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artboitrash · 5 years ago

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His Bloody Rose (Stefano Valentini fanfiction) Chapter 3 - Working Day

Days passed since I had met Stefano on my Wednesday shift; the weekend came and let me move through the motions of daily life. I never ended up looking up his name. While I was curious, I didn't need to go snooping around for information on a stranger.

I sat quietly in the gallery the following Monday, scrolling through my Facebook page, absentmindedly wondering about some more distant friends that I didn't interact with online. Everything, as far as I was aware, was going smoothly in my classes, and I didn't have anything too pressing for the next few weeks. Pet pictures and photos of family members went through my feed interspersed with articles about politics and science breakthroughs.

A new article posted a few hours ago came across my dash, linked to a statement from the Krimson City's police department about an urgent matter. The headline read "Mutilated Woman's Body Found Over the Weekend - Search for Identity Matches Missing Woman from Krimson City" and continued with an introduction to the article.

I clicked on the link and began to scroll through the story, reading about how the body was missing its arms and head, rendering it as barely more than a torso. A crime scene photo, blurred for those who didn't want to see it, showed her crumpled frame laying in a small pool of blood in an alleyway once the filter was removed. There was barely any blood left, showing that the majority of the wounds and bloodletting occurred elsewhere.

"Due to some defensive wounds, police are saying this person was alive while they were being dismembered. Identity of body suspected to be Genevieve Wavers, a young woman pursuing an acting and modeling career. She was last seen in a bar downtown before disappearing six days ago. The police chief will be making a statement today about the series of murders that have been occurring within our beloved town."

I frown slightly as I continue scrolling, discussing how the family of the woman is reacting to the news, how it hasn't been completely confirmed until the DNA testing comes back conclusive, and discussion of how similar murders have been ongoing within the city.

A serial murderer is an interesting idea to study in terms of true crime interests, but it doesn't actually feel fun when there's a real threat living in your city and walking around as though they are a real person.

I shut out of the tab on my phone. That's enough internet for right now, I don't need to become wildly paranoid. So far I think I'm safe from the supposed serial killer, or whoever is killing and dismembering young women in Krimson. Sure I'm a young woman too, but I doubt I'm the ideal victim for them.

I guess I wouldn't really know that, though.

A student walked into the gallery, meandering in slowly. I sat down my phone, sitting attentive to make sure they knew I was there to answer any questions they might have. The waved slightly at me, acknowledging me, then started to walk around the exhibit.

I turned to my sketchbook, staring at the sketch I had been working on before becoming frustrated and turning to my phone for entertainment. I frowned, then picked up my block eraser and began to erase the entire thing. I didn't like how it was turning out, and I knew I would never come back to it, so might as well get rid of it now before it becomes a mental burden to the book and an embarrassment to me.

The student walked towards the desk, causing me to look up at him. He was a student I was familiar with, as he had been in several of my art classes.

"Hey, it's nice to see you again!" He said with a smile, polite as he usually was.

I nodded towards him. "Always good to see you." I made a mental note that I didn't know or remember his name.

"Do you know what this piece is called?" he held up his phone, showing a photograph of a piece from the last gallery installment. "I meant to get it before it came down, but I wasn't able to remember it, and I've asked around my class that needs the paper, but no one knows what it's called."

Someone else walked in, but I didn't pay attention to them while I was preoccupied with the student in front of me. I knew a few teachers in the art department had set a short paper to talk free form about a piece of their selection. A few other students from other classes have come in with the same question, but I'm normally not helpful. Especially now since this installment has been up for nearly a month. I stared at the photo for a moment, recognizing the image but not remembering the name, then shrugged.

"Sorry, I didn't catch most of the names from the last rotation." I said, leaning back in my seat. "I would recommend talking to your teacher and asking if you could do a paper on one of the pieces from this one."

"Oh, alright..." His voice trailed off, turning his phone to himself to look at the photograph again and scratching his neck.

I smiled halfheartedly, turning my attention the other patron. The student was a woman with long brown hair lingering close to the desk I was sitting at, obviously waiting for my attention. The man I was talking to turned and began to wander around the room to look at the pieces again.

The girl walked to my desk. "Uhm, sorry, but do you have any of the last paintings from the last gallery?"

I shook my head. "Only one or two in the backroom since they were sold, but all the name plates are in a pile in a tray mixed with other rotations."

"Okay. . ." her voice hesitated, then she pulled out her phone from her bag and scrolled through it. "Do you know the name of this one?"

She held out her phone with a photograph from the last installment. It was a different piece from what the other student had asked me to remember, but I was still at a loss for the names. I kept my polite smile but sighed internally. Props to her for not eavesdropping on my last conversation. Working in the gallery is fun, but when someone puts off their paper until a month after their reference is pulled off the walls, I tend to feel like it's not worth it.

"Sorry, no." I said. "I don't know the name. If you need it for a paper, I'd recommend asking your teacher if you can change the subject of the paper."

She nods, then puts her phone away, frowning as though she was embarrassed. "Well, thank you anyway."

She walked out of the gallery, hung head a little. I could tell the poor girl was severely anxious. I slid my mouth to the side. I mentally apologized again, though knowing it wasn't my fault, I felt bad that so many people didn't realize that the gallery attendants weren't completely infallible. If I knew the names of each piece from the last artist, I would certainly help the people that came in and asked. However, for now each of the students were on their own until I can get photographic memory like the phones that didn't capture the names of the pieces the students are trying to reference.

I continue trying to work with a sketch on the now blank page laying open in my sketchbook. I play with the lines, trying to turn light scribbles into a full piece, starting over and trying to use the page as a character sheet or as a thumbnail experiment page for paintings. However, I don't seem to be able to make anything work, and I eventually give up on the now messy and greyed page. Perhaps today just isn't my day to continue my drawings.

I sigh and pick up my phone again. I open Facebook again, scrolling through my feed. I come across some more articles discussing the current climate of fear in Krimson, more talks about who might be the serial killer running amongst the citizens. Comments sections full of "Anyone could have done this, we aren't being told anything by the police" and "These officials don't know how to do their jobs, no wonder multiple serial killers have lived here in the past decade."

I frown and try not to think about the current state of the city. Too many police went missing in one of the last incidents in Krimson, so I'm not surprised if they're understaffed or waiting for new personnel. When there aren't as many people to keep the criminals in check, it seems the criminals will run rampant like an invasive species.

Someone walked into the gallery, causing me to look up. It was my coworker, Angela, come to take my place since my shift was now over. I smiled at her and began to pick up my things. We began to make conversation and talked quietly as I stood to leave the gallery. We made jokes about shared experiences from working the gallery, discussing family life and bonding over mutual things.

Finally, I turned and began to leave for my class. I was sure I had wasted enough time chatting, but when I made connections with people I couldn't help investing whatever time was available to be with them. It was exhausting sometimes, but worth it when I can make a strong connection with someone.

Walking out the door from the gallery, I waved and said "see you" to Angela. I walked a few paces, then walked into something. I backed up, stumbling, trying to regain my balance.

I fell as I failed to regain my composure, stumbling backwards over my own feet. The concrete flooring was cold and unflinching, rather painful as my leg bent roughly underneath me. I heard someone's voice cry out with a loud slamming into the ground that wasn't me. It dawned on me that I had run into a person and knocked them over.

I looked over to the person saying "Oh my god, I'm so sorry!"

A man with a single eye obscured by his bangs lay in front of me on the floor, now sitting up and staring at me. It was Stefano, and I could see his portfolio from last time laying across the floor where he had dropped it. His face was twisted in rage, a taught frown on his face and visible eyebrow turned down, casting a dark shadow over his eye. Then his face softened, and he began to get up.

"Well, Miss Rose, I didn't expect to see you again today." He spoke through a tense voice, masking almost pure rage coming through as he spoke. He reached for his portfolio as he stood, then brushed his off, patting down some of the dirt his black suit picked up while on the floor. The top button was undone on his pristine shirt collar, the black coat protecting the pure white fabric from a smudge of dirt across his side.

I hurriedly got up, grabbing my book bag, forgetting that I was in a rush to get to my next class. "I'm so, so sorry, I didn't see you while I was walking."

"Nor did I see you." He said, no longer speaking with an enraged tone. "Though, I would recommend you watch where you are going next time. I doubt few would be as forgiving as me."

I blinked, taken aback from his comment.

His face shifted, then a smile spread across his lips. He lifted his portfolio, then gestured me to follow him. I walked with him as he sat down on a bench across the hall from where I had been standing.

"You are responsible for one of my newest creations, bella." he chuckled quietly as I sat down next to him. "After you had shown me those photos from Miss Sally Mann, I was struck with such inspiration that I had to create something new."

I didn't notice how low he was speaking at first. He opened his leather portfolio, the echo of the zipper bouncing through the hall.

"You developed a new photograph, or. . ."

"I created several, though I am only carrying the best with me in this."

He flipped gently through the transparent folders holding his pictures, as though checking to make sure none were damaged from falling. Once he got closer to the ending, he turned the portfolio to me and set it on my lap. Two pictures looked back at me, one of an eye buried under dozens of hands, staring out at the viewer. I stared at it for a moment, seeing the crispness of the shadows meeting and contrasting with the skin tones of the hands and what was visible of the face. The eye shone in terror it seemed, bloodshot, and almost begging to be saved from the inevitable fate of being touched.

A low rumble of laughter came from the man sitting next to me. "I admire your appreciation, but I was speaking about this one." His gloved hand guided me to the opposite page and tapped it slightly.

It was a woman with missing limbs and head dislocated from her body, face obscured by roses and tree leaves. She was wearing a red dress that turned into a river at her feet, simulating a river of blood flowing through a forest. Large trees overlapped and faded into the background, implying that the focus of the woman was that she was part of a waterfall, leaning back in a near bliss at bringing life to the land around her despite her obvious death.

I felt my heart pound, something about the way the girl stood reminded me of the police report and crime photo I had seen earlier. I blinked and shook my head.

"What are your thoughts?" Stefano shattered my train of thought, a smile crossing his face as I looked up at him. "You are the first. To see this newest work of mine."

I turned back to it, taking in the composition of this photograph, ignoring the gnawing thoughts in the back of my head. I stared, taking in the sharp contrast colors, scarlet dress and crimson flowing liquid clashing like a kiss with the warm brown of the trees and cool leaves. I realized there was a ripple of wind, pushing the dress and leaves in movement swaying to the left of the picture.

"It's. . ." my voice trailed off, not sure how to describe the strange feeling it was evoking in me. "Wonderful."

Silence ensued next to me. I saw his face change in my peripheral vision. I could have sworn his smile had fallen to a frown or a neutral expression. I didn't look at him, but kept staring to absorb each detail.

"It's a little busy with all the details in the bark," I traced the weathered trees with all the heavy lines pointing up and down in near parallel lines. "But the shading, and the lighting, and the contrast... It fits the image perfectly. The leaves by her face are so well contrasted to her dress, and her skin stands out perfectly with the trees."

"Perfectly. . ." he whispered.

I looked up at Stefano, seeing he was staring at me. His gaze was intense and almost distant. He wasn't lost in his thoughts, but his eyes were shifting around me as though seeing something. I turned around to see what he was looking at.

Instantly a hand grabbed my chin, pulling my face back around. Stefano's hand had pulled me back around to stare at him, grip firm and unrelenting. He had leaned forward to grab me, and his concentration was partially lost. Soon the intense gaze resumed and looked around my face and passed me. The cool leather shaping my chin didn't leave, holding me in place as he continued to gaze at me. A slight smirk appeared on his lips, causing me to notice, then turn my own gaze away in embarrassment. I could see his green eye widening, in mania or excitement I wasn't sure.

We sat there like that as people passed us, some I noticed were staring since we were both sitting like statues on the bench. I realized a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach. Most people caused an uncomfortable feeling when they touched me, like cactus needles rubbing underneath my skin. However, this wasn't being triggered while Stefano held my head in place. I could smell his cologne again more faintly this time and the scent of a photography lab, causing a memory to surface from when I took a traditional photography class for my degree.

Finally he let go of me and I backed up. My back protested as I sat up, realizing he had been pulling me slowly towards him. It popped loudly as I sat straight, pulling away from his figure to grab my bag again.

"Excuse me for that, a new image came to my mind and I had to form it properly." He laughed it off slightly.

I looked down at my watch out of habit, then realized I was several minutes late to my first morning class. I grasped the portfolio, still laying in my lap, and handed it to Stefano who had begun to stand up.

"I'm so sorry, I need to leave. I'm late for my class, and I--"

A hand grabbed mine, pulling me up. The strength of the pull made me land awkwardly into the chest of the man who had grabbed me. I looked up into Stefano's eye, a neutral look on his face, but a strange glint in his eye. He frowned, and his eyes narrowed.

"Well, I too am late, bella Rosa," he said while frowning. "I was on my way to a meeting when you ran into me."

His tone implied he hadn't stopped me again and chose to show me his pictures a few minutes ago.

"But, I shall forgive you," he said quietly as he leaned down. "If only you live up to your charm from the first time we met."

He pressed his lips against my forehead, a hand pressing flat against the back of my head. They were warm and soft against my skin. My eyes fluttered closed, making my other senses more noticeable. I was aware of a warmth in my stomach, something odd and new, like a fire or a sick nauseous feeling spreading through me. I swallowed as a lump formed in my throat. His lips against my forehead were gentle, and they lingered probably a little longer than was socially acceptable. His fingertips twitched against my skull, then pulled away. His lips slid up my forehead as he pulled away, lifting his head. My eyes fluttered back open, still not sure this had really happened.

"Hopefully you are still my good luck charm, bella Rosa." Stefano chuckled, smile stretching to one side of his face. He backed away a little, tucking his portfolio under his left arm. "Perhaps we will meet again, and if we have enough time you may model for me to complete the new image flourishing in my mind."

He walked past me slowly, and I turned with him as he walked away. He turned back and glanced at me with a smile still on his face.

I stood, frozen, as I watched him walk away and disappear around the corner. It took me several moments to recollect myself. I came back to the present as I blinked several times. I ignored the odd ache and burn in my stomach, recollecting my thoughts. I shook my head as I made sure I had all my things and began walking to my class. I couldn't care about being late now, my thoughts more scrambling about a near stranger kissing me on the head.

I tried to push down the thoughts and emotions that continued to surface as I walked into my class. I ignored the people that turned and looked at me as I opened the door and made my way through the back of the room.

My mind wouldn't process whatever was the topic of class that day. I pulled out my sketchbook and eventually started drawing on a new page, just trying to push my mind away from the look in his eyes as he had stared at me.

#Stefano Valentini #the evil within stefano #tew #tew2 #The Evil Within 2 #writing #fanfiction #stefano valentini fanfiction #His Bloody Rose #Chapter 3 #working day

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lykezoinks · 8 years ago

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[ a/n: alright, this is my last entry for @klangst-week. thanks everybody for all the likes and reblogs! it keeps me writing, and it’s just nice to see people enjoying what i’m putting out! also, the works everyone’s created have just been amazing, so keep it up, y’all! ]

title: impulse control words: 3,547 prompt: secrets/betrayal rating/genre: T for language, modern au, college au, angst & hurt/comfort with a tinge of humor trigger warning(s): mental illness (implied depression and anxiety), depersonalization, mentions of injury (bruises and blood) extra notes: keith and shiro are adoptive brothers (it’s mentioned very briefly), klance is established

Yes, he works in the most hipster coffee shop within a twenty mile radius of campus. And yes, he loves it. Sure, The Underground sounds more like a sketchy bar you’d find in an alleyway that may or may not host fight clubs every other night, and yeah, it kinda smells like pencil shavings even after he mops the floors three times at opening, but at least it has character. Most people would roll their eyes at the always pretentious shop-goer in their thrift store clothing and knit hats, but Lance can’t help but find them interesting. Not that it surprises anyone.

Lance became famous around campus after only one year of being a— totally amazing, if he may say so himself— residence hall assistant. Almost anyone who lived in Levine Hall found a friend in Lance McClain. Eager to please and even more eager to befriend, it’s no secret that he falls in love with almost every social interaction he can muster up.

So he really doesn’t mind if a customer wants to discuss their latest film project, and he’s always happy to adhere to any non-dairy milk preference. Though he doesn’t have a septum ring to match his coworkers’ and he’s a bit too smiley for the spoken poetry nights they host on the stage in the back, that doesn’t stop anyone from placing a dollar in the tip jar after he compliments their tattoos or ends a pleasant conversation with a smile and a wink.

The night shift is easy enough to work. People stop entering the cafe sometime after ten, staying their welcome to study on the couches and leaving before closing. Lance’s manager insists Lance work the front while Floyd takes on the side work. So the remainder of Lance’s shift is spent leaning his elbow against the counter and letting his fingers fall one-by-one against his cheek. He tells leaving customers to enjoy the rest of their night as they leave behind a buzz of idle chatter and a ding of the door. Once the cafe clears out, all that’s left is the sounds of Floyd sweeping the floors and an acoustic song from some band that Lance thinks should have never left their basement.

“Am I free to go, bossman?” Lance asks, drumming his hands against the counter, wiggling his hips in time with the beat as his eyes dart between Floyd and the analog clock on the wall.

“You’re good to go,” Floyd nods, sliding Lance’s wallet across the countertop.

With a happy sigh, Lance punches a few buttons on the register, pulling the drawer out and placing it in the office in the back before clocking himself out and grabbing his keys from the hook. The second he does, his phone rings from its spot in his jacket pocket. Slipping it into his palm, he drags his thumb across the screen and cradles it between his ear and his shoulder. “Perfect timing! How’s it hangin’, Pidgeotto?”

“Lance! Hey, um…” The way Pidge says ‘Lance’, high pitched and cracking, tells him he’s about to get bad news. Before he can stop her, Pidge is already stringing together a plethora of subject changers that just seem ridiculous given that the two of them weren’t on a particular subject to begin with.

“Pidge,” Lance interrupts partway through some bullshit commentary having to do with the ‘crazy weather we’ve been having.’ Lance knows that no one has to explain climate change to Pidge, given its something she rants about at least twice a day. “What’s going on?”

“Yeah, okay… Um, we’re at Black Spot… And, uh— Hunk… Hunk, would you— No, grab him! Jesus… “

“What happened?” His sigh is heavy as he closes the door behind him after giving Floyd a curt wave, already headed toward his car. The Black Spot never means anything good, ever. Why his boyfriend so loves the town’s shadiest bar is beyond Lance; he doesn’t exactly find peeling paint and stained floor boards charming. And the muscled biker guys that do nothing but take up space at the bar to glower at the assorted whiskeys along the wall and ramble about their Navy days— or something like that— don’t exactly put Lance in the partying mood.

“Lotor happened.”

“Oh, God…” Lance drags a hand down his face before pinching the bridge of his nose.

He doesn’t need context. Any instance in which Lance’s current boyfriend and Lance’s ex-boyfriend are in the same room usually results in disaster. And a night in the E.R. And, lo and behold, by some cruel twist of fate, these disasters are becoming more and more frequent in recent months. Lance is half convinced that they’re destined to kill each other, like Lotor is Tybalt and Keith is a far less flamboyant Mercutio. Lance refuses to be the Benvolio in this situation. “Just stay put. I’ll be there in a sec.”

A near collision and a half-assed parallel parking job later, Lance walks himself outside the bar, feeling exceptionally underdressed as the Winter weather dusts over his arms. He has to push himself through a crowd of people waiting to be let in by the bouncer before he sees a head of familiar wild hair. In her NASA sweatshirt and minimalist alien hat, Pidge looks like she belongs at a performance art showcase rather than a night out on the town, but Lance is too exhausted to comment on his friends’ poor fashion decisions. Even if that Hawaiian shirt is so not Hunk’s color.

Instead, his focus shifts onto his leather-clad boyfriend, and rather than point out the fact he looks like a Danny Zuko knock-off with a red beanie and black baby gauges in his ears, he steps forward with his arms crossed instead.

“Hey, Lance,” Pidge sighs, sounding somewhat relieved. Hunk is a bit busy grabbing at Keith’s shoulder every time he tries to take a step toward the street. Handling a Drunk Keith is like— as Keith would say in True Texan Spirit— herding cats.

“Hey,” Lance says briskly, marching passed Pidge to strap a hand on the collar of Keith’s jacket. “Lemme see.”

Keith huffs and turns his head, looking utterly indifferent as Lance’s eyes widen.

“Shit, Keith…” He squints a little, scanning over his boyfriend’s busted lip and the fresh patch of bruises, purples, blues, and reds bleeding from underneath one eye, across the bridge of his nose, and all the way under his other eye.

“It’s not that bad,” Keith slurs, holding up a wavering hand.

“Not that—!” Lance has to close his eyes and suck in a breath through his nose, counting to ten just like Mama McClain taught him, before he can open his eyes again. But his glare doesn’t disappear.

“Sorry, man,” Hunk all but mewls beside him, rubbing at the back of his neck in a flustered fashion. “I tried to pull them off of each other as soon as I could.”

“It’s not your fault, big guy,” Lance assures, turning to his best friend with a soft smile before glaring right back at his boyfriend. “It’s yours.”

“Why is it that all of a sudden—” Keith starts, but Lance knows better than to let him divert Lance’s attention.

“There’s no way Lotor with his pretty boy hands was the only culprit. Who the hell were you picking a fight with this time?”

Keith chews at the inside of his cheek, opting to take out his pent up anger on the ground as he fixes it with a fiery glare.

Pidge steps in for him then, pushing her circle glasses further up her nose. “The usual suspects.”

“Great,” Lance grumbles, never breaking his staring contest with Keith’s profile. “So now you wanna take on Lotor and his frat buddies. All of whom are very rich… And can hire very. Good. Attorneys.”

“Lance.” Hunk sets a hand on Lance’s back, offering a sympathetic look that makes Lance’s hunched shoulders deflate. “I know you’re mad, but do you really wanna do this out here?”

It’s then that Lance realizes he’s making a scene, the crowd of people on the street gawking in their direction. And he also realizes that it’s making Keith antsy. That’s apparent in the way he starts shifting his shoulders in every which way and pales a little in the face.

“We’re the ones who let your boyfriend off his leash,” Pidge admits, saying “your boyfriend” like he’s now completely Lance’s responsibility. Saying it like she hasn’t been Keith’s best friend since the fifth grade.

Lance fishes his car keys from his back pocket, still trying to cool off from the anger burning something fierce in his chest. “You guys enjoy the rest of your night, okay? I’m gonna take Keith back to the apartment.”

“Are you sure? We can come with you,” Hunk offers, the concern never leaving his eyes for a moment.

“No, seriously, it’s fine. Besides, I thought I saw a familiar little curly girly named Shay head into that other bar a couple blocks from here.”

Hunk reddens just a little, but nods in agreement as Pidge makes some complaint about being a third wheel. In a mess of goodbyes and repeatedly reaching for Keith’s hand— his opposition to PDA is counterproductive given that he can’t walk by himself without stumbling— Lance finally gets the chance to unlock his car and slide into the driver’s seat. Keith flops down into the passenger’s seat next to him, pulling one leg up to rest his foot on the polyester as he plays absently with the laces on his high tops.

The drive home is silent, mostly because Lance can’t think of a decent lecture that won’t end in a two-way silent treatment, something that’s proven to be agonizing given they’re the only two living in a one-bedroom apartment. After Lance parks, helps Keith climb the stairs, and fumbles with the key in the lock, Keith finds a spot in their too small kitchen, sliding down the lower cabinets to sit cross-legged on the floor. Because apparently he’s a household pet.

Lance rifles through the freezer, snagging a bag of whatever’s packaged and frozen before all but chucking it onto one of Keith’s thighs. Keith seems to get the message, picking it up and hesitantly pressing it to his multi-colored face. Lance finds the place on the floor across from his boyfriend and sits back on his thighs, staring. For a long while, the only sounds in the room are the hum of the refrigerator and their neighbor’s dog yipping through the walls.

“Are we gonna talk about this?” Lance says it more rhetorically than anything.

Keith swallows hard, trying to cover up half of his face with vegetable medley. His voice is muffled by the plastic when he says, “About what?”

Lance rolls his eyes, shaking his head. He has half the mind to storm off into the bedroom and leave Keith to tend to his own wounds. But being a middle sibling of six has taught him patience if nothing else, so he counts to ten again. “About why your face looks like a Goya painting,” he deadpans.

Keith fidgets under Lance’s gaze. His knuckles would be white if they weren’t bruised too. “You know how your asshole ex is.”

“Keith, you have got to pull your head out of the Middle Ages! I’m not some damsel in distress whose honor you have to defend.” Though Lance would admit it was hot the first time… But seeing Keith beat up with dried blood caked all over his features every other weekend is starting to look less suave and James Deany and more thoughtless.

Keith drops the bag of frozen vegetables. Then his nose twitches. To the untrained eye, it would go unnoticed, but Lance has been dating him for two years and three months. And a nose twitch means that Keith’s hiding something.

“But this has nothing to do with that, does it?”

“Lance, would you just let it go—”

“Okay, fine. You want me to let this one go? Then we can talk about last week. Or the week before that. Or the week before that.”

Keith tries for a glare then, a practiced stare that looks like flames are licking at his irises, but Lance is immune from prolonged exposure.

“And I know you’re not that drunk, so let’s not act like this was impulse alone.”

When Keith shrugs off his jacket and tosses it across the room, Lance sees that the bruises aren’t just on his face. His heart jumps up to his throat as the sound of the ice machine crunches in the background.

“Would you just tell me why you’re being more of a brooding edgelord than usual? Why do you have to be so emotionally constipated?” He places either hand on Keith’s shoulders, looking him dead in the eye. “Let me be your laxative.”

“You really have a knack for making up the world’s most disgusting metaphors.”

“It’s a gift. I’m thinking of turning it into a career path.”

“Stick to astrophysics.”

“Stop changing the subject.” It’s clear that neither of them is budging, so Lance just arches a brow and asks, “Do I have to call Shiro?”

Keith slams his back further into the cabinets with a groan. The older brother card is always the trump card. “Do not tell Shiro about this, please. I’m still getting lectures about my stupid cafeteria fights in high school.”

“Then tell me what’s going on! I thought when we said we were gonna be more open with each other, it was gonna be a two-way street. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“Nothing’s going on, Lance, okay? I hate your ex-boyfriend and his stupid frat bro sidekicks, and I shouldn’t have had that last shot of moonshine, alright?”

While it is incredibly tempting to comment on the moonshine bit, Lance holds off. Because something else catches his eye. Crossing his arms over his chest, he refuses to break eye contact, giving Keith just a few more moments to tell him the truth. The clock ticks away, and there’s nothing. “You’re biting your lip,” he says finally.

“So?”

“So, one, stop it; it’s busted and you’re gonna hurt yourself. And two, that means you’re not telling me something.”

“Would you quit psychoanalyzing me!?”

Patience be damned. Something in Lance snaps then, something that makes his teeth grind and heat bubble in his chest. His fists tremble a little before he throws his hands out to his sides and starts getting to his feet. “Fine, you know what? Fine. Forget I asked. God forbid someone try to care about you, Keith, damn.”

He steps to leave, but as soon as he does, Keith clasps a hand onto his wrist and pulls just a little. The moment Lance turns his head, eyes sharp with ice and prickling rage, he feels his heart jump. The anger slowly trickles out of his system, sending a shiver down his spine. Keith looks a little broken, shoulders squared and eyes pleading in a way that’s so unlike him it makes something in the back of Lance’s head scream.

“I’m sorry, okay? I just… You’re gonna think I’m bat-shit.”

Lance exhales low and deep, turning fully and sitting back down across from Keith. He sets a gentle hand on Keith’s knee, trying to get him to make eye contact. “Try me.”

Keith’s mental illness has been the elephant in the room, always noticed but never talked about. Because Keith refused to talk about it. It took a full year’s convincing, mostly on Shiro’s end, just to get him to start seeing help. Some days he was a mess of the emotions he never learned how to process, and Lance would try his best to be there for him. Other days were better. Other days he was just silent and spacey and tried not to cry.

“No one knows this, okay? Not even Shiro, not even my goddamn shrink, so you can’t…” He trails off, and Lance tries to squeeze his knee in support.

“Keith… Keith, look at me…” When Keith looks up, his eyes are growing misty, pink rings already apparent on the brims of his eyes. “You know you can tell me anything.”

Offering a weak nod, Keith takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as he forces himself to speak. “I just… I thought that maybe… Y’know how sometimes people… I don’t know, I thought if I was… Fuck.” He holds up his hands before Lance can say anything, blinking away whatever tears form in his eyes before he lets out a breath and continues. “I thought if I could feel, I don’t know, pain… If I could feel anything I’d stop feeling like…” Keith clamps his teeth down on his lower lip again. Whatever tears he blinks away only come back.

Lance sighs, reaching out his thumb to slip Keith’s lip from his teeth’s grasp. “Keith, you can cry—”

“No, I can’t,” Keith starts, though his voice trembles despite himself. “Because if I start I won’t stop. And I just— Fuck, I just need to say it.” Lance can practically feel the frustration radiating off of the other in waves. With a steady breath, he takes a hand in Keith’s, holding it to his chest and letting Keith know he has Lance’s full attention. Keith hisses in another breath and tries again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me… Lately, it’s just like, like nothing is fucking real, and I can talk and hear and touch things, but it’s like I’m not really there. Like I’m in some weird dream world, and I’m just watching myself or something. Or like everything’s not really there, or maybe it is, and I’m just not a part of it… I don’t know, it feels like I’m going insane.”

“Keith…” Lance doesn’t know where to go from there, watching his boyfriend struggle around his words with a pain sinking into Lance’s chest.

“Sometimes I don’t think I even sound like me… Like when I talk, it’s some kind of automated computer message, y’know? And I went home for Christmas. And I thought… I don’t know, I thought being home and in my own bed might make me feel normal again. But it didn’t. And nothing feels normal, nothing feels… Damn it, I’m going insane.” That’s when Keith’s face twists, twists into something that’s a punch to Lance’s gut. And Keith is squinting his eyes closed, sniffling loudly before a sob emits from his throat.

“You know… You don’t have to be so strong all the time…” Lance says in a whisper, tucking a strand of Keith’s hair behind his ear.

Keith looks up at him, eyes watery as he sobs again, pressing his face into Lance’s chest. Lance wraps his arms around him instinctively, feeling Keith shake, choking and whimpering against him. Lance can only hold him closer, shushing him tenderly as Keith claws at the back of Lance’s shirt, gripping onto the fabric like he’ll disappear if he doesn’t. Each broken little noise that leaves Keith is another twist in Lance’s heart, and he doesn’t dare let go.

“It’s okay, you’re okay…” Lance coos, pressing tender kisses on the top of Keith’s hair. “You’re okay, baby… You’re okay…”

Keith doesn’t stop weeping, not until his throat is raw and all he can do is let silent tears roll down his cheeks as he snivels and tries to breathe normally again.

By the time he leans back, sniffling and rubbing under his eyes with the back of his palm, there’s a wet patch on Lance’s T-shirt. Lance doesn’t mind, too busy trying to read Keith’s expression, setting a hand on the back of his neck.

“Do you feel any better?” Lance asks softly, ducking his head into Keith’s line of sight.

Keith nods his head slowly, wiping his nose with the white cotton of his T-shirt with another wet snivel. “Sorry about your shirt.”

Lance snorts, rolling his eyes just a little. “I have other shirts.”

“Yeah.” Keith’s breath shudders once more as he collects himself and blinks the wetness from his puffy eyes, tears caught on his eyelashes. “I’m just sorry I—”

“No. No… We agreed no more apologizing about this.”

“No, you said ‘Keith, stop apologizing every time you cry.’”

“Okay, smartass.” Lance rises to his feet, offering his hands and pulling Keith up along with him. With a steady breath, he places a gentle kiss on the corner of Keith’s lips, mindful to avoid the forming scab. “Thank you… For sharing that with me.”

Keith nods solemnly, probably thinking something snarky about how Lance is talking like his therapist. So Lance goes for a subject change, placing his hands at the base of Keith’s neck.

“How about you wash your face and pick out a movie, alright?”

They spend the rest of the night tangled up in each other, Lance refusing to move his arms from Keith’s waist even as Keith awkwardly holds an icepack to his face. Eventually, they drift to sleep, heart beats pumping in time while Lance tries his best to whisper words of comfort.

“I love you… And you’re here. Even if your mind’s playing tricks on you. You’re here, and you’re with me. And I love you…”

#klangstweek2017 #mental illness tw #depersonalisation tw #klangst #klance #voltron #my writing #look at me not abusing italics this time!!

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nicemango-feed · 8 years ago

Text

About that NYT Nazi Article...

Remember when we didn't need to discuss Nazis all the time? Like...back in the day...early 2016-2015. Good times, those were :( So what's this big fuss over the New York Times Nazi Article? What's got everyone so upset? Are the Regressive Leftists being regressive again? God why can't they tolerate different ideas... Did these lefty cucks really think an article would push people into being Nazis? ------ *deep sigh* ---Well--- ...While there were some (I didn't see too many tbh) people going overboard and calling the NYT a literal Nazi Sympathizing paper (like come on, I don't actually think they have a secret Nazi agenda), there were a lot of other good reasons to be disappointed with this article. I'm wary of both ends of this too, carelessly throwing around the term Nazi *and* being overly defensive/underusing the term Nazi, even when it CLEARLY applies. There are people who have accused me of being a 'Nazi sympathizer' because I have been critical of the hijab and niqab as a woman who had to live through 'modesty' enforced by the state in Saudi Arabia. You bet your ass I'm going to be critical...and it's not at all for the same xenophobic fear-mongering reasons most far-righters hate muslims/hijabs in this current climate....And then, there's the other side, where I'm surrounded by supposed 'Rational Skeptic' thinkers who are so 'anti-left' that downplaying Nazis is kind of their embarrassing trademark now. They will literally argue that someone shouting 'Heil Hitler' at a white nationalist speech is "not a Nazi" - because they aren't time-traveling from Nazi era Germany, you see...so technically they can't be Nazis.

Wtf? I thought there were no nazis any more. http://pic.twitter.com/oGZBTTxq3Z

— ＣＨＲＩＳＴＭＡＳＩＳＣＯＭＩＮＧ🎄 (@Neobabylon2) November 7, 2017

(clip via @neobabylon2)

Some are simply so anti-Muslim that it serves their interest to downplay Nazis in a way that would be better suited to The Onion.

There are great intellectual Atheist takes that will put the swastika and Star of David in the same category, and when someone politely explains why that's an issue they will double down and insist that Judaism is *worse* than Nazism actually....

There are tons of examples of this type of ignorant nonsense from Rational Skeptics in the online Atheist scene. If you were to go by some of these commentator's timelines...there is apparently *no* problem with a rise of (neo) Nazis in Trumpian America. It's all just leftist hysteria. According to them, time is best spent arguing against those who refer to Richard Spencer as a Nazi....because he's not a time traveler... *eyeroll* So while I agree, that there are definitely people who overuse the term, I'm also increasingly frustrated by people who downplay the danger of the far-right, who insist Nazis don't exist at all today, who pretend like this is still some fringe issue and not a growing movement with a President who has has created a welcoming space for them. The rest of us, as reasonable humans, should try and exist between these two incredibly stupid and toxic extremes. And with this article, it seemed that NYT was sort of playing the tune of the 'Nazi downplayers'... ----- Let me jump right into why I think the piece was not well received....In fact it was so badly received that the editor had to chime in and explain wtf they were thinking. How the NYT put it in their headline, "Readers Accuse Us of Normalizing a Nazi Sympathizer; We Respond" is a fairly accurate description of most of the criticism. So while not literally Nazi sympathizing, but *normalizing* a Nazi sympathizer....I think that's fair...a case can be made for this article doing exactly that, whether it intended to or not. There's also the fact that the writer of this now notorious piece also wrote an additional piece about how he knew it was missing something, and how he could 'feel the failure' because he didn't get to the heart of why this Nazi turned to his vile belief system. It read like an excuse, something else to pin the colossal failure of this article on, other than the awfulness of the piece itself. I can tell he had enough to write a better piece on this very subject just by reading what he put out. And come on, if you're writing to explain your article and saying you could feel the failure, then I think you've conceded that it was pretty bad. On top of that, there were also factual errors:

The @nytimes "Nazi next door" article appears to have basic factual problems, too https://t.co/EKGTsvemJn http://pic.twitter.com/fpRvrVpA6X

— Will Sommer (@willsommer) November 27, 2017

So much went wrong here. --And it's not that I don't understand what was being attempted. I know this kind of piece, and it can indeed be done very well...the juxtaposition of horrific genocidal beliefs with mundane snippets of everyday existence. There is something to that contrast for sure...but there has to be an actual, proper contrast for that to work. It won't work if it's heavy on the minor details of what everyone was wearing and eating but glosses over the, ya know...genocidal beliefs part. That's when it becomes lopsided..and people start to wonder wtf you were even trying to do, if not a cushy profile? There also has to come a point where the article serves a purpose beyond describing what the nazis were wearing/eating/having on their wedding registry. It should inform us in some way? Tell us something about the movement and radicalization process...other than making the Nazi grievances seem legit. "His faith in mainstream solutions slipped as he toured the country with one of the metal bands. “I got to see people who were genuinely hurting,” he said. “We played coast to coast, but specifically places in Appalachia, and a lot of the Eastern Seaboard had really been hurt.”" This type of article done properly, delves into the extremist's beliefs and frames them in a way that no borderline-nazis reading, could mistake for free promotion. It lets the subject hang himself by his own words, so to speak... but it doesn't jump immediately from him saying *Hitler was chill* to sympathetically telling his story about how society is not fair to him, and what his dream fascist-utopia would look like...punctuated with cute details about Cherry pie tattoos and wedding planning. I mean yeah, of course I understand the need to humanize evil, and to show us that it doesn't come in the shape of an unrelatable monster, it can live, breathe and walk amongst us in the form of our neighbours, coworkers, teachers, friends, etc. That's an important message...it's just that this article failed to deliver it. There is a line between 'humanize' and 'sanitize'...the same line exists between whether one is journalistically exploring an extremist subject or providing a glossy advert for them. This is the difference between Louis Theroux and Dave Rubin (alt-right propagandist) for example. Louis can explore all manner of disturbing extremist subjects but people don't assume he is sympathetic to them because of the way he frames those stories. Dave on the other hand enters his interviews with a clear agenda of wanting the extremists to present their best side, while talking shit about The Left with them. Now, I don't think this NYT piece was like Dave Rubin sanitizing 'migrants are cockroaches' 'we need a final solution' Katie Hopkins bad....There was better intent behind it and it just didn't work out, I want to make that clear. Dave's is an intentional sanitization, this was a poor job of framing the article which resulted in what appeared to be a normalizing effect. When you are trying to show that evil exists among us and goes to Applebee's just like us...then actually position the piece in that way. Then the absurdity of combining white supremacist ideology with a causal turkey sandwich will perhaps even be entertaining. But the key is you make it clear that you are trying to demonstrate how banal evil can be... If done well, this kind of piece can be very effective. The 'banality of evil' genre isn't a write off...but you've got to get the tone right. Don't approach Nazism as if it's a mere cultural curiosity. Don't do it in a way that it serves no purpose other than simply boosting a white supremacist signal out into the world...on a popular, respected mainstream outlet - Because *that* could potentially embolden more borderline white nationalists in this particular white power-y climate....they'll see that they're getting such a fuzzy profile which isn't really demonizing them at all. One that's in fact helping to mainstreamize them! See guys, their hopes and dreams are just like ours! They have muffin tins on their wedding registries! They talk about having kids too! Aww... Nazis *love* mainstream media coverage, so at least try to do it in a way that makes them not love it? “I love mainstream liberals. Those are my favorite journalists.” - Richard Spencer If you're going to give someone space to say 'Hitler was chill' ffs, the next paragraph better be something to balance that and signal to others like him that this ideology is not tolerated. The shiny new Nazism of 2017 isn't some rare ornament that you can report on in a detached manner...it's a pretty urgent issue we're facing in the west, lives have been lost. Pieces on this subject without a sense of urgency or a sense of purpose will cause people to question the motives of such a project. Picture this same type of article featuring a Jihadist or an Islamist.. the same people whining that The Left wants audiences spoonfed basic facts like 'Nazis are bad' would themselves be outraged. Not an exact comparison, but this situation reminds me of the time a ridiculous Asim Qureshi of CAGE referred to ISIS murderer Jihadi John as 'a beautiful man', and people were rightfully appalled. Now obviously he wasn't referring to the ISIS version of the guy as beautiful, but rather the guy he knew in the past. But *still* wtf was he thinking saying that about a beheader? Similarly, its not that people need to be spoonfed the position that Nazis are bad, but they are just appalled that someone with genocidal beliefs and sympathies for a monster like Hitler can be portrayed in such a soft lens. People are understandably sensitive about how vile ideologies and their adherents are portrayed. You just can't be downplaying this kind of thing....The Asim Qureshi thing was a sentence, but imagine the outrage if he was profiling a Jihadi for a known publication...and he focused on his wedding plans, and on the fact that he didn't see himself as a jihadist, just someone fighting for freedom for his family, the kinds of sandwiches they shared and didn't address the elephant in the room, that woah those are some very fucked up and dangerous beliefs. The most upsetting thing to people is that this story ran in a climate where nazis are becoming emboldened by the day. Where the US president is inspiring them and is unable to properly condemn them. This article came across cold and with no comment on the victims of this ideology. Despite mentioning Charlottesville, there was no sympathy for Heather Heyer. They literally included a link to where you can purchase a swastika armband ffs. WHYYY.

'Facepalm' doesn't quite cut it.

Now, I personally enjoy the use of absurd and comedic tactics to combat extremism, It's why I liked the real housewives of ISIS skit...it's why I enjoy Contrapoints' channel, especially her older videos involving bedazzling swastikas on her chest....it's why we've done two episodes together on a strangely specific topic like 'Fascist Fashion'. I absolutely think theres a way to talk about a Nazi's food preferences and make it valuable and entertaining. But it has to add something, it has to have a point...and the point can't just be detailing the kinds of sandwiches they eat. The article seems incomplete...like there could have been a useful point made afterwards but there just wasn't and the writer stopped at minor food details. Ok, so he eats at Applebee's and? This could have been a piece about the tactics they use to mainstreamize their views and almost appear normie, but it wasn't. Heck this could have even been a piece about how Nazis consume the same pop culture as us and the cognitive dissonance behind that... it could have been a 'how to spot signs'....but instead it really served no purpose at all. ----- Here are some excerpts from the piece that I found particularly cringeworthy:

I mean look at how it starts off, painting them as any other sweet couple with a wedding registry at Target, people who bake muffins and slice pineapples.....and? AND wouldn't mind some ethnic cleansing of non-white people....how about adding that?

Then there was this gem....like...what...?

O___O

I had to check a couple of times to make sure I wasn't missing some quotation marks or something...because, did the writer really write that himself? Is that his opinion? Or is he sharing what he thinks the subject of his profile feels like? It's all too vague and blurry to be reassuring that it's not the writer himself saying that, "it can FEEL toxic to openly identify as a far right extremist" - What do you mean it can FEEL toxic? It is toxic, it's fucking extremism...

What is he trying to do there, I don't know tbh....Aww poor white nationalist is having a hard time coming out of the closet because the horrible environment is too toxic for him to be his genuine self. Ffs.

So here we start with how polite and 'low-key' he is, aww....he's literally the Nazi sympathizer next door...what a 'wholesome' image. And then we actually hear a tiny sprinkling of his vile views...almost as if they slipped in by accident to ruin his nazi-next-door image. No worries, the writer jumps straight to his cutesie cherry pie pop-culture tattoos because we can't dwell on the uncomfortable vile beliefs too long for some reason...

Here, again with the fucking manners. He's a fucking Nazi who thinks white people are superior to other races and Hitler wasn't so bad....that's not very polite is it now?

It just seems odd to give him space to spout this anti semitic conspiracy on such a large platform without adding a remark or two, or at least a mildly disapproving adjective somewhere.

See how harmless and non-racist he is? He's even having mixed-race couples at his wedding.

--How about you don't add that right after talking about how he says he's not a white supremacist?--

People trying to split hairs between white nationalist and white supremacist should really be challenged on that at the very least if they are being given such a large platform.

I don't know maybe it's just me but you've got to inject some expression or commentary as a writer when your subject is engaging in holocaust denial and saying Hitler was 'chill'. In a documentary profiling extremists perhaps the interviewer can rely on facial expressions or just a tense awkward atmosphere... to convey appropriate framing. But in an article if all we get is cold detached reporting and obsessive detail on nazi eating habits, people are not going to take it well.

And it ends on a note of them sharing their hopes and dreams like any other couple (exactly how it began), woven badly with a quick mention of Charlottesville. And what. is. with. the. food. obsession. in. this. article? Turkey sandwiches, muffin pans, Applebees, Pasta. What a normal year 2017 has been. ----- A huge thanks to Patrons who make this work possible. If you enjoy my work please consider supporting via Patreon here.

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