#ugh sorry for being so maudlin

[loserchildhotpants]

October grows closer.

It is at once my favorite and least favorite time of year.

Every day, regardless of the month, of the year, I am in motion - my friends tell me I'm too hard on myself, some of them even tell me I work too hard, but I am in motion because I am constantly trying to outrun the obsessive belief that harasses me all day and night; I need to justify the space I take up.

I don't feel this way about anyone else. I don't think anyone else needs to justify their own existence.

I'm constantly looking for forgiveness, for someone to say, 'you've finally done enough good to have outweighed the harm you've done (intentionally and/or unintentionally), good work! Now you can rest!'

October comes and reminds me of everything, makes the inside of me so loud, I can't focus.

I was a miracle baby, born at 11:59pm, October 23rd.

I'm a Jewish witch - I love the serious holidays that fall in October, pagan and Jewish, and I love seeing people in silly costumes at the end of it.

The night I turned sixteen, I finally confessed to my parents that I'd been abused most of my childhood. It was around midnight then too.

I had done something unintentionally cruel to a friend (unprocessed trauma makes for some weird fuckin' behaviors), and we weren't exactly on speaking terms. I knew it was my fault, I knew I'd been the fuck-up, but she was my best friend, and I needed her there that night. I called her up, and she showed up.

She wasn't pleased with me. She didn't get why she was there, and I told her first - before my parents.

I told her who had done it - someone she knew. Someone everyone I knew also knew.

"Do you believe me?" I asked.

"Yeah, [person] tried the same thing with me, when I was younger."

I was flabbergasted.

"What happened?"

"I called for my mom," she told me, "why didn't you call for help?"

I don't remember if I said it out loud or not, but the answer was; it hadn't occurred to me as an option, to call for help.

She spent the night, slept as I went downstairs to tell my parents the worst of it, as much as I could assemble the words.

("I think it started when I was around 7 but it could've been earlier than that," "when I went to their house, someone else might've been involved, but my memories are all messed up, I don't remember," "there was a knife - I don't know if everything is okay, down there but I'm too scared to look," "yes, that's why I'm always covered up," "yes, that's why I-" "yes, that's why -" "yes, that's why-")

I hadn't really said the words, I was vague and it was still like clawing up heavy stones from out of my chest.

I'd wanted to die with those secrets. It's a longer story as to why I couldn't - why it fell on my birthday, why I had to come forward or someone else would.

My friend was gone in the morning and distanced herself more permanently.

My parents turned it into a weapon - against each other, and against me. No one knew what to do with me, no one knew how to help, and no one felt particularly inspired to learn how to.

I remember going up the stairs to bed that night, and it felt like I was shedding weights as I climbed the stairs. I'd never felt lighter, I'd never slept better - I thought, 'oh, good, finally, all the Bad Feelings will stop, and I'll be normal.'

My mother co-opts it where she can, is sometimes disbelieving of it, sometimes reduces its severity, but it depends on her audience. My father doesn't speak of it at all, which is fine, because we don't speak and never really have.

The friends I had then - they didn't rally around me. Maybe a month later, I moved 1500 miles away from everyone and everything I'd ever known, and started again. Right in the middle of my Junior year of high school.

My birthday used to be a happy sort of day, and then it became so somber, and regardless of the mood, I was alone in it.

No one understood October 23rd like I did; every year past the year of my first suicide attempt (I was 11) was an incredible mile marker. I didn't think I'd make it that far, I didn't think I'd have it in me - it was a day I had been raised to allot for praising my mother for having given birth to me. It used to be for someone else. I didn't know how to make it about myself, and making it about myself always felt like some sort of trap.

But it was also the day I freed myself of terrible secrets, it's the day that I showed some of my scars and said, 'if I don't live honestly from here on out, I think the memories and secrets will kill me.'

As October nears, I know it will be a countdown to my birthday, because it always is in my own head - it's not just my birthday, it's a day that marks many things, unlikely things, improbable, miraculous, horrible, ugly things.

As it comes closer, the mantra in my head gets louder.

I need to find forgiveness. I need to justify the space I take up. I need to be more helpful, I need to be more active, I need to be smarter, I need to be more cultured, more accomplished, more well-rounded, I need to be more than I am, I need it to serve everyone, endlessly, and I need to smile while I do it, I need to be convenient, I need to try to do better all the time.

That feeling of not being enough encroaches upon me, and I want so badly to enjoy October, but I don't know if I can.

An ex-boyfriend I had dated at the time I came forward accused me of lying about never having had an orgasm in my life (I hadn't), because, "you've been having sex since you were like, five, you probably had it and just didn't know what it was - here, I'll show you."

(He couldn't show me, he didn't, but I faked it because I needed to be convenient.)

There are 4 occasions I can remember that he ignored my 'no,' or pushed past clear barriers, or took advantage of me when I wasn't in my right mind - 3 of them took place AFTER he knew.

With life-long friends dropping like flies, a 21 year old 'boyfriend' my parents LET date me at 15-16 pestering me for my body, the aforementioned situationship with someone who would tell me regularly how hard I was to love, my family retreating into themselves in the face of my trauma - I was falling with no net at the bottom to catch me.

I crashed at the bottom of it all, I picked myself up, and have spent all the years since apologizing for walking with a figurative limp.

The 21 year-old was convinced I'd cheated on him or something. I don't remember, and don't care to. I broke up with him over the phone. The situationship became my boyfriend for the 100th time since we'd known each other, and he was horrible to me, and I took it, and I was grateful for it, because all I knew was that I was hard to love.

So, here comes October.

I came forward 14 years ago. I'm turning 30. And it all still hurts. And I still don't know how to get through October.

The tattoo in my mind, the one that bang-bang-bangs all day and night, telling me I'm not doing enough to justify being alive, that I'm a burden, that I need to do more and be more all the time - it has an edge of fear to it as we inch closer to October. As if I'm running out of time. As if I need to find forgiveness from someone, somehow, and fast, or I might die before I find it, and I'll pay some terrible cosmic price for lacking so much.

I hope that someday, someone throws a birthday party for me. It doesn't have to be a surprise, just - I can't do it myself. I can't. Maybe more to the point - I won't.

And I hope that when they do, if they ever do, in this daydream where anyone gives half a shit about my birthday - I wish they'd tell me they're proud of me. I wish they'd announce that it's not just my birthday, but the anniversary of the night I unveiled the truth and clawed my way to some happiness.

Maybe someday, there will be a celebration of me - and it won't be about telling my mother how brave and heroic she was for the terrifying birth she gave, and it won't be about me entertaining friends that would drop me as soon as I became inconvenient, and it won't be legions of people, but just a small group, just a handful of people that really respect me, that know me, that see me and understand me, and tell me I'm worth something still, even after they know it all.

Maybe someday, October won't be so full of loneliness, fear, or utter surety that I'm fundamentally a bad person destined to be abandoned.

Not this year, but maybe some year. Maybe some October.

[fowlfics]

How Frog Earrings Saved the World

Short fic written entirely within discord based on a picture of tiny clay frog earrings one of my friends made!! I might clean it up and post on AO3 later bc it ended up at nearly 1.3k, but for now, here it is

Contains: Sabo, Luffy, Ace, cute earrings, brotherly bonding & potential spoilers for Dressrosa if you're reading this before then, light angst

"Ooooh, this looks fancy!" Luffy absently called out towards his brothers, digging a small jewelry box out of the pile of trash.

He dusted it off as his brothers approached, only opening it when they were right over his shoulders.

".....whoah," Luffy gasped out, staring at the contents with stars in his eyes.

"That's rubbish," Ace scoffed derisively, moving back to the pile he had been digging through before.

"Ace is mean and grumpy," Luffy stuck his tongue out at Ace's turned back. The boy seemed to have sensed that - or he just knew Luffy far too well - and had raised a middle finger over his shoulder.

"He's right though," Sabo said, straightening up. "It might be pretty, but it's rather worthless."

Pouting, Luffy turned to look at him, pushing the small box with two very tiny clay frog earrings inside into Sabo’s face. "But I like it!"

Sabo smiled. "That just means you can keep it, yeah? It could be part of your treasure that you wear- or, well, I guess you can't, but-"

"I can wear them?" Luffy repeated eagerly.

"Well, no, your ears don't have the holes-"

"I can wear them in my ears?!"

"I- You know what," Sabo sighed. "Yes, you can wear it in your ears."

***

"Stop. Wriggling," Sabo said, exasperated, putting the needle down from where he had almost pressed it to Luffy's ear. "I can't do this if you keep moving!"

"Sorry," Luffy said, but didn't seem to be able to stop waving his legs excitedly.

"Here," Ace passed by, grabbing one of Luffy's hands and dropping into it a random beetle which he had probably just picked up from the ground. "That ought to keep him busy."

He was right, of course. Luffy stilled completely, his hand brought up so close to his face that his nose was nearly touching the beetle.

Sabo didn't waste the opportunity. It was a testament to how engrossed Luffy was - or how large his pain tolerance was - when he didn't even wince at the feeling.

By the time the beetle finally remembered it could fly away, Sabo had pierced both of Luffy's ears and placed the frog earrings in the holes.

"Okay!" Luffy straightened out. "I'll stay still, I promise!"

...Seems like he had genuinely not noticed anything Sabo had just done.

"No need," Sabo smirked and continued before Luffy could complain. "Go take a look in the mirror."

"!!!" Somehow, Luffy was capable of perfectly conveying that with his whole body. "You put it in!!! That's so cool!!! It's so- Oh, you put both of them in my ears?"

Frowning at the sudden change in tone, Sabo stepped closer to Luffy, looking his reflection in the eye. "Did you not want that?"

Fiddling with the earring, Luffy had somehow managed to pull it out of his ear without causing any damage. "There's two of them, so one's for you!"

"Oi!" Ace, the eavesdropping idiot, butted in. "What about me?"

Luffy didn't even look his way, too focused on Sabo. "Ace called these ugly trash so he won't get one."

Sabo couldn't help but snicker at Ace's outraged grumbling.

"Alright," he said, gingerly taking the offered frog and putting it into the ear holes his parents had insisted on.

For the first time, Sabo didn't mind them forcing him to get a piercing anymore.

"Now we match!" Luffy exclaimed excitedly, throwing himself at Sabo.

"Now we match."

***

Luffy spent a lot of time on the cliff overlooking the sea, one hand always resting on the frog earring.

He only had one, now. One frog. One brother.

"Ugh, you gotta stop being so... so maudlin!" Ace complained, pacing behind Luffy as he had for the past half an hour. "Sabo's gone, so what? We're still here! And, more importantly, our treasure is gone, so we have to start from scratch-"

"I don't care," Luffy mumbled into his knees petulantly.

Ace's sigh was unnecessarily loud.

"Look, I-!" He paused, taking a deep breath. "Would it make you feel better if I had a matching earring with you, too?"

Luffy straightened up, looking over at Ace in surprise. His oldest brother had always scoffed at the idea before; For him to offer...

"YES!" Luffy jumped up, throwing himself at Ace. "YES PLEASE!"

***

Makino didn't know how to make earrings, but that was okay. Luffy could figure it out on his own. He just needed some thin wire and black paint and the resulting beetles were pretty misshapen, but they were still recognizably bugs, and that's all that mattered.

(Ace winced when he saw the results, but didn't comment. )

Makino did know how to pierce ears, though. She did Ace's right one only - he insisted on that - and re-did Luffy's free one, seeing as the hole Sabo had made had closed already with nothing to hold it open.

As they both looked into the mirror - Ace with his arms crossed, Luffy with his full of snacks - for the first time sine the Terminal fire, Luffy smiled.

***

"Hey, Sabo!" Koala called, waving a newspaper at him. "Come look at this!"

It could have been anything - with Big News Morgan's style of sensational writing, "have been published in a newspaper" wasn't really as much of a filter as Sabo would have liked - but knowing Koala, this expression spelled shenanigans.

Sabo approached cautiously, in case the newspaper was just an excuse to prank him.

But no; As he got closer, Koala folded the paper to show the bounties, pushing it towards Sabo.

"This new guy who just got a bounty has the same earring as you do!"

"...That's weird," Sabo said, taking the newspaper. "Maybe it's a really popular design in the East? Damn, 30 mil as his starting bounty is pretty wild, though."

"And we've never seen it before?" Koala said skeptically. "Oh, the bounty's one thing, but also! He's not just from the East; He's from Dawn Island!"

Sabo blinked. "Maybe this kind of an earring is just... Really popular on Dawn Island?" He repeated his earlier suggestion.

He's not really sure what Koala had been expecting. For him to magically regain his memories just because a guy was wearing a frog earring-?

"And!" Koala raised a finger, taking the newspaper back. "Not only does he match with you, he also matches with-" She triumphantly held out two bounties. "This guy! They both have a... Well, I don't know what it's meant to be, but it's clearly the same thing."

Sabo blinked as he glanced between the posters. There and back, Strawhat and Firefist, Luffy and Ace.

"...He said he would never get an earring," he mumbled. "Called it trashy. Called it a risk in a fight. Called it _ugly_. Who's wearing ugly earring now, huh, Ace? At least mine's a fancy one..."

"Uh, Sabo?" Koala looked over the top of the bounties. "You realize you are talking to pictures, right?"

"Never mind that!" Sabo groaned, rubbing at his eyes. "Where the hell am I meant to find someone to do custom earrings for me?"

"...?"

"Luffy's going to be easy," Sabo motioned towards his bounty. "I'll just find him and tell him I'm alive and he'll be happy as a clam. But Ace? I'm going to have to do some SERIOUS grovelling for all those years-"

Koala seemed rather baffled at that idea. "... You have - had? - amnesia."

"Yes," Sabo nodded. "And he's going to give me so much grief about forgetting him."

"I... don't think he would hold this against you?"

"Then you clearly don't know Ace. Anyways, that's why I need the custom earring; We both match with Luffy, but if I want to get away only lightly maimed, I'll have to find something cool to match with him. Do you think he'd like a scorpion?"

[drfitzmonster]

.

[mira-eyeteeth]

Captivating, pt. 2

I finally wrote the final part of this fic (part 1 here). Thanks to @ask-a-pale-experiment for reminding me to get this fic done!

-

Jack had somehow managed to drag himself to his feet and get through the following day while mostly not huddled in a little ball of misery.

Well, not significantly more than usual, at least.

It was only when he got home that evening when everything went wrong.

He'd just shut the door to his apartment behind him with a sigh when someone lunged out of the shadows to grab him and clamp a hand over his mouth.

His mind was racing, wondering how one of his enemies could have figured out his identity and where he lived, while his body was acting already, hands rising to touch his attacker and freeze the blood solid in their veins.

He paused centimeters away when the person spoke in a hissed whisper.

“Shh! It’s all right, I’m not here to hurt you.”

Piki. It was Piki. What the hell was Piki doing in Jack’s home? Had he finally figured it out?

"Don't worry, don't worry, it's just me. It's Piki," the man added, removing his hand from Jack's mouth and pulling off his domino mask, as if Jack somehow wouldn't be able to recognize him with it on. "Look, I'm really really sorry about this, but I promise that it's for your own good."

"Wh-what's-" Jack stammered.

"I promise I'll explain everything. But first…" The shadows rose up to swallow them both, and when light finally returned, Jack found himself in entirely different surroundings. It was a little room with a handful of furniture, two door, and no windows.

Piki let go of him, stepping back. "Sorry. Look, you're in danger-- Wait, no, not like that! I'm not going to hurt you. It's… It’s the Winter King. He’s a supervillain, you might know about him. He somehow figured out that I… ah, well, he threatened you. He’s dangerous, and I don’t know if he might decide to hurt you. So I need to keep you safe. Just for a little while! Once I figure out how to dispose of him, I’ll let you go.”

Jack just stared at him. This. This was the conclusion that Piki had come to. Jack wasn’t sure if he wanted to hug Piki or shake him for being a complete idiot, but he was leaning towards the latter.

Piki fidgeted, looking nervous. “I, er, I got you some books,” he added, gesturing to a stack of them on a bedside table. “Notebooks, too, in case you want to write. Let me know if there’s anything else that you might like, and I’ll see what I can do. With any luck, this should only take a few days. A week, tops.”

Jack doubted that very much.

“I… I’ll just let you get settled in. If you need anything, just knock on the door. The other one goes to a bathroom,” Piki explained, backing further away and slipping out the door, and closing it with a click of a lock.

Jack flopped back onto the bed with a groan. Well, this was a hell of a situation he was in. On the plus side, Piki hadn’t figured out about his secret identity. On the other hand, he intended to keep Jack captive until he murdered the Winter King, who also happened to be Jack. What the hell was Jack supposed to do about this?

He supposed he could always tell Piki about his secret identity. And in doing so, reveal his greatest secret to someone who hated his guts and would at the very least likely attempt to make good on his murder threat. Jack didn’t think it was likely he would be able to succeed, but if he didn’t kill Piki, and likely his brother, in turn, then Piki would likely reveal Jack’s secret identity to everyone he could out of spite. Jack’s life would be ruined. But he didn’t want to kill Piki.

He could wait until Piki and Pitch left to go hunt for the Winter King, and break out of the room. It wouldn’t be hard to make ice to pop the deadbolt out of place. But Piki would no doubt attribute his disappearance to the Winter King, and Jack would be back in the same position as before, unless he faked his own death and moved to a new town. An extremely less than ideal solution, especially as Piki would doubtless try to track the Winter King back down for revenge, if news of Jack’s activities made it past local headlines.

Or Jack could just… stay. Not exactly a sustainable solution, but maybe Piki would eventually get bored and let Jack go on his own. And besides, he was technically living with Piki right now. The current situation didn’t exactly match Jack’s prior romantic fantasies, admittedly, but this was a form of intimacy, wasn’t it? For a given definition of intimacy, at least?

Did Stockholm Syndrome work in reverse? Maybe Jack could talk Piki into having some movie nights together, while he was here. That would be nice.

Yes, this was a good plan. Jack could always think about longer-term solutions later. He was in no rush.

Jack went to go check the stack of books to see which ones Piki had picked out for him. He felt a rush of warmth when he saw that several of his favorite books were there, along with a smattering of works by some of his favored authors and a handful of books he’d had his eye on but never got around to reading. Piki had been paying attention to what Jack had been looking into at the bookstore, that was so sweet.

Jack picked up one of the new books, along with a blank notebook and a pen. He set the writing tools aside and settled back in the bed to start reading.

-

A careful knock on the door preceded Piki’s return a little over an hour later. He had changed into his street clothes and was holding a tray. “Jack? I brought you some food, if you’re hungry?”

Jack looked up from his book and smiled at Piki. He picked up the notebook and straightened up in bed, beckoning Piki over.

Piki seemed a bit surprised, but he set the tray down on the little table in the corner of the room and approached Jack. “What is it?”

Jack swung his legs over the edge of the bed and patted the spot next to him. Piki gingerly sat down beside him, and Jack opened the notebook so they could both see it.

Thank you for rescuing me, Jack wrote.

“What? I mean, you’re welcome, but to be honest, I didn’t expect you to see this that way,” Piki replied.

I know you wouldn’t have done this without good reason.

Piki looked surprised, and a bit skeptical. “That’s… very understanding of you. Thank you. Is, is there anything that you need? Anything that would make this situation any more pleasant?”

Would you stay with me for a while? I’m feeling a little lonely.

“Yes, of course, if that’s what you’d like.”

Can you tell me about your work? I’m sure that having superpowers and running around with heroes and villains must lend itself to some interesting stories.

“Oh, you have no idea…”

-

It had only taken a few days before Jack had managed to persuade Piki into a movie night. It had been easy enough to get him to stay; the simplest way to watch a film would be with a laptop, and Piki couldn’t very well leave a laptop connected to the internet alone with Jack, or Jack might use it to contact the heroes or someone else who would complicate the current hostage situation.

So now the two of them were half-reclined on Jack’s bed, propped up with pillows and watching the scene playing out on the laptop balanced on Piki’s thighs.

“Ugh, this is absolute garbage. This man clearly cannot act worth a damn, and don’t even get me started on the hack job of stage direction that the director is managing. Everyone involved in this production should have been fired,” Piki groused.

Jack smiled and shifted a little bit closer, enough that their sides were pressed against each other and Jack’s hand was half-overlapped on Piki’s. “H-hey, Piki,” Jack murmured.

“Hmn?” Piki made a questioning noise and turned his head to look at Jack. Jack took the opportunity to curl his hand around the side of Piki’s jaw and lean forwards, bringing their faces closer together. 

Piki’s eyelids fluttered closed, but snapped back open before Jack could kiss him. Piki jerked backwards, breaking any contact between them. 

"No! No, this is wrong. This, this is Stockholm Syndrome, or… or you're so afraid of me that you think that letting me take what I want means that I might not hurt you any further," Piki said, looking sickened. He scrambled to snap the laptop shut and lurched off of the bed, away from Jack. 

Jack was left staring at him, stunned.

Piki drew in a shaky breath and stared off somewhere past Jack into space. "This is going to taint everything we ever might have had. I…" Piki shook his head, wrapping his free arm around himself. “I'm sorry, Jack. I… Pitch will take care of you from now on."

Before Jack could say anything, Piki fled the room and shut the door behind him.

-

True to his word, the next time the door to Jack’s room opened, it was Pitch carrying the tray of food. “Here you go,” he said, plunking it carelessly on the table.

“P-P-Pitch?”

Pitch rolled his eyes and sighed. “I’m not going to hurt you. You don’t need to shake in your boots.”

“I’m n-not scared. This i-is just the way I t-talk,” Jack stammered out, hating the way that his mouth stumbled over the few basic sentences.

“Ah. Well, nevermind then. What do you want?”

“P-Piki. He’s… L-Look, can I just write it d-down?” Jack asked.

“Fine,” Pitch sighed, walking over to Jack to read what he wrote down.

Piki’s sad, isn’t he?

“That’s a bit of an understatement. Moping and maudlin and distraught would be better words for it,” Pitch replied. 

Would it be better if he was angry?

“I mean, he’d probably be marginally less insufferable then. Why?” Pitch asked.

Jack inhaled and braced for the loss of his career. Because I have something I probably ought to confess.

“What, do you have a boyfriend who’s a superhero or something?”

No. Jack wrote, then let the rime frost spiral down the length of his body, wrapping the identity of the Winter King around himself once more. Pitch gasped and stumbled backwards, breath misting in the air. By the time the transformation was complete, the shock had bled into anger.

“Oh, you absolute bastard,” Pitch snarled, before whirling around and flinging open the door. “Piki!”

“Pitch? What is it, is J-” Piki looked through the door and froze when he saw the Winter King. He broke out of it after a moment, stepping forward as shadows began to surge around his body. “What the hell did you do to Jack?!”

“He is Jack,” Pitch snapped.

“He- what? No, that’s not-”

“It is, Piki. It’s me. I’m sorry, I probably should have told you sooner,” Jack said.

Shock and hurt flashed over Piki’s face, before finally settling back on anger. “You… This has always just been some game to you, hasn’t it? Some hilarious joke, to toy with me? You must have been laughing so much at being able to trick me. Did you share the joke with your friends?” he spat.

“No. I really did, really do care about you. But I didn’t want you to see me as some helpless pathetic nobody. I wanted to impress you, and prove that I was actually worth something. But I didn’t go about it in the best way, I see that now. And maybe… maybe all you wanted was someone pathetic to look after. I don’t know. But that isn’t me,” Jack said, and sighed. “If you really want to fight, then I understand, but I don’t want to fight you, Piki.”

Piki growled, and seemed to struggle with himself. Pitch stepped up beside him, and Jack braced for an attack. Instead, Piki’s shoulders slumped and he stepped out of the doorway. “Just… go. I don’t want to have to look at you.”

Jack left.

-

When Jack got home, he set to packing up his things and preparing to move. It was only a matter of time before his identity hit the headlines, and then he would need to go somewhere else. Gotham was supposed to be nice this time of the year.

But it never came. No bounty hunters showed up at his apartment to try to collect, and nothing happened for days.

Finally, Jack received a note in his mailbox, one that had no stamp, though it did have a return address. It just said, We have a lot we need to talk about, I think.

[blinkasaurus]

Tag game! Thanks for the tag, @cobraking!

rules: answer 30 questions and tag 20 blogs you want to know better (or don’t, I’m not gonna hunt you down)

name/nickname(s): You can call me Sands.

gender: the yawning void

star sign: aries

height: 5′6″

time: what time??

birthday: I already gave you the aries, you’ll have to deduce the rest.

favourite band(s): queen, of monsters and men, reo speedwagon (simply because they used a really bad pun to name an album once)

favourite solo artist(s): david bowie, matthew good (I mean sometimes he’s a band and sometimes a soloist but either way that salty Canadian is GREAT)

song stuck in my head: one of the temple songs from Ocarina of Time

last movie: some maudlin christmas movie i’m sure

last show: COBRA KAI COBRA KAI COBRA KAI

when i created this blog: uhhhhhhhh 2012

what i post: cobra kai, the occasional post re: a movie or star I appreciate, much shitposting

last thing i googled: ugh probably something for work

other blogs: what you see is what you get.

do i get asks?: only rarely but I love them

why i chose my url: uhhhh it has to do with newsies, which was a resurgence fandom for me in 2012. also i can’t have the url i want, despite it being unused, SO.

following: something like 143 (I follow a lot of deactivated blogs haaa)

followers: something like 115 (I don’t chase followers so if you’ve made it so far as to follow me, SORRY!!)

average hours of sleep: uuuughhghghghg like 5-6

lucky number(s): 7, 13

instrument(s): flute, piccolo, baritone/euphonium, tuba, lever harp, various small woodwinds, i dabble in many but have mastered few, however making music is a PASSION

what i am wearing: unintentional fem!johnny lawrence cosplay (think “I could eat”)

dream job: writer, critic, wandering mage (and definitely NOT the career I’ve been working on for the last 15 years and am about to drop HARD)

dream trip: climbing some tall-ass mountain, or eating my way through Europe. maybe both simultaneously.

favourite food: noodles. all kinds. all cultures. i love noodles.

nationality: born in the USA. leaving soon.

favourite song(s): a very of-the-minute question...um. Rebel Rebel by David Bowie, Apparitions by Matthew Good, Alligator by Of Monsters and Men (not actually a great song, but has fueled SO MANY GOOD WORKOUTS OMG)

last book i read: Averno by Louise Gluck (please check out her poetry, but warning I think it hurts more and more the older you get.)

top 3 fictional universes i would love to live in: Middle Earth, Tamriel, the karate-war version of the San Fernando Valley circa 2018 (I just want to bring popcorn to all the karate dilfs’ fights.)

I don’t think I’ll tag anyone specifically since you could kinda call these personal questions, but if you (yes, YOU) see this post and Feel the Call, please consider yourself (yes, YOURself) tagged!

[ineffablegame]

Also published on my Ao3.

Sick

Angels do not, as a rule, fall ill.  They simply don’t have the fortitude for it.  When you take a celestial being and cram it into a fleshy, juicy, human-shaped corporation, you risk causing a fair bit of trauma without adding the possibility of said corporation malfunctioning in a variety of horrific ways – the fevers, the pus, the clogging of various valves and vessels and orifices, and so on. Besides, falling ill would distract an angel from their heavenly duties.  It’s very difficult to spread peace and love and suchlike when you are battling the urge to vomit or, as the charming human colloquialism goes, “shit your brains out.”

This wisdom is by no means theoretical.  In The Beginning, Upstairs was very keen on making the angels’ experiences on Earth as lifelike as possible.  And lo, the first corporations were endowed with all the weaknesses of a human body. Angels were just as likely to suffer boils, dropsy, leprosy, and baldness as any old human.  It was assumed that, in the event a disease grew truly deadly, an angel could miracle themself well.  

(In fact, the only illness exempt from the first corporations was epilepsy.  The humans were convinced epileptic fits were caused by demonic possession, and it wouldn’t do any good to give the opposite side free points, as it were.  Crowley got a commendation for epilepsy.  This both baffled and amused him.)

The old, disease-prone versions of corporations fell out of favor when the angel Gabriel, after being sent to inform Mary of her pregnancy, developed a head cold which clogged up one nostril and left the other free to breathe.  This caused such epic strife and whinging that subsequent models of corporations were rendered disease-free.  

Therefore, angels do not, as a rule, fall ill.

Most angels, anyway.

The angel Aziraphale had been using his corporation since The Beginning.  Before Armageddon, he’d never seen a need to swap in for the newer model. He was the equivalent of a man using messenger pigeons in the time of the iPhone C.  When Adam Young removed Aziraphale from Madame Tracy’s body, he restored him to his old self – in effect, giving him a fresh pigeon and bidding him get on with it.

There is precisely one angel in all of existence who can fall ill, and he is currently in the back room of a bookshop in Soho, lying on a battered sofa as he sweats and moans.  

“You’re what?” Crowley says.  

“Ill, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale croaks.  “I won’t make good company tonight.  You had better take your drinking elsewhere.”

Crowley sets down the twin bottles of Romanee-Conti and crosses to the sofa, staring down at the prone angel. “You’re in my seat.”

Aziraphale, pallid and sweat-soaked, musters a weak smile.  “I know.  Terribly sorry.”

Crowley is torn between horror and incredulity.  “How did this happen?”

“Occupational hazard. Comes with the body.”

“Thought your lot didn’t…” Crowley trails off, brow furrowed. Then he nods.  “Ah.”

“Indeed.”

Crowley goes to his knees so he is at a level with Aziraphale.  “This is what you get for not updating, you know.  I’ve only told you to do it a dozen times.”

Aziraphale miracles a hot water bottle onto his brow and sighs.  “Some things are worth caring for.  If you throw away things willy-nilly when they’re no longer of use to you, everything loses its value.”

“That’s all very well and good,” Crowley says, “but you’ve still got snot all over your face.”

“Ugh.”  Aziraphale casts about for a tissue box, looking crestfallen when he finds it empty.  Crowley miracles it full with a snap of his fingers.  The angel beams, radiant in spite of the snot and sweat.  “Thank you.”

Crowley is, for perhaps the billionth time, grateful for the concealment of his sunglasses.  He gestures to the angel’s face.  “Can’t you miracle this away?”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, managing an indulgent smile.  One billion and one, Crowley thinks.  “You should know there’s no cure for the common cold.”

Crowley stands, surveying the back room.  Snot-encrusted tissues litter the floorboards, swarming around a closed book like a flock of doves.  He stoops and picks up the book.  “The Picture of Dorian Gray.  Is this one of the comedies?”

Aziraphale sneezes, wipes a string of snot off his nose.  “No.  I suspect it would be rather maudlin for your tastes.”

Crowley makes a noise of disdain.  “Why was it on the floor?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale moans, “I wouldn’t normally treat a book like that, of course, but my thoughts have just been all over the place with this blasted cold…”

Crowley looks at the book in his hands, so old and so worn.  A faint aura of love emanates off the scuffed binding, the creased pages.  He glances at Aziraphale, finds him watching with bleary, heaven-blue eyes.

“A cuppa would do me very well, I think.”  The angel places each word with care, like steps on a wilderness path.  His eyes are wide and pleading.

Crowley curbs the impulse to yield to that look.  “Miracle one for yourself, then.”

“I can’t,” Aziraphale says, a whine creeping into his voice.  “This cold has completely scrambled my mind.  Can hardly tell up from down.”

“You did just fine with the water bottle.”

“I wanted whisky.  The water bottle was a lucky accident.”

Crowley rolls his eyes so extravagantly he’s certain the angel can see them behind his glasses.  “Right.  You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

He snaps his fingers and a cup of Earl Grey appears in his other hand.  He offers it to Aziraphale, who struggles into a sitting position to accept it.  The angel takes a cautious sip, nose wrinkling.  “Crowley, I hate to put you out, but I had rather hoped—”

“Keep pushing and pushing, why don’t you,” Crowley mutters.  With another snap, the Earl Grey turns into Oolong.  Aziraphale’s mouth curves in a smile as he takes another sip.  Crowley’s heart kicks at the sight.  

“Come sit by me,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley finds himself helpless to refuse.  In no time at all, he is seated beside Aziraphale, the warmth of their bodies bleeding into the battered leather beneath them.  The Picture of Dorian Gray is open in his hands, and as he reads aloud of starving souls and rose-red youth, Aziraphale leans his head on his shoulder. His touch is fever-hot.  Crowley, ever the serpent, is warmed down to his bones.

[manjuhitorie]

Muro Festival, is a rock festival! Which invites newcomers, upcoming artists, veteran come-on-ers, and all hard song enthusiasts alike to celebrate. Named after Muro Kiyoto, who is the manager of a Shibuya concert venue. As an avid enforcer of music events he’s esteemed by many in the scene, so the event draws in people who are driven by the fuel of that pass. At least bands will comment “Muro fest is an adhesive (Arukara)” or “The number one trait of Murofes is that the performing bands have awesome strong connections even on the side, and that the essence of that friendship engulfs it (Wasure).“ or “Even if Murofest was hosted at a small park or a in the middle of the street or in Muro’s house or even in a public toilet, I would perform. I love Murofest (Mizuno Gii).” 

Anyway the performances are full of power! Full of summer heat! Full of maudlinism to soar like Muninn! Full of a favorite: there’s Hitorie’s dead pan heartfelt bassist, ygarshy! 

And you were able to watch it on a niconico livestream but...

 IT’S ENDED NOW

 I will preserve this post as a report.... Doubling as a source for various trivia....  I’m considering maybe if a fan makes a purchase of a Wasureranneyo album, or something of similar sentiment, and DM’s me a screenshot, I could share the recording... Even if you see this in a billion lightyears from now. Because sharing is caring, all around yeah!!!

You have to get niconico premium to watch it, which is only 540 yen. Nothing compared to the fest’s ticket fee of 10,000 yen (Plus airfare fee for us overseers). You can use foreign debit cards, or even Paypal… ! Much of the performances were locked up, only for Premium members originally even for those who were able to watch real-time, so there’s no regrets in seizing the now. Thumbs up. Live shows enhance a whole different essence, so more than listening to a J-rock playlist on Spotify I’d recommend taking a dive into this while you can!!

Not only can you upfront witness the air around their electric pickguards warp to their technique, you can see them hop and whomp and throwmp around! What chords they clench with their teeth, what lines they unleash from the pit of their lungs, what parts the band will huddle together for and what songs mean the world to them! Also the crowds reactions, I move when I see them move, in polysemy. If there’s any niche J-rock band names you’ve maybe been curious about, or just want to find some new indie J-rock, the artist line-up is here! LAMP ON TERREN: wowawawa’s best buddy ‘Dai-chan’ is in there… *Waves hand* TERREN were once scheduled for a joint live with perfect timing, so they brought a birthday cake for wowaka and they got friendly with Rie... or so they thought.. The next day SND was ready to beat the shit out of them on stage. But they’re all friendly now (I think)))) Arukara: They master the standard rock setup with wads of distortion, wah effects, while sometimes make instrumental songs with violin etc. even! They do podcasts! And they reinforce cats a lot. I recommend Chigirero.  majiko: Village Man’s Store: Who are the band with bright red suits, bright firey songs, and bright red lips who kissed Shinoda that one time - In seriousness I could recommend them though, they’re sweet with only a little taste of the sleazy!  KAKASHI are rejoiced by quite a few Hitorie fans I know. There’s CIVILIAN: A three-piece whom all graduated from the Tokyo School of Music Shibuya, the bonds roam, who also hosts Nanou HoehoeP, another past utaite like majiko. LEGO BIG MORL: Sukippara ni Sake: Who are swanky with Kachāshī-like dances to the stretches of never making a boring song. And so so many more! J-rock band names start to make more less sense the more I’m in here! Wahoo! A band named Hitorie performed two years ago, and there’s LEGO BIG MORL this year, which is hoisted up by the same manager as Hitorie, Mika Arara! The members separately will some participate in cooking shows(), some each do acoustic shows on their own accord, each ego-search, and their stoic songs together are bound to at least make your foot tap from their flavored textures. For this sake I’m eyeing up the band’s particularly memorable whiz named Hiroki Tanaka. Hiroki is not most notable for his #My ygarshy hashtag, but for the sake of this he is. Under the tag is either Hiroki posting a picture of him together with ygarshy or him commenting #My ygarshy on pictures ygarshy of himself with others. Or the “What? Are you a couple?” on ygarshy’s “It’s our 9th year anniversary” photo of him with SND… yg “Sorry.” In general ygarshy and Hiroki are friendly, they drink and vent together time to time.Also Hiroki and Shibata Takahiro, the character who comes in soon, have a unit called Takahiroki. Which is the two of them fused to make flurry, with only an acoustic guitar and a mic as their weapons even!  Their concerts tend to break the norms of the non-flamboyant J-rock scene, as they screw around with their power with no real point, just a joint to a jollity! Where as many J-rock shows will use screens of music visualizers to engross, Takahiroki will use the crowd by galvanizing them raise their signature rainbow towels or make explosive call-outs towards the flames of reality. Where many will use subdued dance to party, Takahiroki will chit-chat about food and females as they swing their limbs like spinning amusement park rides or dress as bartenders and drink . Though all rock shows are have their unique tricks and spirit, it’s nice to see it super shaken up also… I introduce these two for good reason! It’s background for what’s feautured in the niconico livestream! The band Wasureranneyo! That Shibata is on vocals and guitar, that Hiroki is on main guitar, our ygarshy is on bass, and Takayuki Tomita is on drums! Tomita is from a band called THE LOVE NINGEN, whom I’m not sure how came into relation with Shibata, but Wasurerannee yo is constantly borrowing members to fill it’s blanks due to . ygarshy has been consistent for more than half a year now! Hiroki also bounces in whenever he can an ex. Wasurerannee yo member once filled in for Love Ningen. They themselves most likely meet at festivals like this! Where similar bands get together under a sonic medium and spend the crepuscle ball. But I’m going back to ygarshy! Him! His performance is a spotlight!

the important part     THE SHOW    highlights 

Wasureraneeyo start at 1:27:28, end at 1:58:39. You can manually copy-paste, and it’s a whole 30 minutes action-packed. There's about 48 hours before a the single watch instance will expire, but it's possible to close the window and come back anytime between then.

The first 5+ minutes are rehearsal, they’re muted to give the live-goers an extra extra incentive. It’s still worth a peak to see how musicians will stroll as they test. They played their theme song and also a cover of Alexandros’ Wataridori there’s nothing worth hearing anyway right (*wails).

The rest is 100% worth the buck!  ●Shibata starts off by whimpering over an urge he needs to burst out, he needs everybody to cheer him on. When he Says “Miyamoto - Ryou!”, you have to shout “You can do it!” Note: Miyamoto and Ryou are a comedian duo, who just days ago were revealed to the victims of a corrupted corporation, who was holding absolute control over them. People have cheering for them to win better circumstances in the case. Yet the apologies and the press conferences have been fantasy football battles.... Ugh... It's a riot for sure though! Official news reports are here or here or etc. ●He gets everyone to wiggle their arms 90° angles above their heads “like we’ve gone crazy!” and shout a nonsensical “Yossoi hoi hoi!” chant! With the heat as the beat! yga just plays bass! ●He makes noise for his mom, multiple times throughout! His T-shirt even has his mom on it! Specifically a picture of 2 year old himself being embraced by his mother printed on it, with the word “Mother” metallically written on the back… Source from his past diary entry of him expressing his maternal love. I can’t believe this ygarshy no wonder you can’t help but smile a lot during these shows. ●He complains about the shitty time he “went out drinking when he two cute girls walked through the door in, ‘Oh, oh, oh!’ he thought, only for them to start chit-chatting about how small their boyfriend’s dicks are! What kind of damnation is this bullshit!” ●The lyrics are about that stuff anyway!! ●There’s also a special appearance from Kanata Takehiro, the vocalist of LEGO BIG MORL. Shibata bitches at him mid-solo because “Fuck you! All the girls are staring at you now damn it!” *He is actually popular in the band due to being good and cooking and math and being an overall goofball behind the gallantries. The original of Odore Hikikomori features Hiroki and Sekihan, of Happy Head NANIYORI also he was in the niconico scene a long time ago, both dressed in clothes that you may find very unlikely but 100% plausible. ●ygarshy smiles and then recalibrates his hair over his eyes to look like a dark souls boss faceless again. He holds his bass with the neck upwards, he’s reviving his high school orchestra club bass playing sensibility. Virtuoso. The high tempo of Wasureraneeyo’s songs is definitely on par with Hitorie’s, Rie's irregular metres, swapping, interchanging and 456 metres are monstrous, but the sheer volume of tutti and strumming in Wasure’s punk songs seems to be something else as well…! yganbare!! ●Also don’t worry about those missed minutes because Shibata crowd-surfs again. This time with cash in his hand a mission! Saying “I’m glad to be here! Take me to the cute beer darling!”, as he is driven by the hands of the compliantly ecstatic crowd towards a staff member waiting in the middle of the crowd, holding up your average beer! Shibata trades the cash for the cup, he orders everyone to gather under him, “I can’t stand up if you’re pushing my ass! Oh now I can thank you”, and at last he gains the support to stand up! On top of a crowd for God's sake he rises. To glug the beer like a food chain top predator of the wild. Then to slide back to stage while crying for his mom again.

●Hiroki physically shoves ygarshy around while they have the stage to themselves. Ahh how the tables turn, the kicker to the pushee. ●In his black robes ygarshy is just such a trance to witness play throughout… It’s really great in motion and as a whole I love dirty rock concerts. Music has to be heard, my lumberous lumpy text can’t convey those sound waves… So give it a watch if you may have free time to do so! Only if you can please!  Source for comments and some info: https://skream.jp/feature/2019/06/muro_festival_2019.php  More photos and videos can be found on their official twitter! Photos by Suzuki Kouhei woah...

[kevoreally]

#BuffyAt20 - S03E08 “Lover’s Walk”

> OKay, first thing’s first: is it Lovers or Lover’s? Wikipedia has the first one, Hulu has the second. Very confusing.

> Another fake-out opener where someone is being hyperbolic about the world ending but it’s just grades or something.

> Willow got a 740 verbal on her SATs. Like, I think she’s being too hard on herself, but I get not feeling academically fulfilled by that. I think I got 700? I don’t remember. My math sucked, that’s for sure.

> That Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel reference has endured the test of time.

> What is Xander’s score if it’s close to 740? We joke about his grades a lot but like. Get serious, son.

> Willow, that top is so loud.

> Omigod, I’m looking forward to going back to pretending Xillow never happened soon.

> Cordelia testing well is good continuity with “Band Candy.” And I loved them following up on SAT scores. I think these might have come out a little quick, but it’s fine.

> “That was my sarcastic voice.” “Y’know, it sounds a lot like your regular voice.” “I’ve been told that.” I feel you, Oz.

> Cordelia’s terror at the idea of double dating IS A DANGER SIGN, XANDER.

> I have Buffy’s SAT score memorized: “1430, Buffy, you kicked ass!” (A friend got the same score on her first take.)

> “Now you can leave and never come back.” I actually love Cordy here, a rarity for me lately.

> Pretty sure the shot of Spike crashing into the Sunnydale sign is just a retouched copy of the one from Season 2. Not a problem, just funny.

> I wasn’t sure I had the energy to do my #BuffyAt20 right now but this theme song is giving me life.

> I don’t get Spike’s obsession with Sinatra in this episode but sure.

> Oh man, remember the Factory? It’s a slot on my Buffy Monopoly board.

> Do we feel the flashback to when Dru left Spike that we get in Season 3 keeps in line with what we’re presented here? Dru accusing him of loving Buffy as far back as now? Hm.

> Literally the episode where Cordelia and Xander break up is the episode where it most seems like they’re a happy couple. And even then, they’re horrible to each other half the time. Sigh.

> Oz giving Willow the PEZ Witch is still one of the best things ever. I really wanted a wolf PEZ for Oz.

> Okay, a friend and I recently discussed a fan poll where people voted on their favorite mate for Willow and it made me uncomfortable that Oz was winning. But… I get it.

> There’s a lot of focus on Giles packing in this scene.

> Ooh! Worth noting: the guy who wrote this episode wrote three of my favorite #Daria episodes! He’ll also later write “The Zeppo.”

> This episode laid a lot of interesting potential for Buffy to be able to leave Sunnydale. Not forever, but, even if just for college. It was interesting.

> I wish I could make Buffy Now see how much Giles treated Seventeen Buffy like an adult over this Angel situation. He could’ve been SUUUCH a prick. And their relationship got really awkward for a while there, and I don’t think Buffy was entirely fair to him. Or probably him to her too. Fathers and daughters, man.

> I spent a whole dumb Xillow scene typing that last one. Not sorry.

> I’ve said it before but it’s wild that Buffy’s house never changes once in 7 seasons. The cinematography changes so much that it feels like a different house.

> How does Angel not hear, or even sense, Spike right outside the Mansion? Still recovering from Hell, I guess? Coz otherwise, wtf?

> I do love Spike waking up on fire.

> What happened to Spike’s car between Seasons 3 and 4 anyway? Where’s that story?

> “This is just too much.” Some real gentle language there, Spike.

> The Magic Box is, like, the same SHAPE we see in Season 5. But the layout isn’t totally right. And the back hasn’t been blown out yet. The storefront is the same. They moved the register away from the door. Hmm.

> Ooh, that Spike shot of grabbing the shop owner becomes his credits shot.

> Hey! It��s the Mayor! I forgot he’s in this one. And Allan! He’s pretty cute, tbh.

> “Boats did have canons. And a loose one would cause it to rock.” Lol.

> The way that the Mayor celebrates sinking that putt makes me wonder if he hadn’t been expecting it, haha.

> Where is Angel getting hair gel from in the Mansion? How is this a priority? Then again: same question at Derek Hale sleeping in a train yard.

> I’m not loving the dramatic beat when Angel tells Buffy she should leave. Like. Buff. Shouldn’t you? Sigh.

> Willow is trying to do magic on Xander without his consent. That’s actually an interesting portent for Season 6.

> Xander and Willow, like, really try and hold their own against Spike here. Mad respect.

> Alyson Hannigan shows such amazing vulnerability in the scenes with James Marsters, it’s bonkers. And then how it flips on a dime to be comedic. Wild chemistry, those two.

> OOOH, Dru accused Spike of going soft for teaming up with Buffy, eh? Interesting…

> HA! The “chaos demon, all slime and antlers” line was a favorite among fans, so we loved finally seeing him in Season 5.

> “I haven’t had a woman in weeks.” Blech. “Well, unless you count that shopkeeper.” Double blech.

> “I’m not a real witch, you know.” Heh.

> It. Is. SO. Clever. That Willow sends Spike to Buffy’s house. Holy. Shit.

> You know who else is a good version of Cordelia Chase? Valencia from Crazy Ex-Girlfriend. Becomes a good person in, like, half the time it’s taking Cordy…

> Ugh, I hate coincidence moments like that. Buffy heard Spike on the phone when her mom happened to call? Sigh.

> YAAS, the Joyce/Spike bond! We needed more of this!

> Joyce Summer is Top 5 TV Mom material.

> “You get out of this house or I will stake you myself.” GEDDIT, JOYCE!

> Lol, remember how Buffy is going to start sleeping with Spike? This show, man.

> Spike just called Angel a “poof.” Nice.

> “What if they were kidnapped by Colombian drug lords?” CORDELIA. STOP.

> Oz smelling Willow is… interesting.

> Buffy is so eager to kill Spike.

> Did Buffy rip off Sookie Stackhouse with this love triangle or vice versa? Angel being Bill, Spike being Eric. Hm.

> Buffy always made kicking in doors look so cool.

> What exactly are we supposed to make of Spike’s observation about Buffy and Angel being in love here? I mean, he’s right. But. Like. What, they needed someone else to tell them?

> “I won, right? Kicked his ass?” “You were real brave. Do you need to barf.” Classy.

> “Give me a third option.” “He’s so drunk he forgets about us and we starve to death.” HA.

> AAAAAnd they kiss, aaaand Oz and Cordy show up, aaaand it’s horrible. AAAAND Oz is the only one who composes himself maturely, like always.

> Cordelia getting skewered was… so weird.

> They’re having this vampire fight, like, in the middle of downtown Sunnydale right now. I get that it’s probably 3am or something but omigod.

> Oh yeah, the storefront is definitely the same a when it’s the Magic Box.

> Seeing Buffy, Angel, and Spike standing side-by-side is a hoot.

> The “let’s give baby a taste” stuff Spike does is… No.

“ “Baby like his supper?” No. No he doesn’t.

> The table Spike stakes this guy on is, like, probably the same table he and Anya bang on in Season 6, haha.

> The holy water bombs are so cool. Why don’t they use holy water more often?

> The resolution of this Spike story is… so Spike. You know, we probably would’ve never seen him again if they didn’t love James Marsters SOOO much.

> Remember when they made us think Cordelia died? Like, right after she found of Xander cheated on her? This story was, like, one of the lowest points of the show. I’m sorry but it was. I remember laughing out loud when we found out Cordy wasn’t dead. That’s not something you wanna get a laugh on.

> What was the point of this story arc, though? “Don’t cheat or someone could die?” This is a ‘Blood on the Pavement’ type parable here. Way more Dawson’s Creek than Buffy The Vampire Slayer.

> I remember thinking Cordelia was going to be blind, because of the “I can’t see you” thing. I don’t know how being skewered would blind her.

> Okay, CAN WE TALK about the nailed-up broken sheets of wood at the Mansion entrance? It is the weirdest thing, it looks like a child’s tree fort.

> Buffy, if you think you’re fooling Giles and your friends into believing you don’t want Angel, you are sorely mistaken.

> Angel, be a big boy, let the seventeen year old girl go.

> She has to step through his weird cobbled-together wooden doorway! And it’s gone, like, after this episode! Wtf!

> This maudlin montage of all the characters being despondent was, like, the biggest bummer. Why do I love Season 3 so much?? This is such a downbeat point for the show.

> And there’s Spike riding off into the sunset. See you in a year, William.

[fourteenacross]

Can you do "I have you shoved against the wall but now I can’t stop looking at your mouth" with Lams pretty please? 😘

John lets Alex hold him against the wall for ten long, silent seconds. There might be a dozen reasons for why he’s frozen up, everything from forgetting the next move in the sequence to having a brilliant idea for a piece of legislation he wants to sweet talk Congress into introducing. He could have suddenly remembered he left his iron on. He could be having a stroke.

But none of those reasons also explain why he’s staring at John’s mouth. 

And there’s no denying that. John’s brain is reaching for an excuse, but there’s absolutely nothing he can come up with that would explain it. Is it possible that’s a pining-fueled lack of imagination? Well, yes, but John is sure that it’s not. He’s sure that Alex is staring at his mouth, here in the empty gym in the basement of the White House, long past the hour that any sane person would be asleep. He’s had a suspicion, an itch about it for the past couple weeks, but he assumed his dip into a light depressive episode last month had reactivated the part of his brain that spends way too much energy reading into every movement Alex makes and every one of the very many words that come out of his mouth.

He was wrong. This is happening. This is A Thing.

“So are you going to…do something?” he asks, and immediately regrets it. That sounds like a come on. “Put me in a chokehold? Flip me around?” 

Alex blinks slowly, as if waking out of a dream.

“Stop staring at my mouth, maybe?”

Alex blinks more rapidly now and steps quickly away, dropping his hold on John like he’s been scalded. John’s skin has been heating up in an awkward flush since he noticed the staring, so maybe he’s not far off on that one.

“I wasn’t–”

John can see Alex start to slip into “Mitigate The Fallout” mode and holds up a hand to stop him, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other.

“I don’t want to hear it. I’m fucking tired. Do you want to finish this workout or not?”

Alex is uncharacteristically silent, staring at the wall over John’s shoulder, now. The only sound in the gym is the rattle of the air conditioner and their labored breathing. John wishes he didn’t have a meeting with State at seven am so he could go home and drink heavily.

“You laughed at me,” John reminds him quietly. “I asked you out on the campaign and you laughed at me.”

“I didn’t…laugh at you,” Alex says weakly. He scrubs at his face with his hands. “I’ve told you that a thousand times–”

“I know.” And John’s being unfair; he knows that Alex’s laughter back then wasn’t mockery or shock, it was the awkward titter of someone trying to gently turn down an offer. He’s wondered for years if things would have been different if Alex wasn’t engaged to Eliza on the campaign trail. At his lowest moments, he allows himself to concoct elaborate fantasies where one of those late nights sitting on hotel balconies or the hood of John’s Rav4 and drinking cheap beer, sliding closer and closer to each other until they were draped all over each other, ended in a kiss or maybe even something more. When he’s at his most depressed, when he’s been on yet another shitty date, when he rolls home from work at 2am with the knowledge that no one is waiting for him and he’s more comfortable on his office couch than in his bed–he lets himself have that fantasy in those moments, with the rueful knowledge that it’s just that–a fantasy. One barely based in reality, because Alex is his best friend and Alex loves him more than anyone else in the world outside his kids, but it’s not that kind of love.

Or so he’s claimed for the past six years.

“I can’t be this for you,” John finally says. He laughs, short and hard and humorless. “I shouldn’t even be this for you.” He gestures back and forth between them, at the gym at the mats they’re working on. It’s been their routine for a couple years now, since right after the assassination attempt. The guy shoved right past Alex. He took a shot at the President and then tried to escape into the crowd and he shoved Alex to the ground in the process. Alex spent weeks obsessing over it, replaying the scene over and over in his head. He and Eliza were in the middle of the divorce, and he’d show up at John’s apartment late into the night, staring into space and saying, ‘I should have done something.’

So John offered to teach him some very basic self-defense. John and the Secret Service both are of the mind that even if Alex was a trained martial artist, he wouldn’t have been able to stop the guy from getting by–it was chaos and it happened so fast–but it made Alex feel better, and even though John knew it was a bad idea, he wasn’t, like, disappointed to be spending a few hours a week sweaty and shirtless with Alexander.

But something about that clicks into Alex’s head. He’s mulish, suddenly, hands on his hips, jaw set, glaring at John.

“You don’t even know what I want,” he says.

“You want another person to fawn over you and tell you how great you are and distract you for the ten seconds a day you’re not in your office.”

That’s a low blow. More than that, it’s cruel. John honestly doesn’t think Alex intended for…well, any of this to happen. Eliza, Maria, the affair, the divorce, the short parade of fawning young polisci grad students that followed. Alex is ten kinds of fucked up, and while it doesn’t excuse things like infidelity and messy public scandals that almost cost their boss the White House, it does explain them. Alex wants to be loved, desperately, but even more than that, he wants to do good. He wants to make something important, make a mark on the world, to the point where he’s completely fucking blind to who he’s hurting along the way.

John wanted to think he was better now, at least a little bit. That he’d grown. Things with Eliza are settled, more or less, and they’re back to being friends, even if they’re no longer married. He hasn’t picked up any randos in months, maybe longer, and something about him has been more…still. Deliberate. He’s matured.

Or, at least, John thought that was what was happening. But maybe he was wrong. If Alex is here in the middle of the night, making eyes at John because he’s lonely, doesn’t that just go to prove how little their friendship must mean to him?

“Fuck you,” Alex says, very softly. He doesn’t drop his hands from his hips, but his shoulders slump a little and he can’t hide the tremble of hurt that goes through him.

John is quiet for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and means it. “That’s not–ugh.” He runs his hands over his face and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. He takes a deep breath and then drops his hands, holding them out, beseeching, in front of him. “Let’s not fuck around, okay? You know I–you know I have, um, feelings for you. You must know. Everyone does. Strangers on the internet make memes about it. I asked you out like, two hours after we met. And that’s all true. It’s fucking embarrassing, but it’s true, and it doesn’t change anything, because they’ve been there our whole friendship. What would change things is you…taking advantage of those feelings because you’re lonely or because you’re bored or because you want to see what it’s like. I won’t lie and say that I don’t want you, but I don’t want it to be like that. I couldn’t handle it if it was like that.”

That deliberation is back again. Alex is studying him, reading his face and frowning. He crosses his arms across his chest, still looking for some sort of answer in John’s eyes. It’s the sharp, inquisitive, penetrating stare that hooked into John that first night they met, and he feels that same magnetic pull, the one that’s never really gone away, like someone has tied a string around his heart and put it in Alex’s hand. John swallows and Alex takes a step closer.

“What do you want it to be like?” Alex asks, gentle, all the accusation drained out of his words, all the hurt.

A lump is forming in John’s throat and he pushes past it, clears his throat and swallows.

“I don’t know,” he lies.

“You do,” Alex tells him. “Because if you’ve been thinking about it for half as long as I have, then something has to have stuck in your brain.” He takes another step forward. “Come on. I thought we weren’t fucking around. What do you want it to be like?”

And how in the fucking world is John not going to be maudlin as hell after Alex says something like that?

“I want it to be real,” John says, closing his eyes. “I want it to be…this energy between us all the time? I want it to be based off of that. That passion and…and love. I want everything that we have now to be the start and for the rest of it to build up on top of it. I want us to have breakfast together on the weekends and take the kids to the park. I want to go to sleep with you after long, shitty days like this one. I want to finish all those stupid, half-started home improvement projects with you. I want to make dinner with you. I want to look at you and know that this…this thing that I feel in my heart is running through yours, too.”

He opens his eyes. Alex has taken another step closer. He’s close enough to reach out and take John’s hand, now, but he doesn’t.

“I laughed because I liked you and I was nervous it was showing,” Alex says.

“What?” John’s too emotionally overloaded to follow that. He’s too busy concentrating on not doing something stupid like crying.

“That night we met,” Alex says. “We closed down the bar and I was missing my FaceTime date with Eliza, but I didn’t want to go yet. And I thought, ‘If I wasn’t with Eliza…’ and was immediately totally fucking ashamed, and then a second later you asked me out. And I laughed because I did want to go out with you, but I couldn’t throw away all these years with this person I loved and I was guilty and embarrassed and full of nerves, so I laughed and made an excuse.”

Now, Alex does take his hand.

“I was with Eliza then, but I’m not now,” he says. “And I thought you were over me, so I didn’t say anything once I started getting my life back together after. And then I started to wonder and started to…let my heart get carried away. But I wanted it to be the right time. I didn’t want to rush in. But I couldn’t figure out what the right time was.”

John wants to bang his head against the wall.

“You can’t just…come in here and tell me everything I want to hear,” John says, but he doesn’t pull his hand back.

“Why not?”

“Because that’s not how it works!”

“Why not?” And there’s Alex’s usual argumentative self. “It is how it’s working, John. Not by…design or by plan, but you said it! No more fucking around. I’m not going to fuck around anymore. That’s what’s up with me, okay? I love you. I love you because you’re my best friend and you’re my kid’s godfather and you’re my partner in crime and you make all my ideas better, but I’m also crazy about you. I want you. And that might not be enough, but that’s what I’ve got, and now that you know it all…well, you can…do with it all what you will.”

John is pinned by Alex’s gaze, sharp and clear as he tells John everything he’s wanted to hear for years, everything he’s fantasized about since that first night. Everything about this is a mess–Alexander is a fucking mess, two guys on the President’s staff dating would be a mess, there’s Eliza and the kids to consider, there’s work, there’s Alex issues, there’s John’s fucking issues, which they haven’t even fucking touched on yet….

But John’s an impulsive asshole and he is, he realizes, staring at Alex’s mouth, now. He should think this through, he should sleep on it, he should make them take their time and have a longer conversation in the morning when they’re not fueled by workout adrenaline and bowing under the weight of a very long, very hard day. He should talk to Eliza and take some time to reflect and maybe spend some time away from Alex to think about what this all would mean.

But he’s staring at Alex’s mouth, and before he can even start to suggest any of those very mature, very thoughtful next steps, he’s backed Alex up against the wall, hands bracketing his shoulders, chest moving rapidly with each panted breath.

“This wasn’t what I expected by ‘do with it what you will,’ but it’s a very, very good plan,” Alex murmurs, eyes wide.

“No, it’s a terrible plan,” John says, leaning in, “But everything about my life since I met you has been a terrible plan, so why stop now?”

And if Alex has anything else to say, it’s lost in the press of John’s mouth against his, swallowed up just like the soft kissing sounds in the far corner of the White House gym are swallowed up by the rattle of the air conditioner and the beating of their hearts and the still, heavy quiet of a very late night.

[obtusemedia]

Ranking Taylor Swift’s albums, worst to best

Taylor Swift is arguably the most successful musician of the 21st century so far. And she’s accomplished her millions of record sales and hordes of fans not by chasing musical trends (well, most of the time), but typically through her strong classical pop sensibilities and evocative lyrics. 

This is what makes Swift unique amongst her fellow popstars — her brand, her selling point, is her songwriting. She doesn’t have powerhouse vocals like Adele or Ariana Grande. She’s not a artsy auteurist like Lady Gaga or Beyoncé. And she doesn’t cannily ride the current sound like Drake or Justin Bieber. Perhaps the only other major popstars that emphasize songwriting first are Ed Sheeran (who’s not nearly as talented) and Lorde (who’s sadly not nearly as successful).

2020 marks both the 10-year anniversary of her transitional album Speak Now, as well as the one-year anniversary of the eclectic Lover. And of course, Swift’s eighth and newest record, folklore, was just released about a month ago.

I figure this year of anniversaries and new music for Swift would be a good time to reflect on her lengthy career and rank her eight albums from worst to best. (And also, it’s still quarantine season. What else am I going to do with my life?)

So here’s my list. Are you ready for it? (sorry, sorry, I had to make that joke)

#8: Taylor Swift (2006)

Despite landing at the bottom of this list, Taylor Swift’s self-titled 2006 debut isn’t a bad record. Any album with pop-country classics like “Picture To Burn” or “Teardrops On My Guitar” can’t be dismissed. But any fan that says it’s a truly great album has been blinded by childhood nostalgia.

Swift’s 16-year-old viewpoint can be endearing on this album, but it’s also its biggest roadblock. Many of the songs have quite maudlin or cliché-ridden lyrics, and the unmemorable non-hits (which are plentiful) all start to sound the same at a certain point. Of course, Swift’s singles are almost always album highlights (and they are here, too), but her best albums also have plenty of hidden gems. The self-titled doesn’t.

Not to mention — and this is where my personal bias creeps in — the self-titled is also Swift’s most country-flavored album. That’s just not my genre, and Swift’s fake twang (remember, she grew up in Pennsylvania, NOT the South) can get grating. 

In hindsight, the self-titled debut was more about flashing glimpses of Swift’s ceilings songwriting talent rather than being a great record in its own right. But if you have a higher tolerance for corny pop-country, it’s a decent listen.

BEST SONGS: “Teardrops On My Guitar,” “Picture To Burn,” “Should’ve Said No”

WORST SONG: “A Place In This World”

#7: Fearless (2008)

Fearless is essentially the self-titled debut pt. 2, but it’s an improvement in just about every way. 

The singles are stronger — and there’s more of them. There’s still some country flavor, but it’s less obnoxious (although I dig those hoedown fiddles on “Tell Me Why”). And there’s actually some solid deep cuts, particularly the adorable “Hey Stephen” and the righteously pissed “Forever & Always.”

Unfortunately, some of Swift’s annoying early-career tendencies still pop up on Fearless. There’s a couple tracks that land on the overly saccharine side of cheesy, particularly the maudlin “The Best Day.” And almost all the classic tunes are front-loaded in the record’s first half. 

Furthermore, because many of the later tracks just sound like weaker versions of the singles, Fearless seems like it goes on forever, despite being one of Swift’s shorter albums at only 53 minutes.

Fearless was a major step up, and its singles are classics for a reason. But she still had some work to do.

BEST SONGS: “Love Story,” “You Belong With Me,” “Hey Stephen”

WORST SONG: “The Best Day”

#6: reputation (2017)

reputation is one of the few albums that’s both underrated and overrated. Its reputation (sorry) amongst the general public as a totally misguided bomb isn’t fair — it’s wildly entertaining and even a bit risky at points. But I really can’t agree with some Swifties who proclaim reputation as her best album, as it does have some deep flaws.

Occasionally, reputation actually is the bonkers, risky album that it wants to be. Tracks like “I Did Something Bad” and “This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things” are deliciously poisonous and campy. “Delicate” and “Call It What You Want” are stunningly downcast ballads.

Also — and I’m a tad ashamed to admit this, but whatever — after initially hating it like everyone else, I’ve come to adore “Look What You Made Me Do,” a truly bizarre lead single choice. It’s so delightfully extra! It sounds like a Disney villain song produced by the Black Eyed Peas! I simply can’t resist something this silly and over-the-top.

But despite these highlights, reputation doesn’t as get edgy or weird as it promises. There’s a good handful of forgettable ballads, along with some wannabe bangers with production that already sounds horribly dated. Say what you want about Lady Gaga’s ARTPOP — the precursor to reputation in just about every way, including its semi-flop status — but Gaga went for it.

I’m not asking Swift to be Gaga; obviously, they have wildly different strengths as artists. But if you’re going to make an album all about getting in touch with ~your dark side~, then you better deliver the goods. And reputation stops just short of that for much of its runtime.

BEST SONGS: “Getaway Car,” “Look What You Made Me Do,” “Call It What You Want”

WORST SONG: “King Of My Heart”

#5: folklore (2020)

Easily Swift’s most “adult” album, folklore is probably the biggest outlier in her catalogue so far. There’s no goofy lead single, no fiery diss tracks towards her exes or Kanye West (although there is a subdued one for Scooter Braun), and a good chunk of the album is taken up with short stories, rather than songs primarily inspired by Swift’s personal life.

Like with reputation, I have torn feelings about folklore. On one hand, I really respect Swift’s commitment to the record’s dour, decidedly un-pop aesthetic. Who would’ve thought she’d ever write a shoegaze song like “Mirrorball” or a Sufjan Stevens-style number like “Invisible String” (seriously, it sounds just like Carrie and Lowell, minus the dead-mom lyrics)? Or that her best-ever duet would be with Bon Iver? And the vignette songs like “The Last Great American Dynasty,” “Illicit Affairs” and especially the humbly sweet “Betty” showcase some of Swift’s best-ever songwriting.

But although folklore might be Swift’s pinnacle lyrically, it does leave something to be desired musically. It’s still a great album, don’t get me wrong, but listening to the entire thing can be a bit draining. Unless you’re Lana Del Rey or Sufjan, I’m not sure you can pull off a ballads-only album like this. Swift writing an album without a single bombastic pop jam is like if Nirvana wrote an entire album without a single angsty headbanger.

Playing against type is a nice novelty, but I hope all of Swift’s future albums don’t go in this hushed direction.

BEST SONGS: “betty,” “exile,” “mirrorball”

WORST SONG: “peace”

#4: Speak Now (2010)

In some ways, Speak Now is the training wheels version for Swift’s album that would come next. But it’s still a tour-de-force in its own right, and a remarkably impressive record for someone who wasn’t even of drinking age at the time of release.

The short stories that make up the bulk of Speak Now are rich with details, from the catty and hilarious descriptions of the bride’s family in the title track to the vivid rom-com scene setting in the Springsteen-esque “Mine.” I also love the interesting tweaks on traditional stories that are in the record. “The Story Of Us” is about a slowly-drifting apart couple, rather than a hyper-dramatic breakup. In “Back To December,” Swift takes the blame for a relationship’s end (which was a huge deal back in 2010, let me tell you).

Speak Now is also the first album where Swift started to dabble in some different musical styles, and most of them work quite well! With its wall-of-sound production and heartland guitar crunch, “Sparks Fly” is basically a Tom Petty song. “Enchanted” throws some dreampop synths in the mix. And while “Better Than Revenge” is marred by some rough lyrics that are a bit slut shame-y, it’s still a kickass pop-punk pastiche.

Every time I start to listen to Speak Now, I wonder why it’s not my favorite — the first 10 songs of the record are truly stacked. But unfortunately, it limps to the finish line with its three most forgettable songs and one misguided, insanely patronizing ballad about Kanye West (which is especially disappointing when you compare it to West’s career-defining opus about the 2009 VMAs, “Runaway”). Speak Now is Swift’s longest record, at 67 minutes, and you really feel that length by the time it’s finished.

If it weren’t for a lack of quality control — an issue for pretty much every one of Swift’s albums except one — and a couple aggravating tracks (looking at you, “Mean”), Speak Now would easily be in Swift’s top-tier. But as it stands, it’s still the best record from her country years by a mile.

BEST SONGS: “Sparks Fly,” “Enchanted,” “The Story Of Us”

WORST SONG: “Last Kiss”

#3: Lover (2019)

I think this one has already become underrated. And I put the blame entirely on “ME!” (the song, not the person writing this). What genius thought putting the album’s worst track by far — a tacky, overly focus-grouped mess — as the lead single would be a good idea? And Brandon Urie as the duet partner? Really? Ugh.

But, if you can look beyond that heinous first impression, Lover is a joyous, wonderfully eclectic grab bag of a record. Unlike most of her albums, it doesn’t have one cohesive theme or musical style ... but I find that refreshing.

Granted, Swift didn’t dive too far outside her comfort zone — as interesting as it would be to hear her try it, there’s unfortunately no black metal song. But she still worked with a wide palette of pop subgenres. There’s *takes a deep breath* a ‘50s-style prom ballad (the title track), Chromatics-style dreampop (“The Archer”), Lana Del Rey-style midcentury baroque (“Miss Americana”), Paramore-style peppy pop-punk (“Paper Rings”), Katy Perry-esque so-corny-it’s-brilliant electropop (“London Boy,” “You Need To Calm Down”) and Lorde-style intimate minimalism (“It’s Nice To Have A Friend”). 

And that list doesn’t even mention the impossibly cool “Cruel Summer” (one of only two Swift songs to earn that adjective) and the heart-crushing “Soon You’ll Get Better.” This album is Swift throwing everything at the wall she can, Jackson Pollock-style, and creating a masterpiece.

Seriously, folks — just remove “ME!” from your Spotify queue, and you’ll see exactly how slept on Lover is. It’s what a big-budget pop album should be.

BEST SONGS: “Cruel Summer,” “The Archer,” “I Think He Knows”

WORST SONG: “ME!”

#2: Red (2012)

Surprise, surprise: Swift’s most acclaimed and successful albums are the top of this list. Sometimes, the obvious answers are the correct ones!

Before I get to why Red — many Swifties’ favorite album — just missed the top, let me first praise it profusely. As someone who grew up on arena rock, I have a soft spot for much of this album, which takes cues from U2/Coldplay-style anthems. Even the country-tinged title-track has a propulsive rock edge to it.

Songwriting-wise, Swift was on a hot streak during Red. The melodies soar, but the lyrics are cuttingly relatable — and I don’t just mean that for the weepy ballads. Who among us didn’t feel that 22 was a “miserable and magical” year? Many of us (if we’re lucky) have had at least one promising first date that felt like a ray of hope, like the one in “Begin Again.” And I’m sure we’ve all wanted to tell off an annoying ex as viciously as Swift does in the impeccable “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” (her best single!).

And then there’s “All Too Well,” generally believed to be Swift’s crowning achievement by most fans and critics. They’re right. “All Too Well,” a nearly-six-minute towering epic of seething resentment and tainted nostalgia, is one of the greatest breakup songs ever written.

If there’s one flaw with Red, it’s the same flaw that most of Swift’s records have: its length. Even though nearly every song is a classic, I can still pinpoint a couple mediocre tracks that could’ve been trimmed (oh hi, “Stay Stay Stay”). By the time I get to the Kennedy cosplay of “Starlight,” I’m checking my watch. Which is an awful thing to say about an album this great! But Red is just a tad overindulgent.

Still, even Red’s worst moments are passable, and its best songs are untouchable. This was the moment when Swift finally realized her potential. And then she took it into hyperdrive with her next album...

BEST SONGS: “All Too Well,” “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together,” “Red”

WORST SONG: “Stay Stay Stay”

#1: 1989 (2014)

It feels a little wrong to have the least “Taylor Swift album” Taylor Swift album at the top of this list. More than any of her other records, 1989 feels like it could’ve been performed or written by another pop star.

But 1989 isn’t meant to be yet another Taylor Swift record filled with hyper-specific story songs and quirky, awkward lyrics (except the charmingly goofy “Shake It Off” and the quasi-self-roast of “Blank Space”). It was meant to be a challenge for Swift, to prove that she could create old-school bubblegum pop as catchy and laser-focused as anyone else on the Top 40 charts. And she wound up running laps around them.

1989 is a Millennial-pink tractor beam of synthpop glory. You have no choice but get sucked into its glittery spaceship. From perfect bubblegum nuggets like “All You Had To Do Is Stay” or “I Wish You Would” to gorgeous, sleek ballads like “Wildest Dreams” and “Clean,” every track is a winner. Even “Bad Blood” really isn’t that terrible.

At a brisk 48 minutes, 1989 is Swift’s shortest album, which means she avoids her fatal flaw for once: there’s no filler! It’s all killer!

I can understand why many Swifties prefer Red or even reputation to 1989 — they’re much more personal albums with more relatable lyrics. And I’ll admit, there’s no song on 1989 as perfect as ��All Too Well.” But 1989 achieves exactly what a classic pop album should do: deliver bangers and sing-along jams with no weak points.

Red might be a comforting glass of Coke, but 1989 is a sparkling flute of Dom Perignon. What can I say? I have expensive taste.

BEST SONGS: “Style,” “Blank Space,” “All You Had To Do Is Stay”

WORST SONG: “Bad Blood”

[celebratorypenguin]

Fic: Lachrimae Antiquae Novae

Rating: PG-13 for language

Genfic, but could be considered McLennon if you squint

Summary: In which I visit Overused Trope Land with a story about Hurricane Dora/"The Night We Cried." The title is from a set of seven Pavanes by John Dowland, and roughly translated it means "Old Tears, Renewed."

This setup with all four of them is based on one of Paul’s conflicting recollections of that night, when they were ALL in the room and Ringo ended up in the bathtub.

Lachrimae Antiquae Novae

Key West, Florida September 10, 1964

***

Once the jam session ended, there wasn't anything else to do but drink.

"Thank you, Dora," said George as he poured scotch for Paul and himself into plastic cups before passing the bottle to John. "We needed a night to ourselves."

John decanted a liberal amount for himself, then splashed some into the cup in Ringo's outstretched hand. "Let's drink to her." The four men raised their makeshift glasses and said in unison, "Here's to Hurricane Dora."

"And a good night's sleep," Paul added. His voice was creaky with overuse and the beginning of a cold.

"Not sure how much sleep we'll be getting tonight, crammed in here like sardines," Ringo sighed. "A man needs to stretch out, you know."

Because of the emergency surrounding the approaching hurricane, the band had been able to secure only one room, with two tight double beds and a tiny bathroom. Brian and the crew had to stay in an even smaller and less comfortable motel down the road.

"We've slept in worse situations than this one," John reminded everyone when their faces began to reflect annoyance. "No holes in a windscreen and no dirty movies playing in our ears. And we've got a proper bathtub." He nudged Ringo with his elbow and grinned maniacally at him. "A veritable palace, this place."

In reality, it was a barely-respectable motel. John had doubts about how sturdy the building might actually be, but he kept them to himself. With George absolutely exhausted, Ringo apprehensive about the storm, and Paul trying not to come down with something, they were on enough of an edge already.

For himself, John was just glad not to be on the move. Brian had supplied them with snacks, candles, and a shocking amount of liquor, so they were all set for the night. The fact that there was a bed to sleep in instead of an airplane seat sounded just great to John, even if the bed was going to contain an extra Beatle.

Paul sneezed, looking surprised that it was happening to him. "Ugh. Sorry," he sniffed as he rubbed the end of his nose with one of the tissues he held in a tight ball.

George poured more scotch into Paul's glass. "Here, drink some more. Kill the germs."

"Ta." Paul took a long swallow and winced. "It's like gargling with battery acid."

"Good. It's burning the snot out of your throat so you'll be able to sing by tomorrow night," John said lightly even though he was concerned about how rotten Paul was starting to sound.

"If we get to sing tomorrow night." Ringo's words were strained. "If we don't wake up in Oz what with this storm and all."

George, whose rosy cheeks hinted at how tipsy he was becoming, snickered. "Here you were a Hurricane for all these years and it turns out you're scared of 'em!"

Everyone laughed. John looked fondly at George. Rather than being a maudlin drunk like the rest of them, the first few drinks tended to bring George's humorous side bubbling to the surface of his personality. It was always a joy to see the furrows between George's eyebrows lessen, to see a full smile instead of the brief flashes of teeth he gave when he was uptight.

John took a good, long swallow before setting the cup down on the shaggy brown carpet. "Might as well get comfortable, fellas. I'm gonna change so I'll already be in pyjamas by the time I pass out." Standing up was a bit more of a problem than he'd expected, but he felt Paul steadying him with a strong hand on his leg. The hand was warm, too warm, but John decided to get comfortable now and check on Paul's temperature later.

It wasn't as if any of them would be leaving the room tonight.

They took turns in the little bathroom, changing into pyjamas while the other three plucked or drummed at nothing in particular. By the time they were all back in the bedroom they were well into the third bottle and the storm was raging all around them. Wind and pounding rain rattled the windows. Distant flashes of lightning went off like strobe lights and the accompanying thunderclaps got closer and closer together.

John actually enjoyed a good storm now and again; the rumbling thunder and faint scent of ozone made him drowsy. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ringo's frown. "Best have another one," John said as he passed the bottle. "We're in for a long night."

"I was counting the seconds between the flash and the thunder," Ringo said, but he didn't turn down the offer of more scotch. "You can tell how close the storm's getting. At least that's what my mum always said."

Paul cast a quick glance at John. It was a reflex, the way he always checked on John when a mother was mentioned in their presence. More than one interviewer had made the faux pas of asking the two of them about their mothers, and no matter how many times it happened John always felt flat-footed when replying. It upset and annoyed him, but what he really hated was the tiny flash of sadness that always, always crossed Paul's face before he had a chance to hide it from John.

Tonight, between the scotch and the fever, Paul wasn't able to school his features as well as usual. His lips trembled and his wide eyes were suspiciously shiny. He opened his mouth as if to say something, seemed to change his mind, and instead slumped against John's shoulder.

"What is it?" John asked quietly, giving Paul a chance to whisper it if he didn't feel secure enough to say it aloud.

Paul shook his head. "It's daft," he murmured.

"That never stops me." Ringo's deadpan delivery and sly smile told John that he was attempting to lighten Paul's mood. John grinned at him, grateful for the attempt.

Paul shifted his head so that he could talk without a mouthful of John's pyjama top. "D'you remember her voice? Julia's?"

"God, what...what?" John stammered. He had to think about it for a moment, had to force himself to return to a time when Julia's silver laughter rang out in delight, when she told John how clever and wonderful he was. "Yeah. It was a nice voice, I remember liking how smooth and cool it was."

George nodded in agreement. "And she could sing, too. She loved listening to us and singing along just like the kids."

The pain John felt in remembering his mother was acute, even six years later, but when Paul whispered, "I can't remember my mum's voice," John's heart nearly broke for him.

George gently said, "She was a nice lady, your mum," then his face fell. He reached out a slender hand and put it on Paul's knee. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

Paul, confused, patted George's hand and shrugged at John. "For what?" he asked.

"For my perfect life," George said in a thick, miserable tone.

Well, George usually wasn't a maudlin drunk. There's a first time for everything, John said to himself.

Paul's eyebrows shot up and he coughed slightly. "Son, I don't have a clue what you're on about."

"You three all had it so rough, and here I was happy with my mum and my dad and my sister and brothers!"

John, who knew exactly how poverty-stricken the Harrisons had been before the Beatles made it big, felt his heart swell that George considered himself so fortunate compared to his friends. "I dunno, George. I mean, Mendips was a pretty swish place to live."

"It was hard losing my mother, but I have my dad and Mike," Paul added.

"My mum and Harry took good care of me every time I got sick," Ringo said after a pause. "We didn't have much, but I never doubted that they loved me."

John was relieved that Ringo had the delicacy not to remind them that he was from an actual slum, because that would have set George off even more.

George nodded. John leaned over and peered into his face. "How much have you had to drink, there, George?"

"Not as much as Paul."

Paul, whose face was ghostly pale, suddenly doubled over with his arms around himself.

"Uh-oh," Ringo warned, getting to his feet faster than anyone could have thought possible. He grabbed Paul by the armpits and hauled him into the bathroom just in time.

Eager to cover up the sound of vomiting lest it trigger a chain reaction, John grabbed his guitar and started playing noisy chords. George looked woozily at John and frowned. "Aren't you going to go in there?" he asked.

"Nah. Give the lad a bit of privacy." Years and years of sharing rooms with Paul left John certain that Paul would want as few onlookers as possible. Losing control, even due to illness, was something Paul preferred to do in private.

George reached for his own instrument and played a plaintive melody to go with John's chords. Even plastered, George was more than a match for any guitarist John had ever heard. John watched George's fingers pull eloquent tunes out of the guitar. "That's quite good," he said with awe in his voice.

"Don't you forget it," hiccuped George, whose hands seemed blissfully independent from the fog in his brain.

"I won't." John took a deep breath. Fueled by liquor and genuine admiration, he said, "I can't believe I put off asking you to join the group just because you were a tyke of twelve."

"I was fourteen," protested George. "Almost fifteen."

"But you looked ten. And I was an arrogant sod--" He stopped when George snickered at the word "was," then continued. "And I might never have asked if it hadn't been for Paul's fucking stubbornness."

"I heard that," croaked Paul from the bathroom.

"Your FUCKING STUBBORNNESS, Paul, got us the best lead guitarist in the whole damn world, and I don't care who hears me say it!"

At that interesting point in the night's conversation, a crash of thunder directly overhead was followed by all the lights going out.

Ringo came out of the bathroom, holding his cigarette lighter aloft. "Where'd Brian put the candles, then?"

John scrabbled on the nightstand and came up with a cylinder that he hoped was a candle. "Here, try this."

"Make sure it's a candle and not a condom," Paul called out.

"I can tell the difference, son, even if you couldn't," John replied as he took Ringo's lighter and put the flame to the wick. The candle sputtered and for a horrible moment John thought it wasn't going to light up, but eventually the flame shone clear and strong.

"What're you going to put it in?" George asked.

John blinked. Surely he wasn't going to have to sit here holding it until the damned thing burned to nothingness.

"Here, let me." Ringo took the candle, tipped it sideways so that some of the wax ran around the lip of an empty scotch bottle, then held the bottom of the candle in the warm wax until it set. He repeated this with two other candles.

George whistled through his teeth. "Impressive, that."

"Now our cheap motel looks like a cheap Italian restaurant," Ringo chuckled. "So much better."

It actually was better. The room was bathed with a warm, golden glow instead of incandescent white electric light. John picked up one of the makeshift candle holders and shuffled into the bathroom to check on Paul.

"Can you see all right, Macca?" he asked. Paul was leaning with his cheek against the rim of the toilet, breathing shallowly.

"Wish I couldn't," was all Paul was able to say before he choked and began vomiting again.

"Easy, Paul, it's okay, I've got you, I've got you," John crooned as he wrapped one arm around Paul's chest and stroked his hair with the other. The contents of the toilet were mostly clear, meaning that Paul was probably near the end of whatever had made him sick. John flushed the toilet then put his hand on Paul's forehead. It was warm but not as bad as before. "That's better," John said. He reached up to the sink and pulled down a tube of toothpaste - probably George's, because it smelled strongly of the peppermint he favored - and squeezed a bit onto Paul's index finger. "Scrub a bit, get the taste out of your mouth."

Silently, Paul complied, then his body went lax and he laid his head in John's lap.

"That's him done for," George said from the doorway. He set his candle on the sink and sat down next to John, putting one hand in Paul's hair and the other on John's shoulder. "If only the world knew what larks it was, being a Beatle."

John chuckled. "We've had better nights."

"And worse ones. Like in Hamburg, where you and Paul and Pete played Olympic scorekeepers while that ginger bird..." George broke off, clearly embarrassed at the memory of losing his virginity while his bandmates cheered him on.

"Oh, I don't know, I quite enjoyed that," John said with a little leer.

George shook his head and leaned against the wall. John's shoulder felt cold without George's touch, and Paul whimpered a little at the loss of the caressing fingers. John took over, absent-mindedly tousling Paul's dark hair.

Ringo entered a few moments later. "Room for one more?"

"Of course," John said, "if you don't mind sitting in the tub."

"I don't, actually." Ringo clambered in and set his candle on the edge of the bathtub. He stretched out and folded his arms behind his head. "We only have the three candles, so maybe we should blow two out and save 'em."

John puffed out George's and his own candles, then pulled Paul's head into a more comfortable position on his lap. George's head tipped back and his breathing deepened.

"Guess it's just the two of us still conscious," Ringo whispered.

"I'm conscious," mumbled Paul.

"Me, too." George's voice was barely audible as he relaxed further, nearly hitting his head on the plumbing beneath the sink.

"Hey, Ringo, don't let him tip over," John said.

Ringo held out his hand to George. "C'mere, lad. More room over by me."

George scooted to the edge of the tub and put his head down on the pile of towels. He shifted a couple of times, grumbling wordlessly. Ringo rolled his eyes at John then moved one hand down to George's head, petting him like a puppy. "The youth today just can't hold their liquor," Ringo quipped, but John could hear the affection in his voice.

John cocked his head, listening for the storm but not hearing anything. "I think that's the eye passing over us now," he said. "So it's halfway done."

"Good. I've had about enough of this storm business." Ringo's eyes, silver in the muted candlelight, were focused on John. "Listen, Johnny, did I stick my foot in it, earlier, talking about my mother in front of you and Paul?"

John's throat tightened. "Nah," he said, wanting to mean it, but he could tell that Ringo wasn't fooled.

"Okay, I'll be more careful from now on." Ringo waggled his eyebrows to let John know that he hadn't fallen for his attempt at obfuscation.

Nodding in appreciation, John turned his gaze down to Paul's face. "It's funny, how Paul hears music so perfectly, how he remembers every note after hearing it just once, but he can't remember his mum's voice. I can't imagine forgetting Julia's, but I suppose I will, eventually." His voice felt thick as he continued. "I mean, I don't really remember Uncle George's, and sometimes I'm not even sure I can remember Stuart's, except for the old recordings. And someday they won't play anymore, and then his voice will be gone."

"Steady on," Ringo said, reaching out for John even though they were sitting too far apart to touch. He settled for putting the last remnants of scotch within John's reach.

The hurricane's eye was past them and the storm began anew, lashing the windows with rain and shaking the whole building with wind. John grabbed the bottle and swallowed the last of the amber liquid before he started talking again.

"How can someone you love just...disappear, like that? Like they never existed? Who's gonna be left in ten years, in fifty years, to remember Stuart's voice, to remember him, to remember Julia?"

George raised his head, blinking slowly. John felt George's fingers wrap gently around his wrist as he said, "God will remember, John. He'll remember all of us."

"Is that the same God who gave Stuart a brain aneurism? The same God who put a cop in a car he didn't know how to drive so that he could kill my mother? Why should I trust a God who takes everyone I love away from me?" He knew he was shocking George with his words, George whose childlike faith in higher powers never wavered, but John's heart was throbbing in his chest and the words spilled from his mouth as the hot, stinging tears spilled from his eyes. "Everyone I love leaves me," he cried. "Everyone I love fucking dies, that's why I don't love anyone, why I can't love anyone, because I don't want them to fucking DIE!"

John heard himself sobbing harshly as Paul sat up and threw his arms around him. "Johnny, it's okay, love, it's okay."

"Don't!" John yelled, trying to pull away. The panic that seized him clutched his chest so that he could barely breathe. He started scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Don't you see? If you love me then I'll love you and you'll die, just like the rest of them!"

"You can't stop me from loving you." Paul's voice was still raspy and weak but his embrace remained firm. "And I'm not going anywhere."

"Me, neither," chimed Ringo from the bathtub.

"We're none of us leaving you, so you can feel free to love us as much as you want." George's voice was as tearful as John's as he sat behind him and wrapped his arm around John's chest. "You're not getting rid of us that easy, Lennon."

The lights flickered then came back on. All four men winced at the sudden burst of cold fluorescence. George staggered to his feet and batted at the bathroom switch until that light went out.

The insanity of the situation wasn't lost on John. He was sitting on the floor of a loo in a cheap motel during a thunderstorm, in his pyjamas, with the rest of his band trying to console him while he had a drunken breakdown.

It was actually a good metaphor for their lives, when he stopped to think about it.

The light coming in from the bedroom was strong enough that he could take a good look at his friends: Ringo, always as unwaveringly steady as his drumbeat, loyal George with his fine mind and extraordinary patience, and Paul, whose brilliance more than compensated for his exasperating perfectionism.

"How'd I get so bleedin' lucky as to end up with the three of you?" John asked as he smiled at each of his bandmates in turn.

"Dunno how lucky you'll feel when you have Typhoid Paulie in your bed," George declared around a yawn. Paul shot him a dirty look but he was fighting back laughter.

"C'mon, up with you." John stood, wincing at the pain in his lower back from sitting on hard tile, and gave Paul a hand up. "What about--"

George silenced him with a finger on his lips. John and Paul looked at Ringo, who had fallen asleep in the bathtub. "I'll get him settled," George whispered. "You two go on, get some sleep."

John walked Paul over to one of the beds and pulled the bedspread back for him. As Paul climbed in and John covered him up, they shared a tiny smile. John could tell from the way Paul's eyes softened that he was thinking about his mother, and if he was thinking about her then he was also remembering Julia and worrying about John.

"Daft lad," John whispered fondly as he started to get in behind Paul.

Paul stopped John with a hand on his wrist. "If Ringo's gonna sleep in the tub, maybe you should share with George. You don't need my germs."

"Better your germs than George's bony knees." John pried Paul's fingers loose and patted his hand before settling in behind him. "Now, be a good boy and let me have my beauty sleep. Or maybe a beauty coma, that'd do me more good."

Chuckling, Paul burrowed deeper under the covers.

George padded barefoot through the room to get a blanket and pillow for Ringo. John could see him over Paul's shoulder as he lifted Ringo's head ever so gently to put the pillow beneath it, and then draped the blanket over his sleeping form. George picked up the candle and used it to light his way back to bed once he turned out the bedroom lights. When he got into his bed, he leaned over, mouthed "Good night" to John and Paul, then blew out the candle.

The storm had died down to a lulling fall of heavy rain. Moonlight streamed through the window, a gentle silvery glow that lit up Paul's face when he turned over to look at John.

"Your voice," he whispered. "No one's ever going to forget your voice. Not in fifty years, or a hundred. It's gonna live forever."

"Hush, you'll wake Ringo," John admonished, but he pulled Paul into a fierce hug. He felt Paul begin to relax into sleep, his skin damp with breaking fever. Maybe John would catch his cold but he would not push Paul away.

Tomorrow night, John thought, when the storm had washed the sky and polished the stars, he'd take Paul outside and show him their mothers' star, Mary Julia, and perhaps Paul's long-opened wound could begin to heal.

Perhaps John's would as well, and at last their old tears would come to an end.

*** END ***

[mellicose]

The Sea Inside - Act Four, Part 3

Fandom: Broadchurch, Alec Hardy

Pairing: Hardy x Grace [Clara], Ellie x Melissa

Word Count: 4306

Warnings: Mild violence, mentions of past trauma, angst

Read previous chapter | Read on Ao3

Summary: With her visit to Hardy, Tess sets off an explosive cascade of events that will change the lives of everyone involved.

Clara stared at her phone uneasily. In the time they’d been together, Alec had never been away without explicitly telling her he wouldn’t be there when she got home.

She took off her scrubs and went into the shower.

Anxiety began to eat away at her, but she tried to drown it in the warm water.

He had never been inconsistent or secretive. They might’ve called him in to work. That’s all. He would call back soon enough with his apologies. She would forgive him and go to bed and feel silly for being insecure…

A faraway pain brought her back to the present. She had rubbed her belly raw with the loofah. She dropped it and turned off the water.

She sat down on the toilet, still dripping. He didn’t even text. Surprisingly, he had turned into an inveterate texter. He over texted his excuses when he couldn’t make something now. 

But there was no text. No quick, awkward message where he never fails to mention how much he hates voicemail.

Nothing.

She walked to the kitchen, still nude. Some of the cabinets were open, and the sink was sticky and brown with spilled tea. Alec’s. There was only one mug, though. She closed the cabinets and walked to the bedroom, sniffing the air.

It was excruciating, but it was habit. She looked at her vanity. Her high end lipsticks, which she usually lined up neatly on the table, were moved. Her Dior red was thrown in the middle of the table, still open, ruined.

Her face twitched.

She turned on the lights and looked around. The bed was still made, but that didn’t mean shit. She caressed the sheets, but her eyes searched them for stains.

It’s impossible. We did something last night. And this morning. Alec is eager, but he couldn’t possibly -

Something mint green and gauzy caught her eye. She hated green, and refused to wear it outside of scrubs. She stood stock still and let the inevitable wave of pain wash over her heart.

She closed her eyes. She wanted to scream. To cry and throw all the pointless trinkets of her new, better self against the wall.

Instead, she calmly picked it up. It was a watercolor scarf, hand painted by the looks of it. Silk. Her nose flared.

And it smelled exactly like Tess.

She fell to sitting, bunching the scarf in her trembling fists.

After everything, Alec allowed that woman in their home. In their bedroom. The insecurity she felt while in Tess’s home flooded back. She had asked whether she missed him. She understood why a woman like that would lie, but not him.

Had the party had knocked something loose in him that he thought he’d buried years ago?

Did he prefer Tess’s casual coldness to her silences? Had she frightened him away with the allusion to a family of their own?

She screamed each question louder and louder in her head, until she was a rocking, crying mess on the floor.

Tess’s smug face blinked more and more clearly in her mind’s eye. Even after all this time and suffering, he still loved Tess best. She had been just a placeholder, someone to warm his bed during his despair.

I keep telling you, little bird…

Frank’s voice cut through her anger cleanly. She went into a cold sweat.

Trust no man. None except me.

“Nooooo,” she said out out, putting her hands over her ears fruitlessly.

I hurt you, but that’s because I love you. And love hurts, little bird. It hurts like the dickens.

She stood up and started to recite the same nursery rhythms that her case worker had taught her so many years ago to calm herself when she felt she was going to have an anxiety attack.

Mary mary quite contrary how does your-

They hurt you, little bird

-how does your garden grow/with silver bells and cockle shells -

But you can hurt them right back. Just like Daddy taught you…

She forced her breathing to slow. The pain was settling in, something she had been able to block out when Alec had her well in hand…but he was gone.

He was not here. He was with her.

Her tendons sang with tension. There was once a time when she would not have gone running when someone hurt her or tried to hurt someone she loved. Daddy hadn’t only taught her to fuck. He’d taught her to fight.

She dressed slowly, putting on the white sundress that Alec loved so much. She raked her fingers through her damp hair, then dabbed some of the ruined red lipstick on her trembling lips.

She grabbed the bat she hid behind her door in case of intruders. The metal was cool and heavy in her hands, comforting. She caught sight of her reflection in her vanity.

Her eyes were huge and dark, her face red with a fever she had not allowed herself to feel for years. Rage started to bubble up through the cracks in her that not even Alec had been able to heal.

“Alec,” she said softly. His name was a benediction to her. Her eyes settled on his clothes, well worn and monotone, in her closet. The new shoes she had gotten him that he refused to wear because they were ‘far too chi chi’. His ties, draped on the chair by the door by her bras. Her face twisted with agony.

It was all just a dream. None of it had ever been real. Only the pain was real.  Her palm creaked against the bat’s rubber grip. She looked at a framed photograph of her and Alec that he had given her for Christmas. She was so happy. Already, she couldn’t remember the feeling.

She swung the bat in perfect form - she’d loved baseball as a kid - and the glass shattered. The frame bounced on the wall, leaving an ugly dent. She walked to where it landed and hit it again, and again, and again until the silver dented and the photo was completely destroyed. Tears streamed down her face, blinding her. She swung freely, hitting the lamp on the bedside table. It crashed and went dark. She walked to the framed art prints on her wall. De la Tour’s Magdalene shattered to nothing. The Vermeer girl that Alec complained followed him with her eyes. Botero’s version of Mona Lisa, which had made her giggle the first time she saw it. She broke them all, then the other lamp. She walked into her closet and took handfuls of clothes and threw them in the tub. All the pretty things Grace loved. Especially the gray skirt with the buttons. She picked up her bottles of perfume, stalked into the bathroom, and poured every single bottle - hundreds of pounds’ worth of perfume - onto thousands of pounds’ worth of clothes. Her heart rate increased. She went into a bathroom drawer and took out out a box of matches.

Grace would burn by her own hand. It was fitting.

She lit the match and threw it on the alcohol-doused clothing, and it went up like a bomb. Her eyes watered and her lungs stung but she watched it burn until the tub was a black crater of ash. By then, the smoke detectors were going crazy. She opened the windows, but the neighbors had to smell it by now, and they would call the fire brigade.

She picked the watercolor scarf off the floor, tore it in half, and wrapped it around her bleeding knuckle. Red bloomed through the layers of pale green. She slung the bat over her shoulder and grabbed her keys, leaving her purse and phone behind. It was lies anyway.

She put the bat on the passenger’s seat. She heard sirens from afar, and drove in the other direction to the nearest fast food joint for a cup of strong coffee.

She had a long drive ahead of her.

Hardy went back inside when the cold became unbearable. He tried to be silent, but his sodden pyjamas squished with each step. He walked to the bathroom and took them off, then tried to dry himself with a couple of Ellie’s hand towels. He crept like a pale wraith to where his street clothes were folded and put them on quickly, then wrapped the blanket around himself to stop his shivering.

As maudlin as it was, a good cry had really helped to clear his mind. It was not Clara’s fault that she had been born into such evil. And even though she had chosen not to tell him the uglier bits of her past, he loved her deeply, and understood.

Or better said, he would try. Every day.

“Clara,” he said out loud. “Clara Zamora.” He saw her face behind his closed eyelids. Heard her infectious laughter. How strong was she if could still laugh like that, after all she had known?

Tess had once told him that any woman worthy of the name has secrets. At the time, he didn’t think twice about it, since his love for her was still new. Only later did he realize exactly what she meant. Mystery, even pain, was alluring to a man like him. Why else would he have insisted with her after he caught her being unfaithful? Or insisted with Ellie, after her despair with Joe?

She was right, and she had seen it on Clara. That’s why she knew exactly how to pluck it, then researched her so thoroughly.

Tess was a clever monster.

He didn’t let anger overtake his sadness. Tess didn’t have to know that she had affected him, and Clara - Grace - didn’t have to know that he found out about her past. For her, he could keep the secret, and love her until she was ready to tell him, if it ever happened.

If not, he was completely okay with it.

He watched the rain on the window backlit by the floodlights in Ellie’s neighbor’s driveway. His eyelids drooped. He shifted position, and something dug painfully into his hip. He grabbed it and it vibrated - his cell. He squinted into the screen.

There were two missed calls and one text, all from Grace.

Where are you baby? I was looking forward to your prickly kisses xx

His eyes watered. He dialed her personal phone, eager to hear her voice, but it went straight through to voicemail.

“This is Doctor Grace Lastra. If this is an emergency, please dial 999. If not, kindly hang up because I most probably won’t bother with this message.” Then, a giggle.

“Ugh, I hate these. Darling, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you - I’m at Ellie and Mel’s house. Had a bit of a minor emergency, but everything’s alright now. I’ll be back tomorrow morning. We can go to the shops together. For the trousers, remember? I love you,” he said breathlessly just as the phone beeped in his ear.

He texted her as well.

Actually listen to the messages this time, baby. I love you.

He put the phone on the coffee table and yawned. The crying had made him sleepy. He turned on his side and hugged the pillow.

Just a few hours, he thought, then slipped into unconsciousness.

The firemen were ready to bust through the door, but they found that was was already open. They stomped into the apartment in full gear and found nothing but smoke and ruins.

“Jesus Christ. It’s like someone had a crackin’ row in ‘ere,” one of them said, lifting up the oxygen mask. Another fireman walked up behind him after checking the bathroom. He held a charred glass perfume bottle.

“It looks like he might’ve caught her cheating,” he said, eying the horribly dented frame. The couple in the photo was nearly indistinguishable. He had seen damage like this before. It had all the classic signs of a crime of passion. “There’s no one about, though. Whatever happened, whoever they were, they’re gone.”

Glass crunched underneath their heavy boots. One of them knelt and took a closer look at the off-white carpeting. “Looks like blood, mate. I think we might have to notify the police, just in case.”

The other one got on his two-way. “Could you get me the lease-holder’s name and number, please? Give them a ring. And notify the local police. This place is a wreck, and we just found blood.” He turned to the other fireman crawling over the detritus. “Alright, boys, you best feck off. We might be ruining valuable evidence.”

They grumbled and walked single file out of the apartment. One of them put his hand up.

“You hear that?” A phone rang somewhere close.

“Sounds like it’s coming from the parlor,” another said.The noise was coming from a woman’s handbag. “Over ‘ere.” He took off heavy gloves, and looked at the screen. The number was familiar.

“Fiona?”

“Aw, bollocks.” It was the dispatcher, trying to call the owner.

“Yeah, looks like she left her bag and mobile here,” he yelled over his shoulder. “Can we get a bead on the man in the photo?”

“On it, boss,” a younger one yelled. He walked outside, where a very worried man stood with his arms crossed. “You the landlord?”

“Yes. What’s the damage?”

The fireman’s eyebrows rose. “There’s some moderate damage to the bathroom, but it’s mostly soot.”

“Was it their fault?” he said.

“You should wait until the police come by and have a look. They can answer your questions far better than I can, sir,” he said. He took off his helmet and threw it in the back of the truck.

“Bloody hell, he is the police. Where is he?” he said.

“Who is?”

“The bloke who moved in with Dr. Lastra - been there about… four months now. He’s a DI for the local police. Hardy, I think ‘is name is. A sour-faced fucker,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t know what she sees in him.”

“I’ll let the captain know. Thank you for you assistance,” he said, and walked back into the building.

He ran into the captain in stairway. He was headed down, talking into his two way.

“I just spoke with the landlord. He says a DI Hardy lives there with Dr. Grace Lastra.”

“I got that from the post. Fiona just called the station. They have someone coming, but they are also calling DI Hardy. Apparently, he took off from work on the weekend. He didn’t say why, though.”

“A doctor and and DI,” the younger fireman said, shaking his head. “It doesn’t seem…right.”

The captain hoisted off his oxygen tank and shrugged. “I’ve been in the fire brigade for 20 years, and one of the first things I learned is that fancy titles don’t mean shit to raw human nature,” he said. He took off his heavy fireproof jacket. “Either way, it’s a police problem now.”

His phone rang him awake.

He jumped up quickly - he set it so it was always loud and clear when work called.

“DI Hardy.”

“Where are you?” the dispatcher said with no preamble.

“I’m at a friend’s home, about an hour and a half away. What’s going on?” He grabbed his tie and put it on. It was all muscle memory now - he didn’t even think about it.

“And Doctor Lastra?”

“At home sleeping, presumably,” he said. He felt a chill.

The young woman sighed.

“What is it, for God’s sake? It’s-” he looked at the phone screen “-2:19 in the morning.”

“There’s been a fire. Nothing too-”

He nearly dropped the phone. “Oh fuck, is she okay?”

“-Sir! Sir!” she was yelling into the phone. He ran up the stairs and knocked on Ellie’s door insistently.

“Ellie!” he said in a tense whisper. He heard her groan. Bed springs creaked and she opened, her hair a poofy tangle.

“Jesus, Hardy, what now?” she said. Just as soon as she saw his face, the sleep flew from her eyes. “What is it?”

“There’s been a fire. At my apartment-” He put the phone to his ear again, and winced. She was still yelling, trying to get his attention.

“-I’ve been trying to say-”

“Is Grace alright? Jesus Christ, is she hurt?” he said, his voice going higher with despair.

“-that she’s not there, sir. We have DS Pravhati there now. Her bag and mobile are still at the scene, but she’s gone. ”

“What d’you mean she’s not there? I have confirmation she got home safe two hours ago.” Ellie went into her walk in to dress. Mel put on her robe, her face steely with annoyance.

“I’ll have him call you just as soon as he finishes questioning the other tenants-”

“-No. You will have him call me now. The very instant you hang up.” He put on his suit coat and combed his fingers through his hair. It was still damp from the rain.

Ellie came out, dressed in a gray suit. She ran the brush blind through her curls and tied it up.

“Where are you going, Ellie?” Mel whispered as she put on socks and shoes.

“I’m going with Hardy,” she said, going into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Tom’s door opened.

“What’s with all the damn noise, Mum?” he said.

“Watch you mouth, young man,” Ellie said through foam. She spat and rinsed and gave him a smile. “Normal police drama,” she said. He scratched at his bare chest.

“But you and Hardy don’t even work together anymore,” he said, perplexed.

“Didn’t stop me before,” she said and gave him a quick kiss. “We’re a good team. I’m off.” He rolled his eyes and went back into his bedroom.

“Miller!” he yelled from the bottom of the stairs. The front door creaked open.

Mel grabbed her elbow. “Ellie, I’ve got a bad feeling about all this. Just…let him go. Stay here with me. I sleep best with you.”

She took Mel’s hand, kissed her knuckles, then went after Alec.

He didn’t like to wait.

She drove through the sleep-silent streets, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. Soon, Tess’s white bungalow with the hydrangea bushes underneath the parlor window came into view. She let out a shuddering breath.

She had made a three hour trip in an hour and 45 minutes. The needle had gone past 120 miles an hour more than once, but miraculously, no police had been snoozing by a radar.

She didn’t cry a drop since getting in the car, but it also felt like she had not blinked. Her corneas ached, but her vision was catlike.

She brought the car to a silent stop at the mouth of the driveway.

She spent the whole drive fighting back the overlapping waves of anxiety, anger, and despair, but now that she’d arrived, she couldn’t feel him. She opened the door and sniffed the air. Her dark eyes flashed gold.

Nothing.

She looked down, and she gripped the bat firmly in the hand still wrapped in Tess’s scarf. She hissed and pulled it off. It drifted to the concrete. Her car - a shiny gray SUV with the brand new transmission she bought - sat in the driveway. The house was dark. The windows blinked blindly in the street lights.

Her grip loosened.

She was in my home. In my bedroom.

Her mouth filled with bile.

She came into our home.

Still, she hesitated. Grace - she had a nice life. And a lovely man.

But after everything, he was the one who let her in. To the bedroom where they made love just hours before. Where she dropped her tacky scarf doused in her stinking perfume.

Yet Grace could survive. She’d gone through far worse.

She took a step back. Her bare feet slapped on the concrete. She looked down, surprised. She forgot to put on shoes. There was something written into the concrete underneath her foot.

Tess + Hardywith a heart around it. Inside, as well, was the imprint of a tiny hand, and a date. Summer of ‘04.

Tears dripped from her chin to the pavement. They had once been a real family, something she’d never, ever had. Even with the bitterness, who’s to say there wasn’t still love left? Could she blame Alec if he wanted to be with the mother of his only child? Why else would he have let her in? All that talk of poison meant nothing if he kept drinking her in. Could she, of all people, blame him?

She knelt and leaned heavily against the bat. She was in agony.

Alec was the sunbeam eaking through the cracks in her dark room. He was the promise of love, and normalcy.

But now, he hurt more than years of abuses piled on abuses had ever hurt. She shivered. He’d become the torturer to give her sweet relief, just to turn the screw even tighter.

She stood, teetering. The bat’s metal sung as she dragged it beside her walking to the hydrangeas in front of the house. The flowers were deep blue.

Of course they were. Alec had lived and loved there. She caressed the blossoms, but her hand turned to a ripping claw. Blue flew over her shoulder until she had topped both bushes. She was ankle deep in dying flowers. Fury blossomed in her chest. It felt almost erotically good, since it obliterated the pain.

Tess was in her home. She came in her bedroom. Tainted her things. Took what she had marked as hers.

She raised the bat. Her lips peeled back from her teeth and she ran, silently, toward Tess’s car.

Hardy’s car was already humming when Ellie stepped in. He pulled out of the driveway with a screech.

“Easy. You’ll scare the neighbors,” Ellie said.

He changed gears, but the car didn’t respond quick enough to suit him. The gears ground hideously.

She put her hand on his. “Let me drive. I always drive.”

Without a word, he stopped and got out of the car. They changed places and she drove out of the neighborhood without a sound.

She waited until they hit the carriageway to open her mouth.

“What happened?”

He grunted. “I don’t know. Pravhati hasn’t called yet.” He checked his mobile. No one had called. He dialed the dispatcher.

“Detective Hardy?”

He didn’t mince words. “Why hasn’t Pravhati called?”

“He did not answer when I called him - he must be in the middle of an interview - but I texted him to contact you immediately.”

“I’m on my way back. Regardless, I will be taking over as soon-” His phone vibrated in his hand.”-What the hell?”

It was Daisy.

She was sobbing. “Dad! Oh God where are-” she was cut off. There was rustling as someone took her phone.

“Hardy!” It was Tess.“Bloody fucking ‘ell,” she said, going into the Northern accent she reverted to only when she was truly upset. Daisy wept somewhere close and tried to take her phone back. There was a slap and a moan.  “Your crazy bitch of a girlfriend just tried to kill us both,” she said, panting into the phone. “Ruined the car, ripped out the hydrangeas and nearly took my fucking ‘ead off before I zapped her with my Taser.”

“Where is she?”

“Who the fuck cares where she is,” Tess screamed. “She was trying to kill me with a goddamn baseball bat, screaming bloody murder about taking what’s hers or some shite-”

“Mum, why were you over there today? What did you dooo?” Daisy wailed. He heard another sharp slap.

“You keep your mouth shut, young lady. And just to let you know, I’m aware what you’re up to with yer father.”

“Tess.” His voice was soft. She was still panting. “Where is Grace?”

“Grace? What a fucking irony that name is,” she said. “Jesus, look at my car,” she said in despair. “Just got it fixed, too.”

“Where is Grace?!” he screamed. Ellie gasped and drove into the breakdown lane.

She sniffed. “Where d’ye think? I tased her before she killed us both, and she passed out in our driveway. I cuffed her and called Zed. She’s been arrested, and you bet your narrow ass I’m pressing charges, so don’t start.”

“Where is she?” he asked a third time.

“Our old station,” she said.

“Dad, please come! I want to go-” His phone vibrated in his ear again. It was Pravhati.

“Grace is in Sandbrook,” he answered flatly.

“Yes, sir. The station just phoned. The damage to the apartment is minimal. Items of clothing burnt in the bathtub, and she destroyed art prints and some photos in the bedroom. There was a bloody piece of cloth - looks like a scarf, torn in half and discarded. We’re taking that in, and some blood samples from the carpet.  Other than that, nothing worthy of note.”

“Och aye?”

Tess tried to call him back, but he ignored the vibrating.

“Yes, sir. It looks like she was upset and decided to burn most of her clothes and break things.” He paused. “Do you have any idea what might’ve happened in the last 24 hours to make her behave in this fashion?”

He took a deep breath. He was getting tunnel vision. “Tell the captain I’ll be in later. I’m going to Sandbrook,” he said, and hung up.

He opened the window a crack and pushed his phone through it. Ellie drove quietly, her face pale with secondhand misery.

“Could you turn around, head north?”

“We’ve been headed that way for the last ten minutes,” she said. “We’ll be there soon enough.” The gas pedal touched the floor.