in the street. The Broadway libretto changed this to "see a cat and a father". Why exactly the writers felt the need to make such a miniscule edit is mystifying to me, but it certainly doesn't hurt anything.

Another change occurs later in the number, after Eponine's scream. Originally this was Thenardier's reaction:

Make for the sewers, don't wait around

Leave her to me, go underground

You wait my girl, you'll rue this night

I'll make you scream, you'll scream alright!

These lines were mixed up a bit for the Broadway libretto:

You wait my girl, you'll rue this night

I'll make you scream, you'll scream alright!

Leave her to me, don't wait around

Make for the sewers, go underground

The post-Broadway variation arguably is a bit less climactic due to it not ending on a threat. However, the original climax isn't all that appropriate since Eponine and Thenardier never actually interact at any later point in the musical. I like that the post-Broadway version ends on something that's actually relevant to the remainder of the show (namely, that Thenardier will be in the sewers). Evidently the West End producers didn't agree with me; this is another line in which the original was kept there for more than a decade (at which point a rewrite closer to the original was already being used worldwide)!

In "One Day More", Javert's "One day more to revolution" is slightly changed to "One more day to revolution". However, the number is otherwise unchanged.

And that's it for Act One! The opening barricade scene to act two has a small change. Grantaire's pre-Broadway "Some will bark, some will bite" was changed to "Dogs will bark, fleas will bite". Makes a lot more sense in my opinion!

The opening to "On My Own" is changed as well. Originally it was performed as follows:

And now I'm all alone again

Nowhere to go, no one to turn to

I did not want your money sir

I came out here 'cause I was told to

The Broadway version rewrote it into the following:

And now I'm alone again

Nowhere to turn, no one to go to

Without a home, without a friend

Without a face to say hello to

A huge improvement in my book. It actually rhymes now, and is far less likely to be misconstrued as ungrateful.

After receiving a massive overhaul not that long before, "Little People" was slightly tweaked for the Broadway show. The pre-Broadway version had this ending:

So never kick a dog

Because he’s just a pup

You’d better run for cover when the pup grows up!

Another line (taken from the original longer version of "Little People" as well as all versions of its reprise) was added for the post-Broadway show:

So never kick a dog

Because he’s just a pup

We'll fight like twenty armies and we won't give up

So you’d better run for cover when the pup grows up!

Grantaire's line afterwards is literally reversed in meaning from the original "Better far to die a schoolboy than a policeman and a spy!" into "What's the difference? Die a schoolboy, die a policeman, die a spy!" This post-Broadway lyric fits better into Grantaire's cynical personality.

A very subtle edit is made in "Little Fall of Rain" (to the point that I only just realized its existence by reading an old internet forum!) Pre-Broadway, Marius asks Eponine "Did you see my beloved?" The tense is changed from past to present perfect for the Broadway libretto, so that he now sings "Have you seen my beloved?"

"Drink with Me" receives quite a bit of editing. The opening few lines are originally all sung by Grantaire:

Drink with me to days gone by

Sing with me the songs we knew

Here's to pretty girls who went to our heads

Here's to witty girls who went to our beds

Here's to them and here's to you

Now, those lyrics are split between various students:

(FEUILLY)

Drink with me to days gone by

Sing with me the songs we knew

(PROUVAIRE)

Here's to pretty girls who went to our heads

(JOLY)

Here's to witty girls who went to our beds

(ALL STUDENTS)

Here's to them and here's to you

A far more touching scene now that it entails an entire group of friends reminiscing about their lives, as opposed to the thoughts of one heavily drunk individual.

Originally this was followed by a segment by the male ensemble:

Drink with me to days gone by

To the life that used to be

At the shrine of friendship never say die

Let the wine of friendship never run dry

Then, this was followed by the same lyrics, but sung by the male and female ensembles overlapping. The Broadway libretto removes that and replaces it with an all-new segment with Grantaire. It's much more cynical and philosophical than his original lines:

Drink with me to days gone by

Can it be you fear to die?

Will the world remember you when you fall?

Could it be your death means nothing at all?

Is you life just one more lie?

The lyrics from the pre-Broadway show, in their male-and-female overlapping form, are played afterwards.

The next change occurs during the Second Attack. Pre-Broadway, this was how the opening lyrics went:

(ENJOLRAS)

How do we stand, Feuilly make your report

(FEUILLY)

We've guns enough but bullets running short

(MARIUS)

Let me go into the street

There are bodies all around

Ammunition to be had

Lots of bullets to be found

Some very small edits were made for Broadway:

(ENJOLRAS)

How do we stand, Feuilly make your report

(FEUILLY)

We've guns enough but ammunition short

(MARIUS)

I will go into the street

There are bodies all around

Ammunition to be had

Lots of bullets to be found

The following exchange also is a bit edited. Here's how it went pre-Broadway:

(ENJOLRAS)

I can't let you go, it's too much of a chance

(MARIUS)

And the same can be said for any man here

(VALJEAN)

Let me go in his place, he's no more than a boy

I am old and alone and have nothing to fear

Post-Broadway, it instead goes as follows:

(ENJOLRAS)

I can't let you go, it's too much of a chance

(MARIUS)

And the same is true for any man here

(VALJEAN)

Let me go, he's no more than a boy

I am old, I have nothing to fear

Finally, Gavroche's final lines are as follows pre-Broadway:

So never kick a dog

Because he’s just a pup

You’d better run for cover when the pup grows up

And we’ll fight like twenty armies and we won’t give…

A small edit is made for the Broadway production, so that the latter two lines are reversed:

So never kick a dog

Because he’s just a pup

We’ll fight like twenty armies and we won’t give up

So you’d better run for cover when the pup grows...

I'd say this is an improvement, since Gavroche's death is all the more impactful when his literal last unfinished words are about growing up.

Not long afterwards comes the Final Battle. Leading up to Enjolras' climactic moment, the original lines went as follows:

(ENJOLRAS)

Come on my friends, though we stand here alone

Let us go to our deaths with our face to our foes

(COMBEFERRE)

Let 'em pay for each death with a death of their own

(COURFEYRAC)

If they get me, by God, they will pay through the nose

(ENJOLRAS)

Let others rise to take our place

Until the earth is free

The sequence was edited for Broadway, giving a bit more breathing space:

(ENJOLRAS)

Let us die facing our foes

Make them bleed while they can

(COMBEFERRE)

Make them pay through the nose

(COURFEYRAC)

Make them pay for every man

(ENJOLRAS)

Let others rise to take our place

Until the earth is free

"Dog Eats Dog" is a very heavily-edited number. First off, the vamping at the beginning originally lasts about 30 seconds. By Broadway, it has been reduced to about nineteen seconds.

After Thenardier's "As a service to the town" line, he originally sung the following lines:

It's a world where the dogs eat the dogs

And the worst is as good as the best

It's a stinking great sewer that's crawling with rats

And one rat is as good as the rest

I raise my eyes to see the heavens

And only the moon looks down

That entire sequence was cut for Broadway.

Soon afterwards, Thenardier originally proclaims "Here's a little toy". The Broadway edit changes it to "Here's another toy", perhaps to make it seem less repetitive after his "pretty little thing" line.

The exact same lines from after "As a service to the town" are repeated in the pre-Broadway number after Thenardier's "When the gutters run with blood" line, with one more line added afterwards:

It's a world where the dogs eat the dogs

And the worst is as good as the best

It's a stinking great sewer that's crawling with rats

And one rat is as good as the rest

I raise my eyes to see the heavens

And only the moon looks down

The harvest moon shines down

Unlike the first instance of those lines, they aren't completely excised for Broadway. They are, however, significantly rewritten:

It's a world where the dogs eat the dogs

And they kill for the bones in the street

And God in His heavens, He don't interfere

'Cause He's dead as the stiffs at my feet

I raise my eyes to see the heavens

And only the moon looks down

The harvest moon shines down

I really like how the edited version focuses more on godlessness than on how gross the sewer is. Not that a lack of a god is inherently sinister; I am quite agnostic myself and I think the unbreakable connection between religion and morality alleged by some is ridiculous. But it is blatantly obvious that Thenardier sees no reason to be moral provided no one will punish him.

As a side note, the 1985 London official soundtrack oddly uses this variant, yet the 1986 bootleg audio I have uses the original. Perhaps the original was experimented with, reverted, and later put in again? Who knows...

After the number, Thenardier now shouts Valjean's name.

The encounter in the sewers between Valjean and Javert originally ended as follows, with Javert's first two lines here in a tune not heard anywhere else in the musical to my recollection:

(VALJEAN)

Come, time is running short

(JAVERT)

Go take him, I'll be waiting at the door

I've never met a man like you before

A man such as you

The sequence was extended for the Broadway libretto, to the tune of "Look Down" and the "Work Song":

(VALJEAN)

Come, time is running short

Look down, Javert

He's standing in his grave

(VALJEAN - simultaneously with the next two lines)

Give way, Javert

There is a life to save

(JAVERT - simultaneously with the previous two lines)

Take him, Valjean

Before I change my mind

(JAVERT)

I will be waiting, 24601

A slight change can be heard in "Every Day". Originally Marius sings that he and Cosette will "remember that night and the song that we sang". The Broadway libretto edited this into the decidedly less medium-aware "remember that night and the vow that we made".

"Valjean's Confession" has been reworked to the point that it can scarcely even be considered the same song. After Valjean's "There's something now that must be done", this was how the song went:

(VALJEAN)

Monsieur, I cannot stay a night beneath your roof

I am a convict, sir, my body bears the proof

My name is Jean Valjean

I never told Cosette, I bear this guilt alone

And this I swear to you, her innocence is real

Her love is true

Our love, our life, are now her own

And I must face the years alone

(MARIUS)

I do not understand what's the sense of it all?

Is the world upside down?

Will the universe fall?

If it's true what you say, and Cosette doesn't know

Why confess it to me?

Why confess it at all?

What forces you to speak after all?

(VALJEAN)

You and Cosette must be free of reproach

It is not your affair

There is a darkness that's over my life

It's the cross I must bear

It's for Cosette this must be faced

If I am found, she is disgraced

(MARIUS)

What can I do that would turn you from this...

After the Broadway rewrite, Valjean's "There's something now that must be done" is followed by this:

(VALJEAN)

You've spoken from the heart, and I must do the same

There is a story, sir, of slavery and shame

That you alone must know

I never told Cosette, she had enough of tears

She's never known the truth, the story you must hear

Of years ago

There lived a man whose name was Jean Valjean

He stole some bread to save his sister's son

For nineteen winters served his time

In sweat he washed away his crime

Years ago

He broke parole and lived a life apart

How could he tell Cosette and break her heart?

It's for Cosette this must be faced

If he is caught she is disgraced

The time is come to journey on

And from this day he must be gone

Who am I?

Who am I?

(MARIUS)

You're Jean Valjean

What can I do that will turn you from this...

The few lines afterwards are the same, but as you can see not much else in the song is! Even the tune diverges a lot between the two variants. I'm very conflicted about which one I prefer. I gravitate towards the final one, though it's nice that the original actually tried to address to confusing notion that Valjean wants to tell his son-in-law of his past yet not his own daughter.

"Beggars at the Feast" originally ended with a solo for Thenardier:

(THENARDIER and MME. THENARDIER)

We know where the wind is blowing

Money is the stuff we smell

(THENARDIER)

And when I'm rich as Croesus

Jesus, won't I see you all in Hell!

The Broadway libretto switched this to a group line:

(THENARDIER and MME. THENARDIER)

We know where the wind is blowing

Money is the stuff we smell

And when we're rich as Croesus

Jesus, won't we see you all in Hell!

I much prefer the revised version, as the two Thenardiers clearly are in this act together. It seems more appropriate to let them both have the last laugh.

A small change occurs in the Epilogue. Pre-Broadway, Fantine sings "You raised my child with love". However, post-Broadway, she instead sings "You raised my child in love".

Another change occurs later in the epilogue. In the pre-Broadway show, Cosette tells Valjean that "It's too soon to ever say goodbye". The post-Broadway libretto instead has her sing "It's too soon, too soon to say goodbye". Repetitive as it may be, I prefer it over the original because the original awkwardly combines language clearly denoting the moment with language implying eternality.

Phew, we're finally at the end! Rest assured this is almost certainly the longest changelog you'll ever be forced to endure. I'm fairly sure it's complete, but this particular rewrite was so extensive it's not impossible that I missed something. Please feel free to let me know if that is the case.

As a side note, both for this project and my own enjoyment, I want as complete a collection of Les Miserables audios as possible. I already have most of what’s commonly circulated, but if you have any audios or videos you know are rare, or some audios that you haven't traded in a few years, I’d love it if you DMed me!

Until the turntable puts me at the forefront again, good-bye…

[flowercrown-bard]

For the writing prompts #14. Can’t make move because other person is a rival/enemy (please!)

Thank you so much for the prompt! So...I'm not 100% sure if this still fits the prompt but oh well, I tried

pairing: Eskel/Jaskier

word count: 5k

from this prompt list

summary: Jaskier finds anoynmous poetry that talks about how witchers are unwanted posted on notice boards. Of course he makes it his goal to find the mysterious poet and make them stop. It's too bad that as time goes on and the poet's verses change, it becomes really hard to hate them (new fic with Eskel‘s POV to this)

content warning: self-deprication, angst

Jaskier was known for many a thing. Some people knew him as a talented bard. Others thought of him only as the idiot they had seen jump out of a window to escape a scorned lover’s wrath. The list could go on forever, Jaskier had made sure of that.

But the one thing, everyone without fail would know him for, is that he was fiercely loyal to witchers.

For years he had sung about the White Wolf and his heroics, but lately, ever since that fateful day that he had finally met Geralt’s brother, Jaskier also sang about a different witcher. One who had promised to show him his collection of old poetry that scholars everywhere would kill for. The witcher that was kind and sweet despite what his appearance might suggest. The witcher whom Jaskier couldn’t stop thinking about ever since they had parted.

Briefly, Jaskier had been worried that Geralt might disapprove of Jaskier writing songs about one of his brothers. After all it had just been the two of them for so long. But Geralt didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he smiled a little wider whenever Jaskier crafted verses for Eskel. In fact, he looked at Jaskier as if there was more to it than just professional interest. Which was absolute nonsense, of course. Singing about another witcher was only profitable. It expended Jaskier’s repertoire and what better way to help all witcher-kind than to spread tales about more than just the most famous one of them?

So yes, Jaskier was first and foremost known as a friend to witchers.

Another, lesser known fact about Jaskier was that once he developed a grudge, he would hold onto it for the rest of his life.

Which is why Jaskier was seething with fury when he caught wind of some unnamed poet who apparently made it their life’s work to destroy witchers’ reputations.

What made it even worse that on the day Jaskier found out, he was in high spirits. He had been travelling alone for the past month and had just heard of Eskel – who Jaskier had been looking forward to meeting again since forever – being somewhere in the area. Of course, Jaskier had dropped everything and gone to search every notice board he could find for any clue as to any contracts close by that could have attracted the witcher.

What Jaskier found instead was enough to make his fists tremble with barely suppressed rage. Right there, in the middle of the notice board hung a piece of poetry on some cheap paper.

That in itself wasn’t too bad. Jaskier remembered well the days when he himself had been too shy to openly present his poetry and had resorted to anonymously posting it onto boards, but this – this was the worst thing Jaskier had ever read. The verses spoke of what it meant to be a witcher, of how life one the Path could look like. Some of the words and metaphors used were clear references – or even plagiarism – to Jaskier’s songs about his witchers. But where Jaskier praised and celebrated, this poet snarled and spat at witchers.

At the very least, the handwriting wasn’t too easy to decipher, as if the poet – if one could call them that – hadn’t had much time to write this. It was a poor consolation.

Jaskier read through the poem again and again, his mind catching on the words unwanted and mutant. And those were the most harmless insults.

The entire poem read as a collection of all the horrible things that were spat at witchers. Not only was it a clear rip-off of Jaskier’s work – describing the life of a witcher – but it dared to twist it into something ugly and loathed.

To make the insult worse, underneath the poem, in the place where normally the poet’s signature would be, was a clumsy sketch of a goat – clearly meant as another insult to Jaskier. Dread pooled in Jaskier’s stomach, as his eyes raked over the lines one more time and an even more horrible conclusion dawned on him.

The poet didn’t just made references to Jaskier’s works in general. It used imagery Jaskier specifically used in his songs about Eskel. The kindest soul Jaskier knew. A man so selfless that he had even saved a baby goat and had against all odds managed to take care of her while on the Path.

And now this poet spoke about Eskel’s bad experiences and posted them openly on the board for all the world to see.

Without thinking, Jaskier tore the paper with the offending poem from the board. It nearly crumbled in his fingers, but he forced himself to keep his hand steady. He would need the poem to ask people if they knew who had written it, even though the thought of showing it to more people churned Jaskier’s guts.

His search ended abruptly, when instead of finding out who the poet was, Jaskier heard about Eskel being driven out of the town.

He gritted his teeth and left the town to resume his search of Eskel. But even as he left the town behind, he swore to himself that whatever he did, some day he would find the poet and he would make sure they would never write another harmful word about witchers again.

-

Not a week later, a couple of towns over, Jaskier found another poem. The same handwriting, the same sentiment of witchers being resented outcasts.

After that, Jaskier doubled his efforts to sing the witchers’ praises.

Apparently, the unknown poet took that as a challenge. Wherever Jaskier went, it was only a matter of time before the next piece of offending poetry appeared.

The poet should have been easy to find. Poets of all kinds had the convenient habit of making themselves known – Jaskier could attest to that. And yet, this one alluded him time and time again. They were impossible to find. For a brief moment, Jaskier considered the possibility of Valdo Marx being the one writing these horrible things just to spite Jaskier, but even he wouldn’t stoop low enough for such a thing. Valdo had his place in Cidaris and he would never become a travelling bard for such a petty thing. Because that was clearly what this mysterious and hated poet was; travelling, just like Jaskier and yet always one step ahead, always out of reach.

There was no hint as to where the poet would go next. The only pattern Jaskier could find was that they always showed up in towns that remembered a witcher with scars running down his face.

For whatever reason, the poet was targeting Eskel specifically.

So Jaskier did the only thing he could do. If he wasn’t able to tell the poet off face to face, he might answer in the best way he knew how: With his own verses.

Every single poem he came across, Jaskier would reply to with poems of his own – pinned to the boards in the place where the stranger’s poem had hung before Jaskier had torn it off. For good measure, Jaskier would also sing his verses in taverns and market squares, just in case the poet would be able to hear him.

When the stranger that had quickly become Jaskier’s worst enemy, spoke of ugly scars in his lines that twisted every smile into a snarl, Jaskier answered with tales of a witcher’s laughter that was more beautiful and joyful than any coy giggles one would hear at court.

When his enemy talked about witchers being alone and scorned wherever they went, Jaskier sang about how wonderful it felt to call a witcher his friend, how loyal and protective witchers were of those they loved – this of course was underlined with a barely hidden message that Jaskier in turn was very protective of his witchers and would bring anyone down who dared insult them.

This warning evidently wasn’t received, for the next poem Jaskier found spoke of lonely nights and averted eyes.

And the thing was…the more Jaskier read those poems, the more he found that they were true. What could he say to disprove those words that he hated so much? He had seen first-hand how people scuttled away in fear as soon as they sat eyes on a witcher. He knew that right now, without his company, Geralt and Eskel would spend their nights alone, possibly hurt and feeling like they didn’t belong.

As much as Jaskier despised the poet for perpetuating the public’s opinion of witchers, Jaskier had to admit that somehow they had a deep understanding of what a witcher’s life was like, even if they used their insight to do harm.

Jaskier didn’t know how to feel about that revelation. Whoever that poet was, he knew. He understood. Maybe even felt the same way.

But that didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.

This person was hurting Jaskier’s friends and there was no excuse for that. If he ever met the poet, no word about this irrational fascination would come past his lips. He would make sure that they stopped writing such terrible things and nothing more. They didn’t deserve anything more.

--

There was just one problem…the poetry was good. Brilliant, even. If it weren’t for the horrible subjects, Jaskier might even admire the craftsmanship of the verses.

He couldn’t for the life of him figure out where the poet had learned to write like this. Certainly not at Oxenfurt. Some of these rhyme schemes were similar to ones only found in old elven poetry that had been nearly erased entirely and there were references to some of the poems to literature that had been almost completely lost for ages.

Jaskier almost wanted to sit down with this poet and talk about their craft. Their verses were more expressive than anything Jaskier had ever read and as loath as he was to admit it, some of them brought tears to Jaskier’s eyes with how beautifully worded they were.

It was such a sharp and painful contrast reading those wonderful metaphors and rhymes describing the Path as something gruesome, ugly and hated.

It made Jaskier long for his friends. He wanted to make sure they weren’t alone anymore, that they didn’t have to see only the ugly parts of the Path.

But it also made him want to know more about the poet. Wanted to find out why they sounded so hurt in the way they wrote. He wanted to console and comfort them.

It was an ugly thought and one that Jaskier was ashamed to admit to even himself. So he pushed it into the far back of his mind. This person, whoever they were, wasn’t the one Jaskier should comfort. They were the very reason why Jaskier’s friends felt lonely.

Jaskier would never betray Geralt’s trust by befriending someone like that. Even more, he wouldn’t betray Eskel like that. Beautiful Eskel who was afraid to smile for fear of people flinching back in disgust. Who had been shy and yet excited about talking to Jaskier about poetry.

Jaskier froze and ice spread through his chest. Eskel.

All this time Jaskier had been so fixated on finding the poet that he had completely forgotten that he couldn’t have been the only one who had found their poems. If Jaskier had seen any of them, he would be crushed. Poetry was one of the few things Eskel found enjoyment in while on the Path and this could ruin that for him forever.

That thought was enough for Jaskier to regain his earlier determination. Not a hint of affection for the poet was left in his heart.

--

Except that, as the months dragged on and Jaskier kept replying to the poet’s words, the hint of affection or rather fascination flickered back to life. At some point, the poet had started to respond to Jaskier’s responses. Not openly, of course, but it was obvious in the way they wrote that they were referring to some of the things Jaskier spoke of in his newest songs.

What had started out as a passive-aggressive way for Jaskier to tell the other poet that he despised them, slowly turned into something much different. Jaskier wasn’t sure if he liked it.

Ever so slowly, the subjects of the poet’s verses shifted. True enough, overall they were still about the Path in one way or another, but now the poems about hatred and scorn were interspersed with ones about flowers and occasional appreciation and strangely enough, the joy of knitting. The last one elicited a startled laugh out of Jaskier when he read it and he quickly stopped himself. He couldn’t however keep the smile off his face as he read through that poem again.

Hadn’t this been what Jaskier had wanted all along? It would appear that the poet had finally started to see reason and change the way they thought about witchers.

And now that Jaskier found those other, happier poems, he couldn’t help but see the beauty in their verses. He still kept all of their poems, but now he no longer did so to vanish all traces of them off the earth, but so that he could read them when he felt his own loneliness creep up on him.

Time and time again he let his eyes wander over a poem that talked about the happiness that came with unexpectedly meeting family again that had been longed for. It made Jaskier think about his witchers, about Geralt who had been his best friend for years and about Eskel who Jaskier wished more than anything to meet again someday. And strangely enough, he also thought about the poet, about meeting them and talking about the beautiful things they wrote about.

More than once, Jaskier reached for his quill to put a hidden message about a possible future meeting in his next poem, but every time he stopped himself. He couldn’t do this. Not for as long as he wasn’t sure whether this person had destroyed Eskel’s happiness and the last bit of his already fragile self-esteem.

But then, there was another change, one Jaskier hadn’t expected and that made his heart beat painfully fast in his chest. No longer did the poems speak about vague occurrences of joy and beauty, but of the joy Jaskiergave the poet. About how his voice and his words could make the poet feel like maybe life wasn’t as bleak as they had been told. About how Jaskier’s responses gave them hope. About how they made them feel less alone.

The sincerity and almost admiration in these words startled Jaskier. This wasn’t what he had wanted to do when he had started to respond to the poet. And yet…he couldn’t deny that he too felt a strange sense of companionship whenever he found another one of the poems. As strange as it sounded, but the poet had become the closest Jaskier had to someone he could talk to. Jaskier had no idea where his friends were, but no matter where he went, sooner or later, the poet’s words would reach him again. And damn him, it was nice having someone think of him and craft beautiful verses just for him.

Guilt gnawed at Jaskier’s insides and he wished it would be different, but he found himself looking forward to finding the next poem, always praying with all his might that it wouldn’t be about witchers.

It was nearly autumn when Jaskier found the poem that made his chest tighten with a strange emotion he couldn’t place.

The poem was so full of longing that it became hard for Jaskier to breathe. It was about yearning to meet Jaskier, of seeing his smile and feeling the gentleness of his hands. It was about the soul-crushing knowledge that they would only disappoint Jaskier if they ever met.

Jaskier’s hands trembled as he took that poem off the notice board. He caressed the small picture of the goat that had gone from being a hated mockery to something that made Jaskier smile whenever he saw it.

That night he got so close to telling the poet where to meet them.

The song with the directions was already written and he was already gathering his nerves to prepare himself to sing it the next day, when a sudden gust of wind made the stack of the stranger’s poems Jaskier had kept flutter through the air. Pages upon pages about how witchers were despised, about how they were fated to be alone and how no one would ever be able to see past their hideous scars landed all around Jaskier, accusing him of the betrayal he had almost committed.

His heart dropped like a stone and he forced himself to read through all of the poems again. Every verse, every line, every word that reminded him why he had sworn to himself to never forgive this poet.

When he was done, he stuffed the papers into the bottom of his back, telling himself he didn’t care about them crumbling and tearing.

When he left town, there he left no reply to the poet’s last poem. He only continued reading the notice boards to make sure the poet was still writing about things other than witchers, but Jaskier never responded anymore.

After a while, the poet too stopped writing.

His last poem was but a line, asking whether Jaskier was alright. It was so simple, so obviously worried that it took all of Jaskier’s will power not to respond and let the poet know that he was still there.

By the time it had become clear that no more poems would be written, Jaskier had almost convinced himself that he was happy about never having to hear from them again.

--

Though the thought of the poet didn’t leave Jaskier’s mind, no matter how hard he tried, Jaskier found someone far better.

Not a week after he had severed his connection to the poet for good and was back to performing his old songs about witchers, the door to the tavern Jaskier was playing at opened and a familiar figure entered.

Jaskier’s heart gave a jump and his fingers nearly fumbled when he recognised Eskel. The smile that spread across Jaskier’s face at the sight of the man he had longed to see again faltered, when he took him in more closely. Eskel was guarded most of the time, but now there was something more than that in his expression. He looked almost dejected and he had heavy bags under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days.

Jaskier’s chest clenched and he had to fight to keep up his happy performance persona. The Path must have been especially unkind to Eskel. Dread clawed at Jaskier’s heart and his voice trembled.

Was this the poet’s doing? Had their words reached Eskel after all and taken away any peace he might have had?

Jaskier’s eyes followed Eskel as he scanned the crowd before his eyes landed on Jaskier. For a heartbeat, something akin to fear flickered across Eskel’s expression, but then his eyes lit up and his shoulders slumped in relief.

As quickly as he could, Jaskier brought his performance to an end, claiming that he needed a break to give his voice some rest. He hurried over to Eskel and practically fell into his arms.

For a moment, Eskel stiffened at the touch, but then he returned the embrace almost desperately and pressed his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck.

“You’re alright,” Eskel breathed, barely loud enough for Jaskier to hear.

“Of course I am,” Jaskier said as brightly as he could to ease Eskel’s worry and pulled back so he could properly look at Eskel. “Contrary to popular believe, I can go some time without getting into trouble.” He made no effort to try to be subtle about checking Eskel over for injuries. “Out of the two of us, I’m not the one who risks his life every day. What happened to you?”

Eskel stiffened slightly and his eyes shifted to the side, evading Jaskier’s gaze. “Nothing. I was just worried I had lost … a friend.”

Something in Jaskier’s chest softened and as they sat down at a table, Jaskier made a point of sliding in right next to Eskel instead of sitting down opposite of him.

For some inexplicable reason, Eskel still seemed hesitant to touch Jaskier as if he was worried Jaskier might withdraw if Eskel got to close, but his eyes raked over Jaskier as if he wanted to commit every inch of him to memory.

Jaskier scooted closer to Eskel until their thighs touched. He reached for Eskel’s hand and brushed a strand of hair behind his ears while talking about the thing Jaskier had seen since they had last met.

Ever so slowly, Eskel relaxed and leaned into the touch.

What had started as hesitant replies to Jaskier’s numerous questions about the Path quickly became a comfortable conversation, just like they had had when they had last seen each other.

The easiness with which words flowed almost reminded Jaskier of the easy exchange of words he had had with the poet.

He banished the thought as quickly as it had appeared.

He put his attention back to Eskel where it belonged and listened intently as Eskel told him about the monsters he had fought, about the places he had been and about the fact that for some reason, Eskel had been paid in knitting lessons from the very same old lady that had paid Eskel by giving him Lil Bleater a year ago.

As Jaskier laughed at that story and warmth spread through his chest, Eskel too smiled at him. It was a timid, gentle thing, barely enough to lift the edges of his lips properly, but it was big enough to twist the scars. And for once Eskel didn’t seem to mind.

The sight did something strange to Jaskier and suddenly he was filled with the urge to trace these beautiful lips with his thumb.

Eskel must have seen something shift in Jaskier’s expression, for he suddenly stopped talking and his eyes drifted down to Jaskier’s lips.

“Don’t stop,” Jaskier whispered. “I love the way you talk. It sounds almost like poetry.”

The hint of a blush crept into Eskel’s cheeks. “I…I could never write something as beautiful as your songs, but…” His lips twitched upwards and he lowered his head slightly. “You are very inspiring Jaskier. The way you talked about poetry…it made me pick up a pen too, after we parted last time.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. “You write poetry?”

“Not very well.”

Jaskier knew that his eyes were full of fondness for this wonderful, beautiful witcher, but he didn’t care if he saw. He was too relieved to hear that the poet hadn’t been able to take Eskel’s love for poetry away from him after all.

So fixated on that last piece of bitterness that Jaskier had carefully kept alive to remind himself not to contact the poet again, he couldn’t help the next words from slipping past his lips.

“Whatever you’re writing, I am sure it is better than those horrible poems I have had to read lately.”

Eskel froze and his eyes darted between Jaskier’s.

“What…what poems did you have to read?” His voice sounded strangely thick.

Jaskier’s brows knitted together and he waved his hand through the air dismissively, even as his chest clenched painfully. “Just someone who thought they should post their poetry on notice boards. It’s a good thing no one will ever have to read a word of theirs again.”

Eskel’s face fell and he drew back just enough that he wasn’t touching Jaskier anymore. “You really hated it that much?”

Jaskier huffed out a bitter laugh. “You would have too, if you had seen the things they wrote.”

Even while he said it, Jaskier knew that something was wrong. Eskel’s expression shuttered completely and he turned away from Jaskier.

Jaskier’s insides grew cold. For an uncomfortable moment that seemed to stretch on forever, he sat silently next to Eskel, wrecking his brain trying to figure out where he had messed up. Whatever it had been, it was clear that his presence made Eskel uncomfortable.

A half-hearted excuse left Jaskier, something about having to continue his performance.

Eskel only replied with a silent nod as Jaskier left the table to resume his playing. And when Jaskier risked a glance at their table during a song, he found that Eskel had already left.

Uncaring of the disappointed shouts of his audience, Jaskier’s voice broke off and he hastened back to their now empty table to gather his things.

Whatever he had done, to chase Eskel away, he needed to fix this.

He grabbed his cloak and dropped a couple of coins on the table to pay for the meal he had had earlier, when his eyes fell on something lying on the table. A slip of paper with some flimsy excuse for why Eskel had to leave on it.

For a heartbeat Jaskier only stared at it, uncomprehending what he was seeing.

But there was no two ways about it. The writing that now stared back at Jaskier was the same handwriting he had been reading for the past months. It was the poet’s handwriting.

Without a second thought, Jaskier bolted out of the tavern and after Eskel.

“Wait!” he called out to him when he caught sight of him disappearing into an alleyway.

His breath came heavy and his lungs burned from the sudden sprint, but Jaskier didn’t stop until he caught up with Eskel who stood with his back to Jaskier, obviously unwilling to face him.

“Eskel,” Jaskier said helplessly. “I-“

“I’m sorry,” Eskel interrupted and his shoulders tensed. “I didn’t know – If I had known how much you hated the poems I would have stopped.”

For the first time since Jaskier could remember, he found no words. His mind was racing, connecting memories to his knew knowledge and making connections where before there had been nothing but false conclusions.

Jaskier’s uncharacteristic silence must have been reply enough for Eskel, for he half-turned to him, just enough for Jaskier to see his scars.

“I didn’t mean to make you hate me,” Eskel said quietly and his voice was tight. “I am sorry I made you miserable with my poems all these months. I’ll stop. I promise, you won’t have to read anything like that again. You won’t even have to see me. I just…after I didn’t hear from you again, I needed to make sure you were still alive.”

“You didn’t,” Jaskier said, voice breaking. “You didn’t make my life miserable. But they sounded….Eskel, why did your poems sound like yourlife was miserable? Why would you say such horrible things about yourself?”

Eskel flinched and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I didn’t know what else to write about. There wasn’t much else. Until…” Eskel’s voice trailed off.

“Until you wrote about flowers and knitting and family,” Jaskier ended softly for him.

Eskel nodded and Jaskier felt tears pricking at his eyes. “I loved them. And knowing that they came from you, that you are the one who found happiness out there, you have no idea how much that means to me.”

Without meaning to, Jaskier reached out for Eskel’s hand and before he knew it, Eskel had threaded their fingers together and turned to face Jaskier fully. They were so close. Jaskier could see every speck of gold in Eskel’s eyes as they flickered down to his lips.

“Jaskier.” His voice was hoarse and he looked like it took all his strength to say the one word. Slowly, Eskel leaned forward, and Jaskier could feel his heart skip a beat and his breath hitch. Eskel’s eyes widened and he drew back abruptly.

“I am sorry,” Eskel blurted out.

Jaskier’s brows drew together and he tried to follow Eskel’s movement and close the gap between them again.

“Why? Eskel, what could you possibly have to be sorry about?”

An unreadyable expression flashed across Eskel’s face. “About this.” He gestured vaguely between them. “And about my last poems. I didn’t think you’d ever find out they were from me. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

It took Jaskier a second to understand what he meant, but when he did, his heart broke for the poet who had longed to feel Jaskier’s touch; for Eskel who had been scared that he would only disappoint.

Carefully, Jaskier lifted his hand, giving Eskel time to refuse the touch. When his hand settled on Eskel’s skin and gently caressed Eskel’s scars, Jaskier could feel Eskel’s shuddering breath ghost across Jaskier’s skin and Eskel closed his eyes, leaning into the touch.

“You could never disappoint,” Jaskier whispered. “Never you.”

“Does that mean you didn’t mind those poems?” Eskel’s voice was filled with barely restrained hope.

Jaskier let out a huffed laugh. “Oh, I did very much mind them. For so long I had wanted to punch my poet in the face for what they wrote. And those letters…they made me want to kiss them.”

Eskel’s eyes snapped open. “You-“ he broke off, a bittersweet smile on his face. His next words were so quiet that Jaskier couldn’t be sure he was even meant to hear them. “At least I could make you want me as someone else.”

Jaskier tilted his head to the side. His fingers slid down Eskel’s face, before they came to rest at the corner of Eskel’s lips.

“Oh Eskel,” Jaskier breathed, stepping impossibly closer. “The one thing holding me back was the thought that it wasn’t you.”

“Jaskier…” Eskel came no further. Before any more words of fear or self-doubt could leave him, Jaskier pressed his lips against Eskel’s.

Eskel let out a soft gasp, before returning the kiss, only interrupting it for long enough to whisper words to Jaskier that were simpler and yet more beautiful than any poem could be.

For the first time in what felt like too long, Jaskier responded to his poet’s words, with the same simple words that made Eskel’s face light up in a way that made Jaskier doubt that he would ever write about loneliness and feeling unlovable ever again.

[jaskiersvalley]

Jaskier: Necromancer of Emotions

Witchers didn’t have emotions. That was just a common fact. They came, they killed and demanded payment. Rumour had it, they even fucked perfunctorily, devoid of any emotions and going through the motions just the same as any other bodily function.

Enter Jaskier.

His welcome to Kaer Morhen wasn’t exactly a warm one. A few grunts, a nod from Eskel but there wasn’t the excited gathering around a new person. Not everyone was born an extrovert, it was okay. After all, Jaskier could adopt them all then and wouldn’t have to fight someone else for his wolves.

The days that followed were silent save for the clashing of blades and the grunts of exertion as the witchers trained. There was definitely sounds of frustration there and the odd chuff of what Jaskier could almost call laughter. But for the most part, it was more stoic in Kaer Morhen than the nunnery Jaskier had once infiltrated. He wondered whether he could get the same ending - squawking and shrieking when the nuns realised he was in disguise. The image of four witchers flapping their hands and squealing was something that had Jaskier snicker to himself. It seemed Operation Giggles was a go.

Perhaps Operation Giggles was an ambitious project and should have been called Operation Smile or Operation Emotion. Actually, that was much better, the rhyme made Jaskier grin to himself.

He started off small. If it was his turn in the kitchen, he tried to make sure he always had things on the side so when a hungry wolf just so happened to amble past, there was something tasty for them to snag. All absolutely coincidental. Obviously.

The songs Jaskier played were more difficult to gauge. Anything rowdy and crude seemed to have Lambert’s attention even if he only glared while softer ballads often caused Eskel to stare off into the fire with a sad look. Which wasn’t quite the emotions Jaskier was angling for. However, the positive ones seemed more elusive. Almost like they were buried so deep in witcher psyche, they might as well be dead. Which got Jaskier thinking. If the only feelings his wolves knew were annoyance, anger and disappointment, maybe it was the way to deeper buried emotions. So Jaskier got to work.

Composing a song that started off as something attention catching to the point of annoying was quite easy. A merry ditty that could be whistled. The depth of the craft came from leading it into something more melancholy, anger melting into despair, hopelessness and desolation. To pull it from there into something hopeful and up into a cheery jingle again was pure genius, even if Jaskier said so himself. It took him a good week of solid work before he could debut it. At first, it went ignored but the circular nature of his song meant that he could just keep cycling through it without break. He got to watch the witchers get annoyed by it as expected. They followed it down the path into something sedate and contemplative. It almost hurt Jaskier to watch them get lost in the song like that but to offer them a metaphorical hand and boost them up was worth it. One by one, the witchers seemed to climb out of the pit of emotions into something more uplifting.

It wasn’t an obvious, sudden change but Jaskier persisted. Each time he sang the song, each cycle, it seemed to ease something in the witchers. There were small changes to start with. A small flicker of a smile over food. A press of shoulders together where they sat, nudging in playful reassurance but so small it was almost invisible.

The scream of “Lambert, you prick!” one morning was startling, even more so the fact that it was followed up by a harsh bark of a laugh that was cut off as quick as it started. It was the beginning though. Only a week later, Lambert was buttering bread for breakfast when, without looking up, he asked. “does anyone know how to make a whore moan?”

Geralt’s gruff “don’t pay her” earned another gruff snort and Eskel smiled into his drink.

“That works, that works,” Lambert nodded sagely. “I was going to say you wipe your dick on the curtain.”

“That is poor etiquette, son,” Vesemir scolded but Jaskier was certain he could see a thawing around the corners of his firmly set lips.

In a way, Geralt was the easiest to mine for emotions. Jaskier already knew he could get him loose limbed and content so happy was only a couple of steps up from that. The trick was to have him let go. In Kaer Morhen, without the pressure of surviving the Path and surrounded by family, it was probably the easiest opportunity Jaskier would ever have. They were still flushed, catching their breaths and messy when Jaskier pressed closer.

“Are you happy, my darling?” he asked, innocence dripping from his tongue. The grunt he got in return was not the most encouraging but it was better than he’d dared hope for. “What would make your little heart burst with joy?”

It was an evil ploy, getting Geralt to talk at his weakest but Jaskier never claimed to be a good man.

“If the others were happy too. They used to smile and laugh.”

In words, it was so simple. Yet in practice it was so much more complex. All Jaskier could do was promise to help. It seemed though, that the groundwork he’d laid had been worth it because Lambert seemed to be coming on leaps and bounds. He was still caustic and crude but his humour was less of an armour and more because he genuinely enjoyed a bad joke. Sure, his sense of humour could do with a little (a lot) of refining but Jaskier didn’t mind. Even Vesemir seemed to soften and thaw out like a glacier.

The biggest challenge was Eskel. Each time Jaskier felt that he was getting somewhere, it seemed to slip back into oblivion. The hint of a smile on Eskel was immediately hidden, his face dipped and turned away. A hiccough of a laugh was silenced and swallowed down harshly. Nothing Jaskier did seemed to break the control Eskel clung to. It was something he bemoaned to Geralt on a regular basis, only to be grunted and hummed at in return.

There was no way Jaskier could have predicted that he would find assistance on is crusade. Breakfast was finishing up, Vesemir chewing on the end of a sausage thoughtfully when he was given a questioning glance by Lambert and Geralt. At his nod, the two of them stood up and stood at each side of Eskel, staring impassively down at him.

Worried, Eskel looked up. “What?”

“You have a weakness,” Geralt intoned seriously.

“You’re ticklish,” Lambert added and stepped closer, one hand easily jabbing into Eskel’s side.

The change was instantaneous. The usually stoic, solid presence that Eskel projected was shattered as he squirmed away from the tickling fingers. Unfortunately for him, on his other side Geralt stood in wait and got his other side. With a squeal, Eskel slithered under the table and made a break for it. He burst from under it next to Jaskier and dashed from the room. Lambert and Geralt let out a loud whoop and stepped over the table in pursuit.

“Well. That happened.” Jaskier said and looked over to Vesemir who sent him a small, warm smile.

“Thanks to you.” A shrieking laughter and a yowl of “meep” from Eskel went up as he was probably caught. It sounded like a donkey with hiccoughs but it was unmistakably laughter. “It has been decades since laughter was heard in these old halls. I thought the sound had died with their hopes.”

Somewhere in the castle there was a yell of “for fuck’s sake Lambert!” and a fresh volley of laughter. No doubt the game had changed and Lambert was the target after whatever he had done. Or at least it was probably the case until a loud and long “no” from Geralt echoed through the halls. A minute later he was tearing through the dining hall, the other two hot on he heels, laughing. For reasons unknown, Lambert was in a frilly bonnet while Eskel sported a curtain like a cape.

“Children,” Vesemir sighed, sounding all too happy. “They never did grow up, did they?”

[farty-city]

inside bo burnham review no one asked for

i enjoy other peoples commentary and i was writing down my first thoughts anyway so here it is

inside

first song/intro song

i like the phone screen on him, very reflective of how we have had phone screens on us

“roberts been a little depressed” osnskjdnfs

they were right “daddys made you some content so open wide” hjbfafn

intro

oh my god he looks awful

but like in a cute way

maybe

healing the world with comedy (second song)

the canned and queued laugher no exactly… is it a symbol or is it just funny.. who's to say. 

it think its a good first song, establishing he knows what he is doing is kind of useless 

“the indescribable power of your comedy”

he looks like marc maron rn

i like the synthed voice and synthesizer

the jesus allusion … yeah

“i'm a special kind of white guy”

this feels like he knows how he is perceived by fans.. Make happy was too much

his fucking dancing fksjdnfksj

i think he did a good job looking manic

the lasers lmao

Side 1

Bo made a huge gamble releasing this like,,, what if you just stumbled upon it and this was ur first introduction to him..

I bet its like when i comment dumb things on instagram comments and get that rush of hehehehe

NO NOT BO DEVELOPING BILLIE EILLISH VOWELS

Also this is exactly what he wanted like,, he just wanted to make his things and not deal with the crowds so..

To think i was like finding scraps of him performing at largo and stuff and now,, so much content

life imitates art

the way he's literally what he wrote hgbkdf

there is no authenticity with cameras

suicide ?

 facetime with my mom tonight

the blue light.. Yeah

o hblue like sad

i don't know how i feel about the electric music but i guess its no different than whatever else i listen to

this is sad wow

still catchy etc

side 2

i wonder if here will be any fart jokes

that is how the world works (songs)

the huge mess and then him in a sweater

this is reminiscent of that walmart muppets

he became tim minchin with a sock puppet

the “yes… yes sir” stoppp 

jkgdsnfijwkensfosnf

qbejfnjne

nerjgnoejns

bo making a political statement and a metaphor for activism and then making it weirdly kinky

brand consultant (bit)

man bun

i have to believe he filmed it with the beard because quarantine vibes and also bc he was tired of being seen as a child

white womans instagram (song)

i did not like that intro

BO AND GLASSES THANK GOD

the daisies wow just wow

underwear

“white womans instagram” or “bo burnham becomes a girlboss”

i like that he didn't lose his cadence like the way the rhymes are you can still tell its him

i don't get the mom part sorry

is it like how people are very superficial but also very personal on their instagrams

this part was legit sad

side 3

i wonder how he felt with cameras constantly on him

Although this is the point hes trying to make

lol seinfeld moment (bit)

unpaid intern (bit and song)

“barely people somehow legal” was so smooth woW

omg he was scatting

he was a man who would scat

oh my god what great news

the react clip omg

i cant believe he did that oh my god

observation/critisism and response to the “can anyone shut the fuck up” 

and as i realized what he was doing he was like “i have this need for everything i make to have a deeper meaning” oh my god

now the question is how long will this go on?

jeffrey bezos (song)

idk its catchy

and then theres him like sleeping and talking which kind of is part of the jeff bezos song

bug eyes salamanders hehe

sexting (song)

i do believe this is just a silly song 

the earrings tho omg

sounds like post malone hbkjdsnfskj

idk its still about like intimacy in quarantine and that stuff..

the knife (bit)

i know hes copying like other youtubers but like,,, what

stuck in a room (song)

the intro is very funny and relatable

classic bo i love it 

i will say this special has been more reflective but i suppose it has to be

“look whos inside again”

i like the end too, this is all a fabrication

this is the clip where hes staring at the projection of himself from his old youtube videos which is sort of more like an ending to the “stuck in my room” song

 sorry (song)

i love the 80’s style music and its like zumba

oh this is like an apology song

“father please forgive me for i did not realise what i did, or that id live to regret it” what a catchy line

i would say this is another more “classic” bo song where its self aware and funny

“my closet it chalk full of stuff that is vaguely shitty” 

camera falling

this deserves its own bullet because its silly

i'm turning 30 (bit and song)

i remember him talking about this on a podcast and like,, damn i didn't know this also happened LOL

i really like how he did the lighting 

“stupid fucking ugly boring children”

suicide talk (1)

this is interesting i like the use of the projection

this is something that could never have happened onstage

just like with the it being projected on him

i guess it could but it would have to be done differently and probably hed have to make it funnier to make it more engaging

intermission

i just checked this is about the halfway point.. Mh

i don't wanna know (song)

“i thought it’d be over by now”

i wish this was longer but i kind of like how its just a little snippet and then the cut

video game (bit)

“i guess i’ll cry again”

“is the dude big or is the room small” lol

hm depression

 feelin like shit (song)

ohh the lighting is fun again

this is the tone shift i suppose

the feels like supalonely and the new kind of music

atl

:(

panic attack 

everything all of the time (song)

feels like brandon rogers 

i enjoy this

this feels like “welcome to youtube” grew up

“a little bit of everything all of the time”

“apathys a tragedy and boredoms a crime”

ok olivia rodrigo

finishing the special (bit)

these feel like diary entries but as standup

interesting choice

jeffery bezos (2)

Why the seaweed suit

Where did he get that

the digital space (bit)

suit up, gather what is needed, and return to the surface

damn

pirate map anfdkjfnskjd

this was so stupid (affectonate)

that funny feeling (song)

the campfire vibes 

kenny loggins

i don't get it..

is it about childhood, is it about the present?

i think its talking about the end of content? 

“the end of culture”, to quote make happy

change and not liking it 

“we were overdue, but it will be over soon”

if the second half of the special is like a panic attack this song is like a momentary pause before it gets worse

“so ive been working on this special”/breakdown 

this was .. uncomfortable and genuine which i'm sure is why he kept it

all eyes on me (song/rant)

another sad thing to watch.. damn

me trying to tell if the audio was from make happy

i think he was trying to make it as if the audio was from make happy 

this feels.. familiar

and obviously that is the point

“come on in the waters fine”

the use of autotune during the talking part... yeah

sad that he was gonna make another special… and it would have been totally different than this

i’ve decided i like the homage to make happy

It feels like hes made peace with it

the montage of him waking up and the “i think i'm done”

and then of course the ending where he's watching it over to remind us that its all fabricated

possible ending song/ “i promise to never go outside again”

ngl he looks good in the shirt with the haircut hehe

which i feel like is what he wants up to notice

and then like not think after we saw all his breakdowns

“i want to hear you tell a joke when no ones laughing in the background”

i really like the medley

Final thoughts

I want a blooper reel, but this doesn't seem like the kind of special

I also wonder if the songs will be on like apple music, but again, doesn't seem like the kind of special

I'm happy for him, he got to be honest and open and show us the sort of panicky stuff

this self aware comedy is exactly the stuff that i think will be making a comeback in the next decade.  John better be pulling up with more deconstructed comedy. 

I hope this has given him peace

[gentlemancrow]

Written in the Stars Will Have to Do

OK so I saw @hey-there-hunter ‘s JMart Wedding Challenge and I pretty much fan ficced immediately??  Like it was an instantaneous plot bunny that stabbed me in the brain and would not let me free until I made it exist.  SO HERE YOU GO!  Read it here or head on over to AO3 below!  And enjoy some unapologetically aggressive fluff with weddings!  Also subtitled someday Crow will stop abusing excessive astral imagery and symbolism for extended metaphors, but today is not that day.

Read on AO3 instead!

Written in the Stars Will Have to Do

Jonathan Sims always thought of himself as a man with a deep appreciation for the great literature of the world.  A passionate turn of phrase, crystalline motes of clear imagery like snowflakes reflecting light in his mental scape, a devastating contemplation on the nature of good and evil in the hearts of all mankind, everything that could express the beauty and tragedy of the world in ways he never could.  Prose was a bright paintbrush on a ragged canvas of the universe he had known from an early age was swathed in shadow and pain and evil, and those words on those pages, for at least a moment, were another world he could hold in his hands, could cradle and protect, could mourn.  He liked the power of them as well, of the tinkling brightness of alliteration, the oaky sophistication of a well-aged metaphor, the evocativeness of the idiosyncrasy in a simple simile, laying bare truths in ways he never could have articulated for himself.

There was one thing he could not abide by in language, however, one cardinal sin liable to besmirch any piece of lush and sparkling verse or prose and taint it forever.  And that was idioms.

Jon loathed idioms and their dismally quirky cliches dressed in familiarity’s tacky clothing almost as much as he hated spiders.  Perhaps it was something about their reliance on common knowledge and repetition.  He couldn’t bear reading the same book twice, or even a book that felt too familiar, it only made sense that hearing a hackneyed phrase repeated in that awful singsong sardonic tone of someone who knows full well they’re saying something asinine that has been repeated ad nauseum for millennia would scrape at the back of his skull and down his spine.  They were too whimsical and blasé, crutch words for when one’s limited lexicon came up empty, or worse, for ill comedic effect.  They reinforced that staunchly English notion of skirting about the true depth and breadth of emotion for clipped niceties and unfeeling banalities.  Idioms to him were mere verbal window boxes, colorful and meaningless, dressings for untold disasters behind the shining windows they peacocked before.  

He hated them all with vaguely equal rancor, but there was one he could definitely single out as the one he hated the most, and that was the one about hanging the moon.  Such and such thinks you hung the moon, to me you hung the moon, and so on.  This particular rhetorical felony attracted his wrath only marginally because any moon symbolism never failed to feel outlandish and infantile, a mawkish image of love and care rampant in nursery rhymes and cheap commercialized slogans for t-shirts and wall art.  That was the least of it.  He hated the idea of hanging the moon mostly because once, another lifetime ago now it seemed, Tim Stoker had lobbed it in his face in a fit of smoldering rage and he had been completely, complacently, ignorant of its magnitude.  

Funny thing was, he couldn’t even remember what the actual fight had been about any longer.  Though he could remember exactly where he was standing, cornered next to the file cabinet for the year 1985, January through February, and the label had been peeling up on the upper left-hand corner.  He remembered he’d discovered a hole in the elbow of his jumper that morning and he had been obsessing over it all day, fussing with the dangling green thread and tugging at the knit as if it might magically close the wound.  He’d put his finger clean through it with his arms crossed haughtily over his chest without even realizing he’d been fiddling with it when something flippant about Martin came out of his mouth.  It hadn’t even been cruel, he couldn’t even remember how Martin had come up in the argument in the first place, he could only remember Tim’s mouth moving like he wanted to say something else, then him forcibly stopping himself before he snarled.

“Yeah well, god knows why, but he thinks you hung the moon, so you might try treating him at the very least like a human being once in a while.”

It was such a small thing.  Small words for a small feeling cloaked in a chintzy veneer of idiomatic dismissal.  A trembling little bird cupped in his scarred and battered hands and smothered.  Or so he thought.  Sometimes trembling little birds turn out to be phoenixes, and those who looked to someone else to hang the comfort of a wise, silvery moon in the sky already have the hammer and the picture wire at the ready.

As far as Jon was concerned, the moon only rose on their Somewhere Else because Martin deigned to pull the strings every night, not him.

It was Martin who brought him tea every morning, set it down on the breakfast table with that little flip of the tag and the deft, one-fingered turn of the handle toward him.  It was Martin who scolded him because whites are a separate load, Jon, were you raised in a barn?  Martin who talked him through every episode of the Doctor Who reruns that were the only thing their ancient aerial could pick up.  Martin who planted flowers in the garden and brought muffins from the sweet old lady at the grocers because they traded baking recipes.  Martin who still looked at him with diaphanous pools of ethereal moonlight in his eyes and his smile like he alone hung it in the sky over his head to wash him in its radiance.

Even after everything.

Even after it had been Martin who had to hold the knife buried in his chest as he lay gasping wetly for breath in an alleyway in Another Chelsea to keep the hemorrhaging at bay.  Martin who had cupped his face in his bloody hands with tears streaming down his and forced him to focus, furious love blazing in his sea mist eyes as they locked with his, screaming at him and him only, heedless of anything else.

“Look at me.  LOOK at me, Jon!  Stay with me!  Stay with me, DAMN YOU!”

Stay with me had not been a plea, it had been a command.  He had never once said please because it was never an option.  Shivering, breathing blood through his teeth, the streetlights a fading, star studded halo in Martin’s strawberry blond curls be damned, he was right.  Against every tangled thread of fate twisted deep into his flesh, or perhaps because they had been the only thing that held his torn innards together, he made it to the part where he awoke a few fractured times to nothingness, and then to fingers he knew every inch of inextricably bound up in his and a fierce whisper in his ear.

“I’m here, Jon.  I’m still here.  I’ve got you.  I’m going to fix this.  I’m going to get us out of here.  We’re going to be okay.”

It had been Martin who orchestrated their clandestine escape from the hospital the moment they both agreed he was well enough to survive under his rudimentary medical care and before the authorities got too invested in an urban ghost story of two men who didn’t exist.  Not to mention one of which should, by all medical and logical law, be dead.  It had been Martin who had stolen the necessary antibiotics, drugs, and wound care supplies, Martin who had picked enough pockets to buy passage on a midnight train to the only place they could think to go, and expressly told Jon not to ask where he learned how, even though he knew full well he would later.  Martin who had fought for everything and kept him hidden and safe while he lay in a dingy hotel room somewhere in Scotland, drifting in and out of consciousness between kisses, cold compresses, spoonfuls of whatever he could get him to swallow and keep down, and desperate ‘I love you’s.

Martin had been the one who hung the moon even on the nights Jon couldn’t see it, just so he knew it was there, that the light might finally guide him home.  Not him.  He could have never done something so selfless and simple and beautiful.  No not him.  Not The Archivist.  How could he have ever known that?  Stupid, myopic, pedantic, all-seeing and blind.  A blustering, sanctimonious Tiresias in a sweater vest and half-moon glasses.  And how important was the moon, anyway that he was expected to hang it too?  Would not night still come and the stars still shine?  The stupid, vapid saying should have been about the sun anyway.  Something that nourished and guided and warmed.  Not the moon.  Not the thing of night and hungry wolves and quiet loneliness.  Not a thing of the darkness they fought and still not won, not exactly, not in a way that mattered.  How could he have known the weight of such a thoughtless, frivolous, meaningless phrase and how far and how long Martin had borne it for him to protect he who hung his moon?  

He could see the weight of it so clearly now.  He could see it especially on the darkest days, which came, in grotesque mockery, the moment they found something like their safehouse and rest at last.  Jon had conned his way into a job at the village library with an ancient head librarian who didn’t care much for too many questions, or background or credit checks, and was more than happy to pay in cash.  With Martin’s help of course.  Martin himself had taken up stocking at the village grocers, and their life had teetered onto something so close to quaint and normal it suddenly laid bare the gravity of the depths of darkness they had escaped.

No longer did they have to run, no longer did they have to fight, they could finally lay down the chase and curl in upon each other to lick their wounds in quiet.  But without the driving, primal instinct to live, to survive, that ushered in the days where all the hurt came back to roost and brood and fester.  The days where he couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, or the days Martin couldn’t bear the sound of his voice, or the days they shouted themselves hoarse, stormed apart for hours then came back, silent and broken, red-eyed and exhausted to hold each other and weep into the spaces between neck and shoulder where it still smelled like love and home.

He could see so painfully clearly the toll following him to the ends of the cosmos and back had etched its marks into his goodness, his body and soul, see how often he would walk down the road from their cabin, just a little ways, to stand on the heather spotted hills and gaze out into the frigid infinity of the gray sea.  Cold terror would grip him then, incite a desperate want to run after him, to throw his arms around him and bring him home, but also the fear it would only be to have him turn to mist and slip through his fingers forever.  He always had a cup of steaming tea waiting for him when he came back, just in case.

But again, and always.  It was Martin who would pick up Jon’s hands, kiss every slender, scarred finger through his tears and be the first one to utter ‘I’m sorry.’  Martin who told him with just a single scathing flash of stern blue eyes and not a single word uttered that he was certainly coming to bed and not banishing himself to the couch like an idiot.  Martin who wrapped him in his arms and warmth and boundless love and reminded him, “One way or another.  Together.  That was the deal, right?  You don’t get to back out now.  No returns, refunds, or exchanges, I’m afraid.”

And even through the deepest sobs he would find the laugh Jon didn’t think was in him.  Martin sifted through the mire and the muck and held fast to the tiny, shining things so easy to lose in the darkness.  Things Jon was certain were lost forever, only to be reignited and hung in the brightening sky of their story.  Even if they weren’t quite the moon yet.

It had also been Martin who, on a perfectly ordinary day, on a simple walk through the local farmers market, stopped to peruse one of the usual unremarkable stalls filled with crystals and oils and trinkets.  Jon had wandered off to procure the parsnips and the strawberries, unrelated recipes Martin swore, he had been tasked with finding.  When he returned he found him, a radiant monument tall among the faceless locals, rusty curls caressing his face in the salty breeze, carved of marble and rose quartz and gazing down at a pair of hematite rings on a velvet display box.  His eyes were distant, but not in the enthralled, disembodied way they were when he looked at the sea, or the broken way when they weren’t speaking, but in the contemplative, regarding of puzzle pieces way when he would look into the fire during their talks and turn his words in his mind over and over again like a rock tumbler until they were polished just right.

“Getting into crystals now, are we?” Jon had joked, “Surely I’m not so dull to be around that that’s becoming an attractive hobby.”

Martin snorted and shook his head.

“Supposed to mean healing, or grounding, or something.  Aligning your meridians, I think the lady said?  Whatever that means,” he elaborated, reaching out to touch.

They clinked weightily together, thick and glossy and the dark astral gray of a moonless night.  Martin turned over the card that went with them and read.

“’A grounding stone that belongs to the planet Mars.  It strengthens our connections to the earth and aids the warrior on their journey.  It is a stone of invincibility, but also fragility.  It balances yin and yang energies with its magnetic properties for the perfect reflection upon one’s own soul, astral, physical, and spiritual.’”

“Hematite, is it?” Jon asked, “Also more commonly called bloodstone.  You know if you scratch it, it leaves a red mark.  Like it’s bleeding.  Watch.”

He picked up one of the rings and firmly ran it down the corner of the card Martin had been reading from.  Sure enough, the black stone had left a faint, but starkly crimson mark on the yellowed paper.

“It BLEEDS?” Martin exclaimed in horror.

“It’s just a kind of iron oxide, so, rust, basically,” Jon explained with a chuckle, “Kind of weirdly romantic if you think about it?  This intimidating shiny black stone like armor, made of iron to boot, but with a bleeding heart at its core.”

“I just thought it was pretty, I didn’t know it bleeds,” Martin had laughed in that incredulous way he always did when Jon was telling him something he didn’t actually want to know, but appreciated anyway.

“I find that the strongest, prettiest things often do,” Jon had said in reply.  He remembered saying that particularly clearly, waxing poetic, feeling a swell of affection for the hugely beautiful man he leaned against and was adorably aghast at bleeding rocks.

“Yeah, I reckon they do,” Martin murmured back.

And then his cheeks had flushed bright red under his freckles and the stone steps of his shoulders crumbled a bit under the crushing ancientness and vastness of what he had originally been pondering.

“So, I mean, before you spoiled it with the blood thing.  I was thinking… Well, I was just having a browse and I saw these and I thought they were quite fetching, and then the lady told me they meant grounding and healing and a journey, like on the card.  A-And there were two of them, all by themselves, and everything else was so colorful and flashy these were just so… Um.  Maybe the blood and rusty iron thing makes it more poetic now, actually?  I don’t know.  Sorry I-  This sounded so much better in my head.”

It wasn’t his fault, Jon remembered thinking.  Martin couldn’t find the words because there weren’t any.  Not in this universe or any other.  Not for what they’d gone through, and especially not for what they meant to each other.

“I guess I was just thinking.  If… I bought one.  And wore it.  Sort of like.  Um.  You know.  Would… Would you-?” he had asked, his voice trembling.

Jon had never said yes, yes of course he would, faster or with more conviction in his life.  And there was that look again, rising from the ashes, that flooding of golden, unbound love and light, of eyes turned sky blue, of looking at the man who hung his moon in the sky come back to him.  He could still hang Martin’s moon all over again after so many nights of black clouds and darkness, even if it was only paper.  They’d paid for the rings in rumpled bills, exchanged them right then and there, and kissed each other as the crowd of oblivious people in a world they did not belong in flowed like a river around them.  Jon forgot the bag with the parsnips and strawberries.

But it didn’t matter.  It didn’t even matter that Martin’s fit nicely on his ring finger, but Jon had to wear his on his thumb, and even then sometimes on a chain around his neck for fear of losing it.  It didn’t matter that it was the closest thing they were ever going to get to a proposal and a wedding, consigned now forever to the shadows in a borrowed reality with only each other.  Because it was theirs, and they could begin to figure out how their broken pieces fit back together again.

But like most things that don’t matter, it didn’t until it did.

It began as simple things.  Seeing a wedding on some program they weren’t actually paying much attention to and Martin making a flippant, innocuous comment as he combed his fingers lovingly through Jon’s long and silvered chestnut hair in his lap about how he would have loved to have a cake that had a different flavor on every tier at their wedding.  Just so everyone could have something they liked.  And Jon woke up from his half catlike stupor and looked up at him with such aching regret as those words settled into the pit of his heart alongside ‘he thinks you hung the moon.’  

And soon they began to gather a collection of completely innocent remarks that ran the gamut from ‘would they have worn black or white?  Or one of each?  I don’t know… does it really matter?  And were these engagement rings or wedding rings?  I don’t know.  Neither?  both?  And do we say husband instead of boyfriend now?  Fiancé?  Whatever you want, Martin…’ To the heavier, cancerous weights that sank to the bottom of his gut, even below hanging the moon, like ‘I know Tim would have thrown the most amazing bachelor party for both of us, and his mum had always talked about him getting married someday like it was a farfetched pipe dream, but she would be happy for them, he thinks.’

He could never answer those questions.  There was too much at stake, too much finality and familiarity in them, a strange weightlessness in a world that weighed far too much.  The sun and moon continued their eternal dance of time, ignorant, unbothered, but Jon kept collecting those silent debts of normal life, secreting them away in a hidden singularity in his heart that only grew heavier and metastasized farther the more times Martin walked out at night, not him, beaming starlight from his eyes and his fingertips, to hang the moon again.  So soft, so full of wooly cows and pink heather and the smell of tea and sea salt and Martin’s shampoo on the pillow next to him did it become, that it was almost inevitable that one morning Jon awoke absolutely convinced none of it could be real.  

The moment he decided that, everything made so much more sense.  He could breathe again.  There was a reason he could never sit still, never just feel at ease or talk about the future like it was a real thing that could still happen.  He knew why the silence made his brain itch and why he still glanced around corners and glowered at anyone who dared let their gaze linger on his Martin too long.  Why Martin’s ring fit and his didn’t.  There was too much debt to the universe to be paid, too many broken promises, too many corpses in his wake, he had done nothing to deserve this idyllic life of love and peace and smallness and Martin.  It had to be Her doing, It’s doing, some carefully woven torture chamber that would lure them to the apex of their joy, the center of the web, where they would just be devoured over and over to empty husks and set up like chess pieces to fill with love and light just to knock down again.  He wasn’t free after all.

Jon had been halfway into his coat and halfway out the door to do, he didn’t know, something, anything, to go to the library to use their computer and research something he didn’t know he was looking for when Martin had seized his hand and whirled him around.

“Jon.  STOP.  It’s over.”

And he’d stopped.  He’d looked into those baleful blue eyes, fallen into their depths, landed on the precipice of madness, and broken.  It wasn’t over.  Not for him.  He finally understood.  It was still there.  The Eye.  It always had been.  Though not really, he understood slowly as he wept on his knees in their doorway into Martin’s chest, it had indeed closed forever on him, but it lingered as distant static, like a phantom limb, a metaphysical itch that could never be scratched.  Martin had cradled him close and listened, listened so patiently as he ripped the jagged black fear from the deepest, ugliest part of his heart, hauled it up bloody and messy from his throat and finally laid it bare for both of them to see.  And when it was done and he couldn’t cry anymore Martin had locked eyes with him in a way that made him forget any others could have ever existed outside of crystalline blue and filled with moonlight.

“Listen to me.  I know you think you have some cosmic burden to bear.  That you’re still wearing some… some fucked up crown and sitting on a throne of skulls and death and eyeballs or whatever image you want to put there, and that you have to sit and hurt and watch over everything so it doesn’t happen again, but...  Sorry, Jon, but that’s bullshit.  It’s just a scar now.  That’s all.  Just like the rest of them.  Ugly and beautiful and proof that you —Jonathan Sims— are still alive.  And you are not The Archivist anymore.  You’re just mine.  My Jon.”

He’d held his Jon’s stunned face in his hands and peppered kisses over the pock marks in his skin, over the slash on his throat, the burnt fingers that still couldn’t bend quite right, even the one on his chest, the one almost always hidden by fabric but the one he didn’t need to see to find.  His heart and fingers would always remember exactly where it was.  And he’d kept his lips there a moment, then turned his ear to his chest and wrapped his arms around his waist to listen to his heartbeat like a trembling little bird.

“If I can hear it and feel it.  So can you,” he whispered.

Unsteady fingers curled desperately into Martin’s silky locks, hematite loop cool against his scalp, “Thank you…”

Martin stayed for the kiss on top of his head he knew was coming and smiled.

“Okay, so it’s simple to fix if you think about it,” he murmured into Jon’s chest, “We just need that thing, you know?  The thing that makes you feel like you’re still doing the thing, but you’re not.  What was the word for it again?  A placeholder?  Like when you quit smoking and you hold a pencil or a straw or something that’s not actually a cigarette so you can wean yourself off the ritual?”

Jon blinked owlishly down at him as he dried his eyes.

“A… placebo?  Are you talking about a placebo?”

“Yeah!  That’s it!  We just need to find you a placebo for Knowing things!  That’s all.  Like… reality shows, or-or zoo cams or something!  We’ll figure it out together.  Alright, love?  I promise you.  It’ll be okay.”

Jon was skeptical, so very skeptical, but if Martin was determined to find a balm to soothe his jagged, ontological scars he would happily play the part of lab rat for him.  They’d tried a myriad things to replicate the feeling of Knowing and looking something deep within him still craved.  The zoo and animal livestreams were a bust, cute and entertaining as they were, but animals weren’t ever the purview of The Eye and the camera itself was barely a scrap.  Reality shows came closer, the more salacious the better, but even that temporary fix wore off when Jon’s disgust with the overall content and participants outweighed any benefit.  Martin was just happy to have finally converted him to Bake Off, at least.  They tried people watching in the square in the village, but it made Jon far too self-conscious and guilty.  He used the binoculars exactly once, and that was to look at the cows in the fields, and the choose-your-own-adventure books Martin had been certain would strike a sagacious chord wound up in the donation bin at the library.  But that was when he was struck with a bolt of genius.

Unbeknownst to Jon, which brought him no small measure of glee, Martin ordered, received, and then set up with a literal bow in their back garden the finest telescope he could afford on his meager savings.  He’d researched for days, asked on every amateur astronomer forum he could find, and had it delivered to the grocers so he could make it a proper surprise.  He’d even gone so far as to attack and blindfold a hapless Jon the moment he made it home from work on the day it was ready, and stood behind him giddily bouncing as he tore the tea towel away from his eyes.

“A… Telescope?” he’d blurted dumbly.

“Yes!  It’s perfect, right?  I asked around to find the one that had all the best features, and this one has the best overall magnification and the most lenses, but it doesn’t have the little satellite positioning thing?  I figured you wouldn’t want that anyway, you always like figuring things out and finding things on your own better.”

Martin had been positively radiant.  Jon had just stared at the gawping black tube and chewed the inside of his cheek as he processed what to say.

“I mean… thank you, Martin, really.  It was a sweet thought, but if the binoculars didn’t-“

“Screw the binoculars!  This is different!” Martin happily insisted, “You can look at so much more!  Stars and planets and galaxies and what have you, and it can maybe be sort of like you’re looking for other worlds?  Wormholes or whatever?  Or signs of The Fears and where they’ve gone?  Or even if the stars are the same here as they were back before?  Space literally has so many things to LOOK at we can’t even count them!  This has got to be it!”

Jon tried to smile and laugh and agree to try it out, at the very least, if only because Martin was beaming so sweetly with pride and hope.  Though that first night he didn’t, ushering them back in with promises of tomorrow, Martin, I promise tomorrow.  Tomorrow had been a lie.  As had been the next night.  In fact, it took Jon a full week to even remember they even had a telescope, and that was only after getting the smuggest, Cheshire grin out of Martin after casually mentioning there would be a visible, if partial, lunar eclipse that night.  He’d relented, only because he’d entrapped himself, and they’d both bundled up, looked in the manual for the best size lens to view the moon with, poured a few glasses of wine, and turned their eyes to the stars.

Martin had gone first, gripping the eyepiece and adjusting the focus all the while gasping in awe.  It was so beautiful he’d burst into poetry with a crooked grin.

“Art thou pale for weariness?  Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, wandering companionless among the stars that have a different birth, and ever changing, like a joyless eye that finds no object worth its constancy?  Sounds a little familiar, eh?” he joked, casting a wry look over his shoulder.

Jon rolled his eyes fondly.

“Gross.  Keats again?”

“Nope, Shelley this time, and even he thinks you ought to have a look at the moon.  I think you’ll find you have a lot in common.”

Jon had sighed obligingly and shuffled to the telescope, fully expecting to look at something bright and round with a bit of a shadow on it that was distinctly unremarkable, have another glass of wine, and then go back inside to snuggle by the fire.  What he saw in that tiny pinhole of light pierced straight through the hazel brown of his eye and plunged him into another world entirely.

The sands of the moon glowed the purest white in the refracted light of the distant sun with which it waltzed.  He could see in crisp, shadowy relief the innumerable scars she bore, the depth and breadth of Ptolemaeus, the boundless lonely flatness of the maria, named for the oceans they were once thought to be, an insult to the rock plains forged a millennia ago in birth by cataclysmic fire.  Every crater remained wrought in perfect, frozen detail with no erosion or foliage to slowly heal them over, and she beamed them proudly, ostentatiously in her heavenly light.  A hulking, ancient protectorate, hung by the hands of creation at the dawn of time for a fledgling planet, hundreds of thousands of miles away, and yet so crystal clear and unafraid as he perused her millions of years of cosmic sentinel through a lens.  It was dwarfing, humbling, viscerally awe inspiring in a way he dared not voice for fear of snuffing out the fragile glow of wonder and excitement welling in his chest he had been so certain was gone forever.

Astronomy had never been something that had particularly interested Jon, back when his entire reality from the moment his childish hands had touched a single book was spent peering into shadows and watching his own back.  There was no point in wondering what lay among the stars when danger and death lurked so close behind with slavering jaws ever poised at his throat on terra firma, but now.  Now, he had been living in an alternate world, dimension, reality, somewhere, he couldn’t even say for sure.  He’d been hurled potentially through the very stars that twinkled coquettishly above, flashed through their nebulous veils and curtains under their indifferent gaseous gazes, but seen nothing.  Here was a vast expanse of complete chaotic indefiniteness inviting him in to see what few had ever seen, to guess and hypothesize and gesture wildly at secrets only the stars could keep.  To Know.

Jon had jerked back so suddenly from the telescope to survey the entirety of the astral dome above them that Martin had choked on his wine.

“Jon?  Are you quite alright?”

“Yes, I…” he’d murmured, only even half hearing that Martin had said anything at all, stars reflected in his wondering dark eyes, “I’m fine, I just… How… How much more can this see?  How deep does it go?”

Jon hadn’t seen the victorious smirk on Martin’s face as he set down his wine glass and picked up the instruction manual and lens guide.  They’d watched the rest of the eclipse, of course, marveling through the lens at the inky trickle of shadow over craggy white, but then they’d changed the lens to the strongest one, according to the guide, and spent the rest of the evening triangulating their position beneath their slice of the universe and plotting out the various stars, planets, and constellations above.  Jon had even dashed inside to grab a mostly blank notebook and had filled several pages with notes and observations and things to research later, all while Martin held back tears watching him come so alive over a project he didn’t even know he needed.  Eventually though, sleepiness and cold claimed him, and he kissed his beloved goodnight and left him, more than gladly, to ride out the intellectual flare up until it burnt both him and itself out.  

Martin had no clue what time it was when he finally returned, and it didn’t even matter.  All that mattered was at some point, a practically frozen Jon had climbed into bed, snuggled up close behind and wrapped his arms around him to kiss the back of his neck so softly like the wings of a butterfly and whisper.

“Thank you.”

Another victorious smirk and a loving murmur.

“Told you so.”

Where there had been nothing but an Eye shaped hole in him, scarred around the edges and aching in its vacuum, Jon had filled it with the names of nebulas and quasars, of the myth of Andromeda, and Orion, and Castor and Pollux, or Hercules, and why they had all been hung in the stars for eternity.  The stories were much the same as he remembered, but he’d found slight eccentricities, tiny irregularities in the sky which fascinated him even more so.  Night after night he would look at a different astral body, chart it down in his notebook, then come bounding in with starlight beaming from his eyes and his fingertips with some cry of eureka.

“Martin!  Did you know here Polaris is in the south and Sirius is in the north?”

“Martin!  Did you know the Andromeda Galaxy is actually a little closer to the Milky Way here?”

“Martin, you have to come see this!  Oh, no it’s not weird this time, it’s just I finally got Saturn in the telescope and you can actually see the rings!”

His nightly herald would always be different, but Martin would always rise from the comfort of the couch, put his slippers on, and let Jon talk as long as he needed to about his latest discovery, watching him smile again while he, too, watched the matching smile it never failed to ignite illuminate Martin’s face and they lit each other up in the fused brilliance of a binary star.

Martin no longer hung the moon for Jon, he’d finally just up and quite literally given it to him, and there was no mortal way to repay him for that.  Or so he’d thought.  It came to him, as most flashes of brilliance do, on a night he hadn’t even been thinking about it at all.  All he had been doing was sitting in a lawn chair with his telescope long after Martin had gone to bed, chewing his pencil idly, vaguely missing a cigarette and pondering notes on Vega and Lyra between watching it through his lens.  He’d been stuck for days on Vega and its potentiality for another solar system and what that could imply for their new Earth and their new sun, as well as Lyra and the tragic tale of Orpheus and his doomed love.  Even in their new reality he still turned back at the end of the story, still could not contain the roiling, effusive adoration to his own downfall.

Bitterness had risen like bile in the back of Jon’s throat as he replayed the myth again in his head, unsure why it was vexing him and rewinding in his brain so torturously.  “Stupid, stupid man, if he’d only just…” he’d thought again and again, each time giving the star-crossed musician a different decision, a different choice, urging him down another path somewhere, anywhere along his journey, but in the end, he’d always looped back around to the original.  It was the point of the story, after all.  Not so much the love itself or even the loss of it, but the power of it over one man and the creation born from his mourning and eventual destruction.  Patently Greek.  But the chorus would always begin again in Jon’s head.  If he’d kept his Eurydice, if his songs had been happy, if he hadn’t spent the rest of his life mourning so intensely he was eventually destroyed for it, would he have become the paragon of healing he was, the oracle, the lynchpin of the fate of the world he had eventually become?  Which of them was the stupider man?

Jon was only mortal now, he was no longer all-seeing oracle and dark savior, he had no authority to say, but it was a trifle easier to ponder the hubris of Orpheus instead of his own.  He couldn’t help but think, achingly, sometimes the heroes just deserved to pull their beloved from the pit of Tartarus, promise to love them for eternity, and then simply get married, ride off into the sunset, and live happily ever after.  A story wasn’t a story if it didn’t write itself upon the very bones and sinews of its heroes, that was the law of the universe, but when the story was done and the cracks and fissures in their tissues had faded to myth and legend, what became of the heroes who did not die a tragic or heroic death and were not hung in the stars?  What happened to heroes left behind?  Twisting his bloodstone ring on his thumb idly as it caught the shivering fire of those stars in its dark mirrored surface, the musical arrow of the muses pierced his heart, wide-eyed in wonder.  He’d asked the universe, but he already knew the answer.  He’d always known.  He knew, and he knew it with such clarion joy as he had never known anything before.

He could no longer be the man who hung Martin’s moon, he hadn’t been for a long time.  That much was clear to him, but he could certainly do something else.  Perhaps they had grown past the need for moon hangings in the first place.  He knew how their story ended.

It took months of saving, secreting, preparation, and then finally just simply waiting for the perfect, clear night.  The moment it came, the moment he knew it was the night, Jon struck without hesitation.  Poor Martin wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the couch, into Jon, when he returned from a late shift at the grocers, but found himself instead stuffed right back into his coat with a picnic basket in hand and hauled out into the frigid night in a flurry of Jon with little time to protest.  He bounded up the hill behind their little cottage beneath a perfect blanket of stars flaming coldly overhead, trailing Martin’s hand in his behind with his breath coming in silvery puffs of clouds, and paying no heed to the whining.

“Jon, whatever it is, does it have to be NOW?” Martin panted, “I am absolutely knackered and it’s beyond freezing and wouldn’t it be nicer just to curl up with a cuppa and fall asleep in front of Star Wars or something?  Doesn’t that have enough stars and space in it?”

Dauntless, Jon only tugged harder.

“There’s tea in the basket, and I’ve seen Star Wars.  And yes, it has to be tonight, it’s really important, I promise.”

“Look.  I love you.  So much.  You know this, and please know it is with the utmost love and deepest affection in my heart that I point out that you say that every time, and you’ve still shown me Pluto like, a hundred separate times.  While I quite like it, and I still feel sorry for it being bumped out of the solar system and all, it’s just a dot?  How many times can you look at a dot?” Martin sighed.

His words finally threw a caltrop into Jon’s warpath, and he paused, turning over his shoulder woundedly.

“What?  No, it’s not Pluto, I swear just- Please, Martin?  I’ll never ask again if you don’t want to, but just for tonight, please?” he pleaded.

Martin winced, and immediately folded under the onslaught of doleful honeyed brown eyes under a nimbus of stars.

“Oh, lord there you go with the puppy dog eyes.  Okay, okay fine, but there better be a nip of whiskey in this,” he chided lovingly with a gesture at the thermos in the basket.

The smile flared back to life brightly on Jon’s face as he turned back up the craggy little footpath to the top of the hill.

“Of course, hot toddy with tea.”

“Ooh, lovely, you do know me.”

The rest of the way was trivially short to the small, flat hilltop surrounded by heather where Jon had already set up a blanket and the telescope over a pristine vista of the dark line where the stars sank into the sea.  He ushered Martin to sit down first, then perched on his hip beside him and poured him a generous helping of tea and whiskey from the thermos before pouring his own.

“Thanks, much.  Right then, what exactly are we up here to look at that we couldn’t see from our garden?” Martin asked, accepting his cup of potent hot toddy and sipping it gratefully around the lemony steam that billowed up.

Taken aback by the sudden logic lobbed into the center of his romantic posturing, Jon looked momentarily stunned, as if someone had slapped him upside the head.

“Oh!  Oh, um, well-!  Ahah, that is to say- Uh.  There is a reason for all this.  It’s not that we couldn’t see it from our garden, we very much could have.  B-But it’s so beautiful up here, and you can kind of hear the sea?  And it’s nice and peaceful, and the heather is still blooming a bit and um…” he trailed off, cheeks burning.

“Okay…?” Martin probed, frowning a little.

“Er, actually...  It’s less about the stars than it is- W-Well it is about the stars.  Let’s get that clear.  But to be completely honest I mostly just… I-I well.  There’s something I need to tell you?”

Jon was ill-prepared for the look of abject horror on Martin’s face as he went paler than the moon overhead.

“Shit, what is it?  Did you find something?  You saw something?  There’s been a sign of The Fears?  Oh god it’s not HER is it?” he asked frantically, nearly slopping hot toddy all over his lap.

“What?  No!  No, none of that!” Jon spluttered, aghast.

Martin regained a modicum of color in his face and breathed in measuredly.

“Okay, so then what is it?  Oh god, you’re not… Jon you’re not ill, or something, are you?  Please, you can just tell me if-“

“No, I am not ill either, damn it, Martin!  If you would just listen to me!  I-!” Jon moaned exasperatedly, “I just wanted to do something… nice.  Something nice for you.  And nicer than I normally would because I am apparently much worse at crafting romantic moments than I thought and-“

“Wait…” Martin cut in, eyes gleaming with realization, “Jonathan Sims… Are you grand gesturing?”

“Well I am certainly trying but you are making it exceedingly difficult!” he retorted, red in the face and breathless.

“Oh my god, you are!  I’m so sorry!” Martin laughed brightly, “Oh god Jon you poor thing I’m so sorry, I’m awful, I’m the absolute worst!  No please!  Don’t let me spoil it.  Please go on.”

Grinding the heel of his palm into his forehead, Jon tried to summon the words again, only for Martin’s strong, warm hands to take it from him and tip his chin up to gaze into his eyes.

“Hey.  Hey, Jon.  Look at me,” he breathed, looking into his eyes idolatrously, “I’m sorry.  I love you.  You can tell me.”

Taking the steadiness from those clear blue depths he needed, Jon focused on them, on the strawberry blond curls tossing in the icy breeze, of the kiss of chilled pink under his freckles, and that eternal, sunshine smile.

“Okay,” he finally answered, smiling softly.

With a deep, shuddering breath, and a long swig of whiskey laced tea for good measure, Jon drew himself up and fished deep in his soul for the words he had waited a millennium to say.

“Okay… So here it is.  Um… I’ve um, I’ve had a lot of time alone lately with my new hobby, as it were.  So, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.  A lot of it is overly complicated and ridiculous and doesn’t deserve to live outside of my head but… a lot of it has been about you, about us.  And I know we don’t need to-to put a label on us or put us into a… a box or anything like that.  But every time I look at this ring on my finger, I can’t help but remember we never actually talked about what they meant,” he began, holding out his left hand and fidgeting with the loose band around his thumb.

“Oh Jon, don’t worry about that.  It was just me being a big sappy, sentimental dork.  And if I recall correctly, we’d had a pretty awful row a night or two before, and I just wanted to feel close to you again, I guess?  We both know what they mean to us.  It doesn’t matter,” Martin assured him sweetly.

“Except that it does!” Jon insisted passionately, “That’s the point!  You are a big sappy, sentimental dork, Martin.  I bet you were the kid that had a dream wedding all planned in a notebook with pictures cut out of magazines and everything.  I adore that about you, but big sappy sentimental dorks should have big sappy, sentimental moments like huge, expensive seaside weddings with three-flavor cakes and all your friends and family and rose petals and dove releases and whatever else your heart could dream up.”

Martin snickered and shook his head, charmed at least by the mental image of kissing Jon on a seaside cliff at sunset while doves flew in glorious formation around them and everyone they had ever known and loved cheered.

“Pfft, I don’t need a grand wedding and all that, I just need-”

“Me.  I know,” Jon finished for him with a smirk, “I knew you’d say that.  Maybe not.  But you deserve one.  And I know I don’t use that word lightly, but it’s necessary in this case.  You deserve it.  All of it.  Me on one knee with a ring in a box, you deserve us picking out flowers and tuxedos and arguing over the font on the invitations.  You deserve Tim’s awful bachelor party and laughing at me at the altar because I had to read my vows off a card and they’re still so stiff and awkward and they pale in comparison to the beautiful poem you wrote about me.  You deserve smiling so hard your cheeks hurt and crying as we exchange rings.  All of it.”

Martin weighed his words carefully on his tongue with a sip of his boozy tea to chase away ghosts of things that never even were.

“I mean, sure, not going to say I never wanted that.  And I did have that stupid wedding notebook, by the way.  But all that became a pipe dream the minute we wound up here, right?  No use being upset about something that can never be.”

“That may be so, but the crux of it is… you also contented yourself with the idea of it never coming true not because we’re here, but because you didn’t think I wanted it,” Jon answered, his unspoken truth hanging heavy in the chill night air between them, “Every time you tried to tell me you wanted to be with me forever, I brushed it off and painted it gray and tucked it away and carried on the way we always were like nothing happened and it didn’t matter.  Because it was alright, really, you were just so happy to have what we have, that I didn’t die in your arms that night, that we were still together after everything.  That I at least kept that promise after I’d broken so many.  You were so grateful just for what you were gifted after we thought we would end with nothing you didn’t dare think to ask the universe for more and I am so, so sorry it took me so long to see that, Martin.  I’m so sorry.”

His voice broke.  The breath caught in Martin’s chest as he reached out to touch his wrist comfortingly.

“Jon, I-“

“No, please.  Please let me finish I… I can’t give you any of those things.  I can’t give you our friends back, I can’t give you cake and doves and the sunset and crying through vows in front of the vicar.  I can’t even give you an elopement at the register office because we still don’t legally exist.  And I guess for a long time I resented myself for that.  For all of it.  For stealing that from you, for dragging you through literal hell only to give you a shadow of a life stuck here with me because I betrayed you.  But- no stop, don’t say anything yet I’m not done.  B-But now I finally realize.  You’re right, Martin.  You were always right.  It doesn’t matter.  Those things are all just… things.  I said to you once, a long time ago, and I’m still not even sure if you really heard me, that I didn’t want to just survive.  It was true then, and maybe it wasn’t true for a while, but it’s certainly true again.  We did not fight tooth and nail to just survive.  We fought to live, and live together.  So what I’m saying is… I know now I don’t have to give you tuxedos and white roses as long as I give you something… Something to prove to you that you are my everything, my entire world, something to show you that I love you more than I have loved anything in my entire life.  That I want forever with you.  S-So I…” he trailed off, sucking in his breath to give his gesture of undying love the ardor and grandeur it deserved, “I bought us a star.”

The proclamation rang out like the toll of a bell, its gravity sonorous and quaking.  Martin blinked.

“You… I’m sorry?” he squeaked.

Jon set his empty thermos cup aside, flailed his hands in the air and shook his head frantically

“I-I know, I know it sounds mental just hear me out!” he protested, “Technically I didn’t buy the star, if we want to get picky about it.  I mean obviously no one can own a star.  Just the rights to name it?  It’s a thing you can do online.  I was a bit gobsmacked it was real to be honest.  I just had this silly idea when I was out looking at the stars.  I was looking at Lyra and thinking about you and Orpheus, and I… W-Well I just typed it in, ‘can you name a star?’ and it came right up.  Right then and there.  It um… comes with… hold on.”

Remembrance placed a gentle bookmark down on Jon’s fluttering thoughts, and he rummaged in the picnic basket for a moment before pulling out a navy-blue manila folder covered in stars and full of the paperwork and certificates that had come with registering theirs.  He handed it to Martin, who took it in place of his own empty cup, numb, muscles quivering under his jaw, and opened it to the glittering gold typeface that proclaimed ‘Congratulations!’.

“It comes with paperwork, too!  See?  So, it’s official, at least?  The Jon-Martin star.  Not a marriage license I know, but at least our names are together on something legal?  Our real names?  I figured even if we manage the fake identity thing we’d have to get married as not us.  Not really.  So…  I-It could be like our marriage certificate?” Jon explained, chewing his lower lip.

Martin said nothing as his hand turned the pages of the documentation, his eyes distant in a way Jon had never seen before.  Not disembodied and enthralled, not broken, not even regarding puzzle pieces.

“Oh!  Um, also I-I got us a binary star.  I forgot to mention that bit,” he went on, filling the sudden void, “It’s, ah- What a binary star is- It’s technically two?  But they’re caught up in each other’s gravity and they orbit each other so tightly they look like one star together, one that just shines a little brighter.  They’re bound together forever by the most powerful cosmic force in the universe.  Just like us.”

Only silence answered, punctuated by one last crisp whisper of paper, and then the folder closing with Martin’s spread fingers atop it, bloodstone gleaming in the vivid pale light of the night.  Jon’s heart pitched frantically in his chest, and desperate, stranded tears pricked at his eyes.

“I uh… I would have rather gotten us a whole constellation.  Heh, you know?  But they don’t do that, obviously,” he tried softly, his fingers barely brushing Martin’s knuckles, “They record heroes in constellations, after all.  Great deeds, doomed romances, lovers who can be together no other way… That would have been a better way to honor us, I think.  Our story.  A-And who knows?  Maybe back on our world there are a few new stars to remember what we did, to mark the place we left it, so that everyone we left behind can look up and remember us.  They don’t know how the story really ended, and they probably never will, but we do.  We do, and I want to end it right here, right now.  With our star shining above us ‘and they lived happily ever after.’”

Martin still said nothing, but his head bowed, casting a slice of shadow over his eyes, and his shoulders quivered as a thin, bright line of wet silver trickled down his cheek.  Jon felt the very sky shatter above and begin to crumble around him.

“Please… M-Make no mistake, Martin.  P-Perhaps the gesture is silly and meaningless, but it was all I could think to do to go with everything I’ve said tonight.  Martin… Martin, don’t you see?  These are my wedding vows to you.  This is me saying ‘I do’ and also ‘Martin K. Blackwood would you do me the honor of making me the happiest man in the universe?’  All at once.  This is me saying I swear to you I will be yours, through everything, until the end of time.  M-Maybe I wasn’t before.  Maybe I was still punishing myself, but I’m telling you, I’m ready now to have my happily ever after.  With you, Martin.  If you’ll have me.  If I haven’t-“

He would never finish.  In a dizzying blur of blue folder, flashing hematite, and a wreath of golden curls, Martin kissed the words off his lips.  He kissed him so hard and so fierce, through wracking sobs with his hands woven so raptly into his long, wavy locks he thought his lips would bruise and his fragile soul would finally shatter to pieces in Martin’s arms.  Undone, all Jon could do was surrender and kiss him back with equal passion, thumbing away the hot tears as they spilled freely down his cheeks and anointed them both with their cleansing, hoary heat.  Their lips parted and they panted softly against each other in the space between, each afraid to break the sacred, pulsing silence.

“You’re crying,” Jon whispered at length, “I’ve said something wrong. Martin, darling I’m so sorry.  I never meant to-”

Martin laughed, raspy with tears, but ethereal, sparkling, like stardust floating on the breeze.

“People are allowed to cry when they’re happy you stupid, silly man,” he murmured in between kissing him again, and again.

“Oh.  Oh.”

He kissed him one last time, that idiot man who always burnt the toast and always knew the facts but never knew what to say, who finally figured it out and bought him a star, and threw his arms around him, enveloping his slight, fragile form protectively in his embrace.

“I love you.  I love you so much.”

Jon sank into that warm, familiar comfort and buried his face in his shoulder.

“I love you, too, Martin.  I want to be yours for the rest of my life.  I want to be me, I want to be us.”

“I know.  I’ve always known.  Oh god, you do know that right?  I know that you love me, it’s written in everything you do and say.  I have never, ever once doubted you love me with everything you are.  Even in the moments I was afraid that… that maybe we just weren’t meant to be together, I still knew it wouldn’t be because you didn’t love me.  Never because you didn’t love me.  Just maybe that we didn’t fit together anymore,” Martin replied in a small voice through his tears as they spilled down his cheeks.

As much as he wanted to vehemently deny there was ever a chance they might have not fit back together again after they had both been so shattered, to kiss him and tell him not in a million years would there ever have been a future where they weren’t Jon and Martin against the world, Jon knew it to be inescapably true.

“I’m so sorry you ever had to be afraid of that,” he swore, digging his fingers into Martin’s back pointedly, “After everything.  After we fought so hard to escape fear itself.  That I almost let it truly win in the end.  That I couldn’t just let go… Because… Because this was never about The Eye, was it?”

A heave of breath and its shuddering exhale shook Martin’s body free of lifetimes of grief, and fear, of ugliness carried far beyond the borders of their souls.  His fingers curled tighter in unspoken reply.

“No Jon, no it wasn’t, but I’m so very glad you finally figured that out.”

“Me, too…” he whispered.

They held each other in the quiet wake of being a moment and let the astral plane wheel calmly overhead.  An impatient star twinkled.

“Wait… you never answered me,” Jon finally said as he pulled back, sliding his elegant fingers down Martin’s strong arms.

“Huh?” Martin blurted, scrubbing under his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.

“About marrying me tonight.  You never actually said yes, so…”

A twinkle in his eye and a slight mischief to his grin, Jon dove back into the picnic basket and emerged with a velvet ring box.  Martin’s hands flew to his mouth.

“You didn’t.”

“Of course I did!  Nothing fancy, but I thought it was high time to retire the blood rings,” he explained rising from his former perch on his hip to kneel properly.

The box cracked neatly open, and inside lay a simple, white gold band with a tiny circle of milky moonstone embedded in it on a midnight-blue satin cushion, blindingly bright against the dark.  Martin sobbed joyfully all over again.

“So, uh… I suppose if it had just been us, if we’d just been together, without everything, and we’d arrived at this moment.  I would have done much the same.  I would have brought you somewhere beautiful, somewhere I could teach you some inane fact you didn’t actually care about, but liked because it came from me.  Emulsifiers in ice cream and rum raisin…” they both snickered, “And I would have tried my best to make it into some sort of romantic metaphor but completely bunged it up and you would be laughing as I got down on one knee, just like this.  And it would have just been simple.  To the point.  Just… Will you marry me?  So…”

Jon assumed the traditional position, on one knee, arms outstretched, his every slender point a star in a perfect constellation of love.

“Will you marry me?”

Their eyes met, across a thousand different realities, across a thousand different worlds, carried on celestial winds to fall hopelessly, inexorably, into each other’s orbit.

“Yes, yes I do believe I will.”

With one last farewell kiss upon it for what it had meant for them both, Jon slipped the bloodstone ring from Martin’s finger and replaced it with the delicate band made of starlight.  It took its place radiantly, and shone as Martin drew his hand back to admire it with an equally radiant grin before it dimmed with concern.

“But what about you?” he asked worriedly as he watched the old ring entombed lovingly in the box.

Jon only smirked and produced a second box from the basket, which he offered on his open palm out to Martin.

“Naturally, I got one for myself.  Couldn’t pass up a chance to get a wedding ring that actually fits, could I?  It’s just… Don’t you think you deserve to give it to me the way you would want?” he urged.

Martin took the box eagerly, biting his lower lip in thought.

“Not sure you want to give me that freedom.  I had about five different ways of asking you in my head and all of them you would have hated so, so much.  But I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t kind of the point,” he answered wryly.

Jon chortled.

“Sorry I, the unromantic one, sprung this on you, the romantic one.  But I did want to surprise you.  I-I mean you can still write me a vows poem later?  If you want to, of course.  I’d love to have it, even if I don’t actually get to hear it at our wedding.”

Martin’s face flushed immediate crimson and his eyes darted coyly away as he toyed with the wedding band box in his lap.

“Oh that?  A-Actually I… I have it memorized, i-if you really wanted to hear it.”

“You- WHAT?” gasped Jon, his cheeks flushing in tandem.

“Oh yeah, I wrote my vows poem for you ages ago and I’ve gone over it so many times I know it by heart.  It was comforting, okay?  I-I’d read it again when times were good and I thought maybe you’d actually- um… a-and when times were not so good, when you were gone, in your own head, when I was afraid we were broken for good, whenever I needed it.  I’ve read it over a thousand times and never changed a thing from the first time I penned it.  Never needed to.  I’m surprised I haven’t recited it in my sleep at this point,” Martin admitted sheepishly.

Jon’s entire body flushed with a solar heat that melted his joints and his heart into a swirling flare of adulation.

“I can think of no better way, then, to receive my ring,” he breathed, reaching out to cup Martin’s cheek in his hand, “I’ve had my turn, now it’s yours.”

In mirror ballets of love exchanges, Martin cradled Jon’s hand against his cheek as he spoke the first lines of the vows etched ever on his being softly into his palm.

“Let he who, shadow dwelling, must In paper, pen, and book be bound Shake off the chains of dark and rust And chart his own bright fate unfound.

Let he with lifelong burdens borne Cut paper wings with thread of gold And hand in hand, the sky forsworn Flit clouds and sun in laughter bold.

Let he whose blood and soldier’s ken The world did shield from dark and fear Heal fast those wounds, be whole again And sleep at last, held close and dear.

Bring him to me with spirit free With stars in eyes and music sung From lips a joyful promise be One soul conjoined, one fate’s thread strung.

Two hearts rejoice in love renowned. We lift our heads, alive, uncrowned.”

He waited until the last couplet to pull the ring from the box and slide it onto Jon’s finger where it too, fit perfectly, like it had always been there, and shone defiantly bright in the moonlight.  Jon wept.  He had been weeping since the first words of verse left his beloved’s lips, but seeing that ring like a piece of his missing soul returned to him undammed the tears effusively.

“God that was… Martin, I don’t have words.  I-It was… so beautiful.  You’re so beautiful.  Thank you,” he cried fervently, “I wish I could tell you properly how much that meant, but I just-“

“Hey… That’s alright.  I’m the words guy.  You’re the emulsifiers guy.  Making you cry is all I need to see to know how you feel,” Martin assured him warmly, reaching out to brush his tears away as he chuckled.

“Yeah… add this one to the running tally.”

“Oh, I have,” Martin snickered, “Speaking of!  Now we’ve done the crying through vows bit.  Shouldn’t we say the ‘I do’ bit, as well?”

Jon pursed his lips with a shrug as he reached out with his left hand to take Martin’s left as well, twining their fingers together

“Yes, I suppose we should.  I don’t see why not.  Well then, Martin, do you?”

“I do.  And Jon, do you?”

“I do.”

“You may now soundly snog the groom.”

“Martin…”

The emphatic drawl of his name the way Jon only called it when he was frustratingly enamored of him perished gently against Martin’s velvet lips as they caressed his.  They kissed slowly and reverently, sealing a pact ordained by the heavens long before either of them had seen the stars in the other’s eyes, lighting with white flame the torch to guide them for the first time, forward.  They broke it only to punctuate it with two more featherlight kisses and a breathless laugh, bowing their foreheads together in deference to the forces of fate and the universe.

“I know this isn’t the wedding either of us ever dreamed of, but as far as I’m concerned, it was perfect,” Jon murmured, nuzzling closer into his husband, swaddling the new, fledgling and beautiful word in his heart.

“Well, hey, what is a wedding really other than just a formal declaration that this is it?  This is us, we’re forever, no matter what.  We did it.  And you did it for me, in the STARS, Jon… Can we just remember that again?  You put us in the actual stars.  I am so writing a ballad for our constellation later, you do know this.”

“Oh lord.  Of course you are.  But really, it was the least I could do, after you’ve done so much for me, sacrificed everything for me.  Waited for me for so long.”

“And you came back to me,” Martin reminded him passionately, “And I don’t just mean back to life, here, in this world.  I mean you came back, Jon, MY Jon, the Jon I was in love with the moment I laid eyes on him.  The fidgety and obstinate Jon who can’t make a decent cup of tea to save his life, who puts on two different socks in the morning because his nose is already in the paper or a book, who teaches me about bleeding rocks and binary stars and still reacts to the simplest acts of kindness like a warm cranberry orange scone without asking for one like they’re divine miracles he is undeserving of, who looks at me like I hung the moon or something every time.  Even when I thought I was a complete and total waste of a human being, you, Jonathan Sims, the most beautiful, amazing, brilliant man to ever walk the Earth, looked at me like I hung the moon.  And that was… Still is… everything to me.”

The heavens shifted, the stars wheeled, the last piece clicked smartly, smugly into place.

“W-What did you say…?” Jon asked with such urgency, grabbing his hands so fiercely, Martin startled.

“Wh-I-I don’t-?  Which part?  The moon hanging part?” he stuttered, rolling his eyes fondly as he realized mid-sentence, “Oh, right.  Ugh, Jon are you seriously going to get after me about your weird vendetta against idioms at our wedding?  Because if you are that would be annoyingly adorable and so intensely you and kind of perfect, but also can you not on THIS particular occasion?”

The laugh that tore from Jon’s throat was half mad, half euphoric as the weight of the moon lifted from his shoulders and became naught but an indifferent sentinel disc in the sky once more.

“No no no, it’s just… It’s funny, I had more than a few things very, very wrong for a very, very long time.  That’s all.  Don’t worry about it,” he explained, leaning in and pressing a delicate kiss to Martin’s forehead, “If you’re the one who hung the moon after all, then I suppose ‘written in the stars’ will have to do for me.”

Martin lit up with literary glee.

“Oh ho!  Two space related idioms in one go?  What a rare treat!  Maybe this is your gateway drug into puns…” he teased impishly.

“Absolutely no chance in hell.”

They both laughed, laughed with the billowing icy breath that reached with victorious fingers up to the heavens.  They laughed, messily sniffing back the pesky drip of tears and cold.  They laughed with lightness of the encumbrance of hematite armor shed, its bloody protections no longer needed to cage wounded hearts and keep them safe and close.  They laughed in breath and also in the dancing points of light in their eyes as they fell into one another free from gravity.

“So uh… Do I get to see my star tonight, or don’t I?” Martin finally remembered, relishing the utterly horrified yelp from Jon.

“Oh god I completely-!  Y-Yes!  Yes of course, it’s already set up at the proper coordinates!” he had already sprung to his feet, “Oh, though, hang on, it took longer to get to the star viewing part than I anticipated, so I might need to adjust it a bit.  Oh!  And I have a little strawberries and champagne, if you like?”

“I do like, please and thank you!”

Jon set to readjusting the telescope to the proper ascension and declination while Martin poured them two glasses of crisply bubbling champagne.  They twined their arms to drink a toast from each other’s glass, ‘to us’ or ‘to happily ever afters’, or to several other messily rambled toast worthy sentiments.  They couldn’t decide and toasted to all of it.  They ate plump red strawberries and licked the juice from each other’s fingers as they looked at their star, which was, after everything, just a dot, just like Pluto, but Martin had to admit that he rather liked looking at dots after all.  And that one was their dot.  The warm intoxication of love and champagne begged for music, and someone fumbled in the cold for a wedding playlist on some app, somewhere, it didn’t matter, just as long as they could join hands, gaze into each other’s eyes and dance inelegantly, stepping on each other’s toes, under the umbrella of stars in a gentle rain of moonlight.

“I don’t see your problem with cliches, idioms and all that, really…” Martin mused at length, laying his head on Jon’s shoulder as they slowly spun to the rhythm of a longing ballad and the song of the sea, “Like this stupid, great song.  They’re familiar and cozy and everyone knows them.  They’re like… like old friends.  Always there to rely on when we can’t come up with the words ourselves, because sometimes we can’t.  And if something trite and silly sums up the way you feel, why not just let it be?  Sometimes things are said over and over again because some truths are universal, you know?  They’re just… human.”

Jon pressed a kiss into the mop of curls that tickled his nose and smelled faintly of toasted sugar and lavender and mused on all of the romantic cliches that had just passed through his mind unbidden.  Who was he to deny he was but one star in the sky, a single gear in the grand mortal mechanism of the universe.  If he had handed himself over to the humanity of it all instead of rusting, stopping, looking outside where there was never anything to see, perhaps he could have had this dance much sooner.  It didn’t matter though, until it did, because that night Martin took his breath away, made his world go round, he was head over heels for his match made in heaven, and better than heaven, they were written in the stars.

“You know what, Martin?” Jon laughed in reply, “Tonight, being what it is, I am willing to concede.  You are absolutely right.”

“I’m glad…” came the tender acceptance, followed by a distinctly puckish beat of silence, “Then does this mean I can I start saying love you to the moon and back?”

“Don’t push your luck...”

[punkcherries]

ok wait i have thoughts on wat the tracks of the train to nowhere album drawing i did would be like lemme ramble hold on under da cut i ont wanna clog no ones dashes or watever lmfao

all aboard  would probably be a short intro track that samples real old timey trains, bout a minute and a half long, before fading into the next track wormhole judgement line  would be like a very futuristic dated-yet-timeless synth track introducing the concept of the album which is an alien train where whole worlds are held in the cars and anything can happen, again using real train samples ring for service  would be a bit of a swerve as it introduces piano and is reminiscent of hotel lobby music, but with a somewhat cold and unnerving synth edge, to reflect the anxiety and confusion ryan and min felt waking up on an iceberg with a talking floating magic call bell lmfao outlaw  would be even MORE of a swerve cus it would just BUST in, no real fade from the last track in, just BOOM cowboy music, which fits the whiplash between going from weird alien iceberg eon car to COWBOYS BABY. lyrically its about being a wanted outlaw in a place uve never been before man’s best friend (the cat)  would transition from the last track into a jaunty piano tune like ud hear in a saloon, but with an odd french twist, probably with some accordion samples here and there. the music would also reflect the lyrics in giving off an air of mystique and poise and a tinge of potential danger execution  could very easily be seen as just outlaw (reprise) but its musically much darker and more frantic, and also shorter, somewhere around a cool 2 minutes, and itd feature a light humming buzz in the background that develops into crackling and finally loud shocking noises accompanied by a pained scream before..,,, silence little piggy  would be the strangest track by far, following the intensity of the last track with music box samples. itd start slow and melodic, but pick up speed and more instruments layered on top as it goes, and lyrically would have kind of a nursery rhyme vibe to it, very very unnerving and very very unlike anything else on the album saturnalia  would be more like the typical synth rock ud expect from a duo like ryan and min, very musically up beat and great dance music with a KILLER bass line and fuzz guitar, but lyrically would be..... kinda depressing, about being alone at a party and ykno basically what happened in the astro party car, ur friend ditched u lol. the song would have a fade out to prep for the next track bathroom interlude  would literally just be the song min and ryan played in the bathroom but like a minute long. no instruments other than guitar and mini synth crooked paintings  would bring back the piano and maybe accordion from earlier, eerie and cold and dark, juxtaposing the relatively warm vibe of the interlude before it. lyrically, itd be about the art gallery car of course but mostly focusing on themes of being alone but feeling like ur not. spooky!!! phantom hands  picks up the pace from the last song as the feeling of not being alone becomes fact, while crooked paintings toned back the guitar in favor of a dark brooding bass track, phantom hands would have more rough fuzzy guitar, almost drowning out other instruments, as kind of a highlight to the intensity and fear of what happened there is this your stop?  almost halts phantom hands in its tracks, bringing back the future-y synths to the forefront as the lyrics contemplate escaping the panic, although the music of phantom hands starts building up again in the background, and ultimately melds with the synths before the track fades out, being a swift minute and a half or so long locked out  while being a reference to ryan literally being locked out of the art gallery car would be more metaphorical lyrically, about the things both of them kept at arms distance from eachother, and have more acoustic instruments to it, which would transition quite smoothly into the next track mega maze  also a literal reference, but lyrically metaphorical about their relationship and how confusing navigating emotions can be. more synth is added in at this point but really only serves to make the song feel even more cold and dazed manhunt  picks the album’s plot back up and were back to literals here, as the electric guitar kicks in for a life-or-death chase track, its a race to the castle doors as suddenly musical themes from outlaw, little piggy, and ring for service come back into play, and by the end of this ~4 minute track comes in, organ samples are introduced adding a gothic tone which bleeds over into the next track 202  is where a lot of tension bubbles over, dark instrumentation and sharp lyrics about hope and despair and fear of being alone, very pre-emo emo if i do say so myself, using mostly electric guitar organ and bass. as the tension cools down, the synth starts to kick in, possibly sampling im gonna dress my dog in a toque, like a ray of sunshine coming in to warm up the track and fade into the next stuck with you  would be a sort of synth ballad, about reassurance and dedication and building something together and Its Totally Not Gay What No Way Were Best Friends Haha I Promise Mom. the guitar really starts to kick in in the second half before the end which does not transition into the next song but does end on the same note the next song starts on train to nowhere  would just be the song from the show but extended lol

overall the album would be a really kitschy concept album to the lay listener and a wild autobiography about being on the train to anyone In The Know and also very fucking gay i can imagine lgbt ppl in universe writing whole essays on the subtext and how Actually The Album Is An Allegory For Being Gay And Closeted And In Love In The 80s sjfhkdjg

[hypnoticwinter]

How to Write Poetry: An Examination of Tumblr User richglinnen

As far as the tumblr poetry community goes, @richglinnen is a fairly unique specimen. In fact, you could probably expand that statement to all of tumblr and come to a similar conclusion. The man uses his real name as his online handle without even a hint of self-deprecating irony, he hasn’t seen fit to do so much as change the profile picture or the background on his page, and he is very unabashed about the fact that his poetry is a hobby, just a hobby. For most people, I’d assume, not a recipe to get a second look on the wasteland of the internet.

But I looked. I looked again, and again. And I do not say this lightly, but Rich might be writing the single most meaningful series of poems on this website, and it is a damn shame that more people don’t know about him. Keep reading to find out why I think so.

Rich keeps his oeuvre very focused: he writes about his family, mainly about his newborn daughter, and somewhat less frequently about interesting things he experiences in his day-to-day life. Additionally, he is very particular about poetic form, or lack thereof. He rarely rhymes, and his poems and stanzas are generally just about as long as they need to be without conforming to any particular sort of structure, aside from a haiku or two. The topics he chooses to write about can be described as ‘banal’ with very little hyperbole. His three latest poems as of the time of writing are about, respectively, leaving the air conditioner on, a moldy cauliflower, and toy blocks.

But if you made me choose between the newest snotty-nosed chapbook available by some up-and-coming in my local bookstore, or Rich’s stuff, it’s Rich every time.

Let’s look at an example so maybe I can explain why I’m so crazy for this guy’s work.

Reproduced below without any sort of permission at all is Rich’s poem “Wasted Food.”

Grandma resurrected When my wife pulled from the fridge A molded cauliflower, Its packed clusters Like a blonde permanent, Whispering from a vein, What a sin.

It genuinely takes a lot of talent to be able to look at a very mundane and ordinary event like the one described in this poem and turn it into such an evocative piece of art like this. Speaking as someone who has taken a poetry class, which I eternally regret, there is little in this poem which is not almost perfect in its simplicity. Perhaps the only criticism anybody can reasonably make is that maybe it ought to be one stanza alone instead of two, but even now, writing this, I come to doubt my judgment. The break between the two stanzas is a little unconventional, as it breaks up one continuous thought, but breaking the stanzas there also serves metaphorically as a sense of motion, the first stanza considering the speaker’s wife and the second considering the cauliflower-turned-grandmother.

Perhaps the other criticism that could be made is that with only a comma between lines 5 and 6, it does read a little like the blonde permanent is the one whispering, but that’s a very minor complaint, and we all know what he means anyway.

There also is a delightful double-meaning here that got me when I first read this poem; I assumed that the first line was referring to the speaker’s wife and her reaction upon seeing the moldy cauliflower. Even if this was unintentional, it’s a lovely image - immediately the mind jumps to what the grandmother’s reaction would have been and how it would be echoed in the wife’s. There are more questions raised as well - is the grandmother referred to the speaker’s or the wife’s? Is the speaker seeing a vision of what the wife will become many years down the line, or seeing a semi-Oedipal synchronicity in his choice of mate?

Either way, we can get a glimpse of what that grandmother might have been like. ‘What a sin’ are the cauliflower’s imagined words upon viewing the titular waste of food, and just this phrase alone can conjure up such a perfect image of the tight-lipped old lady, her lips so thin they might as well be a vein, and so on.

Rich attacks his subject matter with the same level of gusto and thought exhibited above almost every time. That isn’t to say that every poem hits it out of the park - in any body of work as substantial as the one on display here, there are bound to be one or two that aren’t perhaps quite as inspired, but on the whole, having read quite a lot of poetry in my time, I’m very impressed.

A lot of poetry on tumblr strikes me as being rather performative. It’s all well and good to talk about lofty things, ideals and sins, the ends of lives, and so on, but for most people these are things that aren’t very tangible. What captivates me about Rich is that he consistently chooses the most mundane topics and brings them to life with the same power and care as anybody you’d care to name writing poetry on here about much heavier and more meaningful topics.

I think for me it’s the completely unaffected manner in which he writes that captivates me so; there is not a trace of pretension in any of these poems. Rich very clearly knows that none of the topics he chooses to write on are very important in the grand scheme of things, but to him, even if it’s just for a moment, they’re very important indeed.

Everybody has moments like those. I stepped outside to take out some broken-down boxes earlier today and was struck by the fact that it was raining so softly that I hadn’t noticed. I stood there for a minute or so, under the awning, staring at the sky and at the gradually dampening road, breathing in the smell of it. And then I turned around and walked down to the recycling bin and back again. There was something meaningful to me in that moment, something nameless and intangible and, if I had chosen to dedicate the time to make it so, beautiful. Rich has, if nothing else, mastered the art of seizing those moments. And I’m very glad he chooses to share them.