#well i mean i do think some members of tally hall should be dropped into a pit filled with dangerous animals but what do i know

[harzeke]

actually speaking of that song thing: shout out to everyone who remembers my 2018 list of character songs for the gen 1 cast which included painfully "you were an art kid in high school in 2018" picks such as brockhampton, the newest album by the mountain goats at the time, tally hall, lemon demon, tyler the creator, and mitski

[lianahayze]

Shadow and the Midnight Misery: Chapter 5

Hi y'all! Not much to say, so let's get started! Chapter 4 is here if you need to catch up. Enjoy!

Chapter 5: The Notebook

"It's actually not as bad as it looks."

My eyes stare down at the food in the bowl in front of me. It looks like oatmeal... but not. It doesn’t have any texture, and I doubt it has any taste. I haven't touched the spoon and I'm damn well not about to touch the food. It's probably just protein bullshit, anyway.

"I like to put chocolate in mine."

I look up at the girl sitting across from me. Red hair high in a bun and cheeks colored with blush, she looks like she's barely out of high school. She offers me a smile.

"Hi, I don't think we've met. I'm Tally."

"Shadow."

"Nice to meet you, Shadow. You haven't been here long, have you?" Is it that obvious? "Well, I think it's great. The situation sucks, but what are you gonna do, ya know?"

Why is she talking to me? For someone who's locked up, she entirely too happy, especially this early in the morning.

Last night I’d slept terribly. Like I'd predicted, the mattress had been super uncomfortable. No matter what position I’d been in, I'd been unable to fall asleep. Around two in the morning, I'd just given up and worked on some lyrics. I haven't looked them over yet, but it had been the only way to pass the time.

"My mom and step-dad picked this place out. I thought for a really long time that they were just trying to get rid of me, and it's taken me some time, but I think I'm finally starting to see that's not true at all." She giggles. "Anyway, I'm trying to be more positive these days."

I give her a hard look. I wonder what she's here for. Maybe she's simply crazy? Nah, that's not it. Garver specializes in dependency issues. But she just doesn't look like she's ever been on anything. She looks too young.

"Actually, I miss them. I'll get to see them soon, though."

This is so much to process. I hadn't struck up a conversation with her; I'd intentionally chosen a seat away from everyone. Yet, it's as if she'd picked me out of the crowd, determined to make me her friend.

For the next few minutes, she sits there quietly eating her breakfast. She doesn't say anything else, acting like it's totally normal for her to be sitting there, like we've known each other for years. After swallowing her last bite, she grabs her bowl and stands.

She looks down at my food, still untouched. "Anyway, you should give that a go." She smiles. "Have a good day!"

She walks off. I watch her go for a moment before calling, "Hey! Why are you being nice to me?"

She turns back to me. The smile on her face is still there, but it's smaller. She shrugs. "I dunno. You were sitting alone. You shouldn't have to be alone, especially here." She waves. "Bye."

With that, she drops off her bowl and heads out of the room.

The whole experience was surreal. Outside of the band, I don't really have friends. Well, besides Dean, that is. But our history is weird, and we mostly bond over music, drugs, and a botched attempted relationship. Standing in front of hundreds of fans? Sure, easy. Interviews? No problem. Anything that has to do with my music, I'm great at talking about it, but talking to people just for the sake of talking to them? Not exactly my forte.

I'm so confused that, later in the day, when it's time for me to meet with Dr. Norris, I'm still thinking about it. I check in with one of the members of staff to let them know that I'm still accounted for then head over to her office. I try not to think about yesterday, about collapsing in the hall. No one saw me, but I'm a little paranoid, wondering if it had been caught on camera.

I look up towards the ceiling. I don't see any cameras, but that doesn't mean they aren't there. Cameras inside the building would completely eliminate anonymity and privacy, but recording everything could help guarantee patient safety.

I sigh. Oh well. Either way, I'm about to find out.

I knock on the door and wait. As I'm standing there, my stomach growls. With cocaine, I can usually suppress my hunger but, because I haven’t been able to do that within the last day, I'm suddenly acutely aware of how long it's been since I've had a real meal. Maybe I should have taken Tally's advice and tried that disgusting looking breakfast.

The door opens and I'm greeting by Dr. Norris's smiling face.

"Hi, Shadow," she says, stepping out of the way and allowing me to come in. "How are you this morning?"

I shrug as she closes the door. After we both sit down, I say, "Same as always."

"And what does ‘same as always’ look like?"

I roll my eyes. I know she's just doing her job, but it makes me feel like I’m a puzzle, one she’s trying to put together. "I'm awake. It's morning. I would rather be asleep."

"Are you a night owl, then?"

That's probably not the most accurate way to describe it, but I'll go with it. Most of the time I just stay up until I collapse somewhere, but it's probably not smart to tell her that. "Sure."

"So. How have your first twenty-four hours here been?"

I stare off into the distance, recalling the trashed bathroom. I'd have to drop sixty bucks just to replace that foundation. Just thinking about it makes me sigh.

"What's the matter?"

I shrug. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

"Like, I just don't get it. I don't need to be here, and everyone forced me to come here because they think I'm messing up The Midnight Misery —my band—but we won't get anything done with me in here."

"In my experience, therapy rarely comes at a good time for people."

It's not just that, though. "I thought I had a choice, but they really forced my hand." Mentally replaying yesterday over and over, all I can do is lean back and shake my head. Though I’m cold, I also feel restricted. I push up the sleeves to my black sweater.

"You're--"

"Lucky, I know." I just don’t feel lucky. "I get it. I just..." It's starting to become a habit, my words failing me. "Anyway, what are we talking about today? I need to get out of here ASAP."

"Why?"

What did she mean, "Why?" Certainly, I'm not the first person she'd treated who doesn't want to be in here?

"I have stuff to do."

"Shadow, all of that stuff will be there when you get out. Your friends, your family, your music. None of it's going anywhere. I’m going to ask you a couple of questions and learn a little bit more about your addiction. Is that okay?"

I start to tell her that I didn't have an addiction, but the look on her face quiets me. I nod.

"How long would you say you've been using?"

"Uh, since I was sixteen? Seventeen?" I pause to think about it. I probably first drank when I was fifteen and started doing it regularly when I was sixteen. The weed probably started about the same time. Cocaine was most likely when I was nineteen?

At this point, it's all a blur.

"Do you recall why you started in the first place?"

"Just being a teenager. My dad's had his own bourbon brand for years, so I grew up around that." For some reason, I feel the need to add, "Not that he ever tried to encourage me." I tried to laugh. "He just, uh, never tried to stop me."

She makes a couple of notes. "What’s your relationship like with your father?"

I smile, and for the first time since I’ve been here, I actually feel a slight tinge of happiness. "It's great. He supports my music career; everyone in the band is obsessed with him. He tries to give me pointer every once in a while, but most of the time I ignore him. Wanna make my own way, ya know? But when we were looking for a label, he basically handled everything. Well, his legal team did. Huge God Send. And them when we needed a--"

Suddenly I stop. My mind has wandered further back than I'd like, digging up old memories that are better kept locked away. I clear my throat, looking down at my hands.

"Well. As much as hate to admit it, I guess he's responsible for my entire career."

"I'm sure you've worked very hard to get yourself where you are today, Shadow. What parent doesn't help their child out? However, I wasn't referring to your music career." I look up at back her, my head tilted slightly to the side. "How is he as a father? How are you as a daughter?"

"He's fine—not strict. He lets me do what I want."

"Your mom?" She's typing as she speaks.

"She lives in Oklahoma. I see her maybe once or twice a year." It’s been that way since I was little, and, to be honest, it doesn't bother me one bit.

"So, you spend most of your time with your band?"

I nod. "Yeah, I mean I'm either in the studio or on the road with them, so were pretty close--very close, actually." At least, we were.

"Do you think everything will be okay between all of you after this?"

I shrug. "I dunno." She asks me to elaborate. "I just don't feel like I can trust them, to be honest."

"That's valid."

I'm surprised she says that. "It’s okay?"

"Of course. You're unhappy now, aren't you?" My eyes are wide as I nod. "Maybe angry?" Again, I nod. "And I'm assuming you're also very jittery and anxious and unsure what to do?"

It's as if she's reading my mind. "But what am I supposed to do?" I ask.

Looking me over. She leans back. The wheels on her chair scrap sharply against the floor. It an uncomfortable noise, one that grinds me the wrong way.

"I think you need long-term therapy, Shadow."

She's made that judgement just by meeting with me a couple of times? My heart fills with dread. "Does that mean I have to stay here?" It's barely been over twenty-four hours and I feel like I'm already going insane.

"I think we can decide that tomorrow." It's not the answer I want, but I keep my mouth shut. "But, regardless, talk therapy is good for everyone."

"I don't have problems, though," I insist.

"Maybe you don't think that you do, but everyone has problems. Some are just more extreme than others. That's why talk therapy is good for everyone, not just a select few."

Yeah, whatever.

"But what do you think you should do?" she asks.

I frown. What do I think I should do? I think I should be allowed to leave, but I highly doubt she’ll agree with that. I also think I should be allowed to light up a joint, but, again, that's not exactly part of the program. When I finally do speak, it comes out more sarcastic that I intend.

"If I was allowed to do what I want, I wouldn't be here."

"Understandable." She pauses. "I tell you what." Wheeling her chair back (and causing it to make that God-awful noise again), she stands. She walks over to the cabinet against the wall. She turns the key that's already in the lock and opens the top drawer. She pulls something out then sits back down. As she puts it on the table in front of me, I lean forward to look at it.

It's a notebook. It doesn't have spirals like the one I typically use, and it looks a little heavier, but it has a nice design on the front: some gold embossing.

I scoot it back towards her. "I already have a notebook." I'm not exactly looking for a new one, either. I like keeping all my lyrics in one place, and it's annoying when I finish one notebook and have to start a new one.

"Consider this a fresh start." She scoots it back to me, and I have to balance it against my fingertips to prevent it from falling. "It's good that you're already writing down your thoughts, but the less baggage you have to carry, the better your recovery will be."

Recovery, similarly, to the word "addiction," leaves a bad taste in my mouth and I have to resist the urge to wince.

"What, you want me to write and share it with you?"

"Oh no. I'd never assume to intrude into your personal thoughts. It's just that... Sometimes, it's easier for people to verbalize things when they write them down first. Pretend it’s a practice run."

"I thought the whole point of a diary was so that you didn't have to share anything with anyone."

"Some people use them for that, too. Overall, they're great for clarity."

"What am I supposed to write about?"

"It’s not a school assignment, Shadow,” she says, “write about what you want."

"And then...?"

"And then that's it. There's nothing else you have to do."

Though she says it's not an assignment, it feels like one. I exhale and shrug. "Yeah, fine. I guess I can do that." It makes me nervous, though. Why am I afraid that everything I write might be used against me?

"If you don't know where to start, pretend as if you're writing your life story." I must have given her a puzzled expression, for she says, "You don't have to write about a specific day. You can just write about your life in general. And for someone who's in a band and writes music, I can't imagine that too difficult."

It's not; I just don't see the point.

Still, I'm willing to agree to whatever she wants me to do if it's gets me out of here.

"Yeah, I'll give it a go."

She smiles. "Excellent. But in order for this to work, you need to set aside time every day. Make a habit; not just when you feel like it. Maybe when you first get up in the morning or right before you go to bed."

My usual morning routine generally involves a nicely rolled joint, so I guess I'll save the diary nonsense for the evening.

"You can try it for a while, and, as we continue to work together, maybe we'll find something else that's better suited for you. Can you try something for me, though?" I nod. "Whenever you choose to do, I also want you to consider your withdrawal. What symptoms are you noticing? Is it better or worse than the day before? Rate it out of ten, with ten being the most difficult to process."

"And that's what I share with you?"

She shakes her head. "You don't share anything with me that you write down. This is for you, Shadow. Not me."

The rest of the session goes by quickly. She asks me a couple of questions. I answer them the best I can, but it feels like I'm beginning to sound repetitive. By the time we finish up, I wonder: has she been asking me the same questions over and over this entire time, or is it just impossible for me to answer without saying the same thing over again?

Either way, it’s tiring.

As I walk back to my room, I clutch the notebook under my arm. I'm going to try—I really am—but I don't see it lasting beyond a couple of days. Writing lyrics is easy, but writing about my emotions and how I feel and how I just desperately want a bump?

Who knows how that’s going to go?

-

A/N: Thoughts? What do you think will happen next? Let me know what you think here. Chapter 6 will be out on Tuesday. Hope your weekend is off to a great start; talk soon!

-Liana

[belphegor1982]

And Tom and Jon, 31

(EDIT: urgh, sorry, Tumblr is stupid and won’t put the “keep reading” at the right place. So this is a long post. Sorry again :S)

(“flowers” it is, then!) This is set just at the end of the Christmas holidays, after Jonathan returns from home. Our two lads have acknowledged that what they have is more than a couple of friends having fun; they did the do, they said the words, and they’ve come to terms with that. Now if they could only find a beard girls to (pretend to) flirt with to hide the fact that they love each other 🤔

(which is how you get this: fluff! idiots in love being idiots! and proof that Tommy does have his share of chancy ideas, as well :D)

Lost in Translation

“Flowers?” Jon repeats, sounding a little suspicious. Tommy nods enthusiastically.

“Yeah, flowers! My cousin Annie and her husband sent each other flowers at least twice a week before they got married. She said each one had a special meaning and they had whole conversations without even sendin’ each other letters. Apparently flowers have a ‘language’.”

“That does ring a bell, yes,” Jon says, still squinting in that way he has when he thinks someone is trying to put one over on him. “It’s not a language I speak, though. And you’re proposing, what – giving flowers to random girls in the hope that they’ll stop long enough to talk?”

Tommy shrugs.

“Why not? At the very least it might make them smile. And it’ll make a good talkin’ point.”

There is no rejoinder, only a warm puff of air against the skin of his chest as Jon gives a snort. He does appear to think it over, though. After all, if they’re going to find girls they can pretend to court – which is the whole point of this conversation – anything that can help is welcome.

“All right,” says Jon finally. “What do we want to ‘say’, then?”

“Well, I was thinkin’ carnations, mostly. They’re supposed to be about, er, fascination, admiration, that sort of thing. The white ones are a symbol of innocence, I think.”

“Hm.”

Jon’s hand, which for the past few minutes was splayed on Tommy’s chest, shifts as he caresses the skin with the back of his fingers.

“We usually wear white carnations as boutonnières,” he points out with a small smirk that somehow manages to look thoroughly wicked. “How ‘innocent’ do you think that makes us?”

It’s Tommy’s turn to snigger. No amount of white carnations could make Jon look innocent. Even when he has neither said nor done anything reprehensible, he still gives the impression of being up to something.

“Not very. But that’s the thing about symbols – it’s all in the eye of the beholder, so to speak.”

“How very true.” Jon thinks for a bit, fingers still moving idly. “Look at green carnations. Sweet little flower, perfectly innocuous colour, but anyone who wears one at his lapel might get odd looks at best and probably a nasty encounter with the more savvy members of the constabulary at worst.”

“Why’s that?” asks Tommy, curious.

“Let me put it this way: if I were interested only in chaps and looking for a way to advertise that fact without, y’know, advertising it, I could resort to wearing a green carnation at my lapel.” Jon pauses, lays a kiss just under Tommy’s collarbone, and adds, “Of course I’d have to be a bit desperate, considering the risks.”

He raises his eyes to Tommy’s, smiling that little smile of his, almost a smirk if it weren’t for the warmth. His expression is clear: I’m glad I don’t have to.

So is Tommy. He’s just had a week to ponder the fact that he actually said “I love you” for the first time, and he doesn’t regret it now any more than he did then. And it seems that Jon, for all that he looks a little frayed around the edges sometimes since the beginning of the Christmas holidays, doesn’t regret saying it, either.

If pretending to flirt means he gets to keep what they have, then by God Tommy Ferguson is going to flirt.

* * * *

Of course, when the next day Jon disappears then reappears with a dozen carnations and a grin like the cat that got the cream, Tommy starts to have creeping doubts regarding this whole operation.

“Where did you get those?” he asks, suspicious.

“You told me you didn’t want me to put more money than you into this endeavour of ours, didn’t you? Well, good news! You don’t have to pay one bob.”

Tommy’s jaw drops.

“Jon, for God’s sake – did you steal those?”

“No, I did not.”

Tommy stares at Jon until he squirms just a little.

“I picked them,” he says pointedly. “There’s a difference. Stealing would imply they were someone else’s property.”

They probably were, but Tommy knows better than to ask. Except –

“Did anyone see you?”

“Who do you take me for, some bloody amateur?” says Jon, sounding scandalised. “The Parks are quite empty at seven in the morning. Besides, I was careful, you know – only picked one flower every three or four. Not even the Superintendent’s going to notice. Shall we go?”

Go they do, but eastwards, towards the Water Meadow. Tommy isn’t too keen on setting foot in the University Parks while the flowerbeds look like they’ve been pillaged, and Jon, in an uncharacteristic display of sense, isn’t in a hurry to show his face there.

Unfortunately, when at the end ofthe day they compare their respective tallies, it becomes obvious that something is not quite right. Not only they both failed to get a single name, let alone a rendezvous, but most of the girls who stopped long enough to look at the flowers they were offered strode off in a huff.

Which means that the flowers Jon picked (in other words, stole) wither and become quite unfit for gifts by the day after.

That evening, at hall, Tommy and Jon both stare glumly into their mushy peas.

“I don’t understand!” says Tommy at some point, fork clattering on the table. “What kind of girl doesn’t like being handed flowers?”

“The local kind, evidently,” Jon mutters into his palm. It’s terrible manners, propping your elbow on the table and your chin in your hand, but it’s informal hall and they’re too despondent to care.

‘Darling’ Darlington – one of the few first-years who stayed in college for the entire vacation – looks at them curiously.

“What do you mean?”

“We thought we’d take advantage of the holidays to find company of the female persuasion.” Jon doesn’t miss a beat. He doesn’t even take his chin off of his palm. “No offence to you chaps, but a man needs a bit of variety once in a while.”

This is said matter-of-factly, like a truth universally acknowledged. Meanwhile, Tommy feels Jon’s foot nudge his ankle under the table, and he grins into his glass.

Darling nods wisely.

“That’s only natural. I wish you the best fortune. But where do flowers come into it?”

“I thought we could use the ‘language of flowers’,” says Tommy, who is fully prepared to shoulder the blame for the apparent failure. “We got a bunch of carnations to give girls, to convey admiration and all that, but all we got was glared at.”

“I see.” Darling eats a bit of his beef, swallows, and asks, “And what colours were your carnations, if I may?”

“Yellow, mostly,” Jon replies. “Some had stripes. Why?”

The bark of laughter Darling lets out makes the whole table turn to look at them.

“Because,” Darling says with barely-restrained mirth, “yellow carnations convey disdain and rejection, and the striped ones mean refusal. You spent a day telling every girl you met that you despised them and couldn’t be with them.”

Tommy and Jon both open their eyes wide, stare at each other, and groan.

“Oh, bloody hell.”

“Which flowers should we have used, then?” asks Tommy just a little desperately.

Darling puts down his fork and counts off, still grinning, “Let me see… Pink roses for grace, gardenias for secret love, chrysanthemums for joy and optimism – only not the yellow ones, that’s ‘slighted love’…”

“I think I’ll stick to English to speak to girls after all,” says Jon flatly. “Fewer risks of misunderstandings that way.”

Darling’s eyes are twinkling in a way that says he’s finding their misadventure a lot funnier than they do, but at least he makes no further comment.

“Well,” says Tommy as they file out of the hall after dinner, “there goes my idea.”

“It wasn’t a bad idea,” Jon insists, which makes Tommy smile, because if he knows Jon at all at least half of that isn’t a lie. “The execution needed work, that’s all. Doesn’t mean we’re all that hopeless.”

“I know.” Tommy’s mind strays to the wilted carnations they’re going to have to get rid of somehow and he says, “No more stealing flowers to give to girls, though. We’ll find something else.”

Jon agrees, the matter is closed, and they’re off to the pub.

* * * *

A few days later, after the start of term, Tommy takes two minutes between class and a late morning shift at the Turf Tavern to drop into his hamper a few dirty collars, cuffs, and drawers he forgot in Jon’s room. Just as he’s about to run out, however, he notices his bed is slightly unmade.

Slightly, but in a very conspicuous way.

Tommy makes to fold the covers properly, but stills when he spots something that sticks out from under the pillow.

And laughs.

It’s a sheet of paper, folded in two, in which lie two flowers, neatly pressed: a gardenia and a green carnation.

Three hours later, at the end of his shift, Tommy is still smiling like an idiot.

__________

A boutonnière in English is the flower a man can wear at the lapel of his jacket. (In French it’s a buttonhole. *shrug*)

Oscar Wilde, trailblazer and trendsetter that he was, wore a green carnation on his lapel, and it became a symbol for gay men from the late Victorian age well into the 20th century.

I’ll work on your TF2 ASAP! :o)