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haberdashing · 4 years ago

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Wherefore Art Thou...?

Jon and Martin learn that in this universe, their counterparts have unsettlingly familiar names.

on AO3

Jon and Martin had traveled to a few different universes by now, all through more or less the same process as their first foray into the multiverse. Martin was still doing his best to believe that one of these worlds could be saved, that they weren’t doomed to spread fear and doom across the multiverse everywhere they went. Jon... wasn’t quite so optimistic.

It wasn’t a huge surprise to come across a pair that looked to be themselves, not this time, not when it’d happened before. (Jon was privately glad that his argument that the two of them would have grown together regardless of being united by supernatural trauma was being borne out by the evidence, though he tried not to rub it in Martin’s face too much.)

They were in a café this time, Martin’s double munching on a scone while Jon’s double nursed a drink in a white mug, the two of them facing each other in an outside table. Jon and Martin were just passing through, or meant to be anyway, but the two locked eyes and nodded to one another before approaching their counterparts.

“Can we speak to the two of you for a moment?”

The two looked up, Jon’s counterpart glowering at them before Martin’s said, “I don’t see why not, though if you’re selling something, I’m afraid we’re both flat broke.”

Martin let out a small laugh at that, though it was hard to tell whether it was a lie, exactly, though their eating in a café probably showed that they had at least a little money to spend, more than Jon and Martin could really say for themselves. (Really, if they were going to be spending their lives trying to save the world, would getting subsidized along the way really be too much to ask?)

“No, we’re not selling anything, we just want to have a friendly conversation.”

Jon’s counterpart snorted at that, but Jon pushed ahead as if he hadn’t heard it.

“You’ve probably noticed that the two of us look an awful lot like the two of you, and that’s not just some strange coincidence. Our names are Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood, and while you may have chosen different ones, they’re likely similar enough that you can at least recognize the connections to be made there.”

Jon and Martin’s counterparts exchanged a meaningful glance, and while Jon couldn’t quite decipher the meaning behind it, he recognized the gesture just the same.

“What are you saying?” Jon’s double finally asked. “Is this- time travel, or, or some sort of multiverse thing, or-”

Martin spoke up before Jon could. “’Some sort of multiverse thing’ about sums it up, I think.”

“More specifically, we’re you from another dimension, here to help prevent what happened to our world from happening to yours.” Glossing over, of course, that it’d been their own actions that put this world in peril in the first place; Jon and Martin had discussed that matter enough already, and they really didn’t need to bring strangers into that argument, even strangers who were versions of themselves. “And we’ve learned that some of our best allies along the way tend to be, well, ourselves.”

“I see.” Jon’s counterpart looked him over for a long moment before adding, “Well, you’re certainly right about one thing. We didn’t choose the same names you two did, if your story is to be believed.”

“Oh?” Jon couldn’t help his curiosity; it was always interesting to find out what he might have been called if things had gone differently, what logic his other selves used to pick the names they did. “What name did you go with, then?”

“My first name is Timothy, Timothy Sims. Tim to my friends, though I don’t think you count, certainly not this quickly...”

For a moment Jon saw another face, another man speaking in a voice that was not his own but that he knew well enough just the same.

...I don’t forgive you. But thank you for this.

“I, er, I... never considered that one myself.”

“Fair enough. It’s got some things in common with Jonathan, though, doesn’t it? Not too uncommon or faddish, has the nickname built right in--I’m guessing you go by Jon sometimes, just like I go by Tim?”

“...r-right. Yes. Yes, I do.”

Martin’s counterpart looked at Jon for a moment before speaking up. “The name means something to you, doesn’t it? Somebody you know, perhaps?” Jon’s expression must have given something away, because Martin’s double hastily added, “Or, or knew, past tense?”

“...past tense, yes.”

Jon looked over at Martin, but Martin just shook his head and said under his breath, “You knew him better than I did, I think.”

“He was... was a friend of mine, for a while. My best friend, really, at the time. But then there were some... difficult circumstances, we both made some mistakes along the way, I think he hated me by the end... and then he sacrificed himself. For the greater good, but also... I think he knew it would happen. But, well, it wasn’t my decision to make, at any rate.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Jon tried to force himself into a smile, with little success. “Don’t be. You couldn’t have known, and it’s... it’s an old wound at this point, I suppose.”

“This friend of yours...” Timothy drummed his fingers against his leg as he spoke. “Did he go by Timothy, or Tim, or both?”

“Tim. He was... he always went by Tim.”

Timothy nodded. “Just call me Timothy then. That might help distinguish us. Just so long as you’re not calling me Timmy, it’s not a problem.”

“Yeah, only I have Timmy privileges.” Martin’s counterpart had a goofy grin on his face, clearly referencing some sort of inside joke that Jon and Martin weren’t privy to.

“Not if you keep abusing them like that, you don’t. Seriously, Jonah, we’ve discussed this-”

The two kept speaking, but Jon couldn’t hear it, his mind filling with other words, words that both were and were not his own, words that had doomed one reality and led to the downfall of so many others.

Jon’s hand flew to cover his mouth reflexively, and Jon gritted his teeth, keeping his mouth closed as tight as he could as the words washed over him once more-

“Jon?”

Martin’s hand was on Jon’s shoulder now, and Jon focused on that point of contact for a moment, how Martin’s skin was cool and soft, how his hand was circling the area slowly.

“Jon, it’s alright. It’s just a name. It’s not him.”

Jon breathed in and out slowly and let the world around him seep back in; Timothy was staring at him quizzically, while... Martin’s counterpart’s brows were furrowed.

“My name rings a bell too, huh?” Martin nodded, and his counterpart continued with a laugh, “And here I thought the worst reaction I’d get from it was when somebody said my name sounded like a Victorian orphan...”

“...I don’t believe he was an orphan.” Jon’s voice sounded shaky and distant even to himself.

“Who was he, then?” Timothy asked.

“He was the reason our world got thrown into an apocalypse where everybody was stuck living out their worst fears over and over again.” The words came quickly, and without hesitation; though Jon still blamed himself for some things, still stayed up some nights wondering how things could have been different if only he had known better at the time, Martin’s reassurances had helped him place the blame for that particular outcome where it properly belonged.

“And he put Jon through hell several times over leading up to that.” Martin added.

“Jesus.” Jonah said. (Jon tried not to wince as he thought of the name, tried not to be pained by the connection between the man he loved more than everything and the man he hated just as strongly.)

“We could, uh-” Martin bit his lip as he concentrated on his next words. “Did you change your last name, perhaps? Because we could call you that-”

He shook his head. “Thought about it, but I wasn’t sure how Mum’d react to me swapping out surnames. It took long enough for her to call me Jonah, after all. Though I suppose the surname Blackwood doesn’t exactly help with the whole Victorian orphan theme there, heh...”

“Right, sure, I went through the same dilemma myself. So, er...”

Jon butted in. “Mister Blackwood, do you by any chance have a middle name?”

Jon could see Jonah’s face darken with color, could imagine the gears turning in his head as he figured out the best way to phrase his response, and despite everything, Jon let out a soft, shaky laugh at the sight.

#tma #tma fic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fic #the magnus archives fanfic #jonmartin #jmart #personal

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eldritchteaparty · 4 years ago

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Chapters: 7/20 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Rosie Zampano, Oliver Banks, Original Elias Bouchard, Peter Lukas, Annabelle Cane Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, I'll add characters and tags as they come up, Reference to injuries and blood, Character Death In Dream, Nudity (not sexual or graphic), Nightmares, Fighting

Summary: Following the events of MAG 200, Jon and Martin find themselves in a dimension very much like the one they came from--with second chances and more time.

Chapter summary: Frustrated by his physical condition and his lack of connection to the Eye, Jon asks Martin to visit Hill Top Road with him.

***

Chapter 7 of post-canon fix-it is up!

Read on AO3 at link above or here below.

Tumblr master post with links to previous chapters here.

***

Over the next few days, Jon continued to struggle. He remained insistent on going into the Institute every day, but even with Martin’s encouragement he had trouble finishing entire meals.

“It’s all right,” Martin told him more than once. “I know you’re trying. Just keep trying.”

Jon would nod. If they were at work, he would catch Martin’s hand between his, just below the edge of his desk, and Martin would quietly tell him about his morning. At home, he would lie back on the couch with his head in Martin’s lap. Martin would come up with something to talk about, unrelated to the entities or the archives or anything that had happened to them. He started saving up topics that occurred to him just so he could have them on hand: a movie he remembered, a funny reddit post, a weird bug he found in the stacks. It wasn’t like Jon really cared; he watched Martin talk more than he listened, anyway. He seemed contented, and that was what mattered. Sometimes he was able to eat more afterward, if he didn’t fall asleep.

***

“Are there still more interviews to be done?” Jon asked Martin one morning, late that week, as they were walking to the office.

“I don’t know,” Martin answered. “I imagine there are. I don’t think Tim’s followed up with any since the ones we did. And I think Sasha’s been around the office the whole time.”

Jon nodded.

“Wait.” Martin reached out a hand to stop him; they faced each other on the pavement. “You're not considering doing them, are you?”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to do something different.” Jon took Martin by the elbow and urged him to keep walking. Martin sighed, but did as he wanted.

“Is it—” Martin measured his tone very carefully and started over. “Is it because what you’re doing isn’t working?”

The Eye, you mean?” Jon looked up at Martin. “No, that’s not why.”

“But also, it isn’t working. Right? You would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

“Nothing’s changed,” Jon confirmed. “But that really isn’t it. I’ve… I’ve run out of information. I’m just going further and further back, through anything describing events and people involved in all of it, and it’s pointless. There was nothing here before we came. Nothing real.”

“Yeah?” Martin asked, recalling that he had done most of the talking between them that week. “I assume you’ve looked into—well, let’s start with Jonah Magnus. What was his deal?”

Jon shrugged. “Him, Robert Smirke, Mordechai Lukas—I’ve looked into all of them. They all existed, they were obsessed with the same ideas and concepts, perhaps because of the pull from our dimension… but there was nothing on the other side of those ideas. Not here.”

“I see.” Martin nodded. “And you think the interviews will give you more?”

“Maybe. It’s the only evidence we’ve had of real connections with individuals. You met Oliver Banks. Tim’s discussions with his police contacts—it was Callum Brodie, by the way. They won’t officially release his name, but it was easy enough to find on social media.”

“So that’s what you want to do, then—look for avatars?”

“Yes,” Jon answered. “They pose the greatest threat, and I think they require the most—advancement in their patrons.”

Martin considered. “You’ll let me go with you?”

“I won’t even pretend I could manage alone right now,” Jon said. “I could go with Tim, I suppose, but he wouldn’t go if you said no. That means it’s your decision.”

“Jon.” They were coming upon the Institute now, and Martin stopped him one more time. “Can I ask—if you just let go of all this—what would happen?”

“What do you mean? Happen how?”

“To you. What would happen to you? Would you get better? Would you get worse? I know you don’t know, but—what does it feel like?”

Jon considered. “You’re right, I don’t know. But… it also doesn’t matter. I can’t just let go. I need to do what I can to fix it, whatever that might be. Don’t ask me to let it go. Please.”

“All right.” Martin had already assumed the answer would be something like that. “Then we do the interviews.”

“Thank you,” Jon said quietly, as Martin put his arm around him before walking into the building.

***

Martin asked Sasha if they could do the interviews. She seemed surprised, but was agreeable enough, probably because Martin was the one doing the asking—it provided an implicit indication that Jon was feeling well enough to go, and Martin felt a bit like he had lied to her just by asking. Tim was a little more skeptical when Martin asked him for the contact forms. He ignored Martin and addressed Jon directly across the office.

“You know, Martin and I could still go.”

“No,” Jon said. “It’s too—it’s better if I’m there.”

“You sure?” Tim tried again. “Look, I don’t really know what the issue is, but if you’re worried about Martin, don’t be. Frankly, he’s doing much better than you are, and we’ve—”

“That’s not it. I just want to be there myself.”

Now Tim looked back at Martin and raised an eyebrow, and Martin shrugged.

“All right then,” Tim said, and reached for a drawer on his desk. “There’s a couple that will bring you down toward Crawley, if I remember, and a couple more that are spread out up north.”

“Can I look at them?” Jon said. “I’d like to see what they’re regarding.”

“Knock yourself out,” Tim said, handing them to Martin.

There were no names they recognized, and Jon didn’t think any of them looked particularly promising, but Martin was able to get ahold of two of them and set up appointments for that afternoon. The discussions were frustrating for everyone involved. For one thing, Jon hadn’t quite come to terms with the fact that things went very differently when people weren’t compelled to tell their stories, and Martin had to keep reminding him to be patient. For the same reason, it was hard to tell what was what; one of the stories might have been legitimately Corruption-related, but it could have also been a very bad case of health code violations combined with an active imagination.

“How did you know before if they were real or not?” Martin asked, as they were headed back on the train. “Like, in the beginning?”

Jon leaned back in the seat next to him with his eyes closed. “Well, when they were written down, there was the fact that I couldn’t record them except on the—on the tapes.”

“Right.” Martin frowned. “Obviously we’re not doing that again, but maybe we could try recording on our phones or something and seeing if it works?”

Jon gave a slight nod of his head. “Maybe. We don’t know if it will be the same, though. We don’t really know why that was. Maybe it was all Web, from the beginning.”

“True.” Martin turned it over some more. “Well, when you were talking to people directly how did you know?”

“I just did,” Jon sighed. “I didn’t think of it as anything more than a feeling until later.”

“And you couldn’t tell today?”

“No. Not even a hint.” Martin was relieved to hear it, although he opted not to share that with Jon.

They rode in silence for a while. Martin was surprised to see Jon had not fallen asleep when he checked on him.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

Jon opened his eyes and turned to Martin, then to the back of the seat in front of him. Martin prompted him again.

“Jon? What are you thinking?”

“Come to Hill Top Road with me.”

“What?”

“Come to Hill Top Road with me,” Jon repeated.

“Why?”

“I need to know if I can feel anything there.”

“Why there?”

“When we came here—” Jon stopped and thought for a moment. “It’s hard to explain, but it’s where the separation—the barrier between us and them—would be the weakest.”

“Then it sounds like we shouldn’t go there.” Martin turned in his seat, and Jon finally looked at him. “It kind of seems we should actively avoid going there. Like, ever.”

Jon took Martin’s hand in his. “I just need to know. You—you could be right. About the Eye. Maybe it’s not coming back for me. Maybe it’s done with me.”

Martin breathed out slowly, a careful, measured exhalation. “And what if it is done with you?”

“Then…” Jon paused again. “Then I need to accept it.”

“And if it isn’t?”

A little bit of life came back into his voice. “Then it isn’t, and like I’ve been saying, it’s better to know and get on with it.”

Martin wasn’t sure he agreed, but he kept silent.

“Come to Hill Top Road with me,” Jon entreated him again. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Martin exclaimed loudly, and a woman two seats up across the aisle looked back at them. “Oh—sorry. Sorry.”

He waited until she had smiled and turned back to try again, more quietly. “Tomorrow? Really?”

“Yes. In the morning, first thing. Tell Sasha we have therapy.”

“If we go…” Martin sighed. “If we go and you don’t find what you’re looking for, will you—will you try to let it go? I don’t mean everything, we can talk to Tim and Sasha, we can do whatever you want, just—will you try to live without it?”

Jon considered, a troubled look in his eyes.

“I’m not asking for a promise, Jon—I don’t want one. I’m just asking what you’ll do.”

Jon took a deep breath. “I’d like to try. I think I would try.”

“All right.” Jon had won. Martin squeezed his hand, more to reassure himself than anything. “I’ll go with you. Tomorrow morning. I’ll tell them when we get back.”

“Thank you.”

Then next time Martin checked on him, Jon had fallen asleep.

***

Jon’s alarm went off the next morning right around sunrise, before Martin’s usual waking time. Martin was surprised by how much energy he seemed to have; he wanted it to be because he was feeling better, but he suspected Jon was running on fumes and willpower.

“Not going to shower first?” he asked, when Jon stepped out of bed and immediately went to the closet.

“No,” Jon answered. “I’d like to leave as soon as we can.”

“Well, you are going to have breakfast,” Martin grumbled, sitting up and trying to blink away the sleep.

“Martin—”

“That’s not debatable. I couldn’t get you to eat anything last night.” They had ended up taking a cab back from the train station, and Martin had worried for a moment that he was going to have to carry Jon up the stairs. “Use some of that energy to—go pour yourself some cereal or something.”

“Fine.” Jon started to leave the bedroom. “Do you want anything?”

“Nope.” Martin groaned as he started to stand up.

“Well, if I have to, then you should—”

“I ate dinner last night. And part of someone else’s dinner that I didn’t want to go to waste. And it is way too early right now, and—”

“Fine. I get it. I’m going.”

After Martin was dressed, he joined Jon to find him scraping at the bottom of a bowl of cereal.

“How full was that?” he asked, suspicious.

“Overflowing.” Jon regarded him from his seat on the couch.

“Really?”

“No. I don’t know, normal?”

“Look, I’m sorry,” Martin sighed. “I’m still really worried, ok?”

Jon softened his gaze. “No, I’m sorry. I’m—I’m nervous. I just want to get this done.” He put one last spoonful into his mouth, and it made chewing and swallowing look extremely distasteful. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’m going to be,” Martin said. “Let’s go.”

The train ride out was long, and they had to switch to a bus line in Oxford. They barely spoke, but it wasn’t a particularly uncomfortable silence. Part of it was probably the early hour, although Jon seemed more awake and alert than Martin had seen him in days. He was probably anxious about what they would find; Martin was, at least, so it was easy to imagine Jon was feeling the same.

When they arrived, they stood together, side by side, staring at the front door. The house that occupied the property was the same as he had imagined it from when the other archive staff had visited it before the apocalypse. Apparently built as student housing, no one had ever actually moved in. The front porch was covered in cobwebs. Martin broke the silence they had maintained during the walk from the bus station.

“I don’t like this.”

“Me neither,” said Jon.

“Yes, but—I mean I don’t want to go in.”

“I understand. You can wait for me out here.”

“No, that—” Martin looked down at Jon, who continued to stare at the house. “I don’t want us to go in. Either of us.”

They let the silence take over again. It went on long enough that Martin wondered if they could just stay on the front lawn indefinitely, if he didn’t say anything; it seemed like it might be the most reasonable option. Unfortunately, Jon did eventually speak again.

“Martin, I really do understand if you—”

“No. If you’re going in, I’m—I’m going too.”

“I am sorry.” Jon started to step toward the house, but Martin caught him by the arm.

“Wait. Where is—where is Annabelle? Where has she been?”

“What?” Jon asked, turning to look at him.

“I know we haven’t talked about it, and maybe this is a bad time to bring it up—but she came here with us, didn’t she? To this dimension.”

“Presumably, yes.”

“Where would she go, if not—if not here? I mean, even without what you said about it—just look at it. It’s got to be crawling with spiders.”

Jon furrowed his brow before responding. “She could be here. It’s possible.”

Martin’s pulse quickened. “Well then—wouldn’t we want to not be here? Isn’t that a good reason to stay out?”

“I’m not concerned.” Jon shrugged, leaving Martin in disbelief.

“Can I ask why not?”

“It’s just a theory, but—” Jon walked a few paces and sat on the front step. “I think—I think the entities are getting stronger, regaining their power, in the order that the fears evolved and separated from one another. The dates I’ve pieced together from Sasha’s notes, the avatars—”

“What?” Martin was dumbfounded. “What do you mean?”

“Right. When I—after I killed Jonah, there was a, um…”

“A statement?”

“Yes.”

“Of course there was.” Martin shook his head and moved to take a seat next to Jon.

“I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“It’s all right.” It still hurt every time he remembered Jon had gone up to the tower without him, and Jon knew it. “Go on.”

“They were born in our dimension. They grew there, as one being at first. Then, as animals and humanity developed and changed, and their fears became more specific, more distinct, so did the entities themselves. The Hunt, the End, the Dark—they were first.”

“I see.” Martin thought. “And we’ve seen Oliver Banks and now Callum Brodie. What about—”

“I suspect we want to avoid anything having to do with Daisy, if we can.”

Martin’s eyes unintentionally drifted to the scar that still stood out vividly on Jon’s throat before he caught himself. “And where does the Eye fit in?”

“Soon. If I’m right.”

“Ok.” Martin now realized there had been a deeper layer to Jon’s recent desperation. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I honestly thought it wasn’t important. But now—you brought up Annabelle, and—”

“Right. So where does the Web fit into this theory?”

Jon considered. “If I’m right—if I’m right—we have time. If she is here, she’s likely much weaker than I am. She would have more to fear from us than the other way around.”

Martin sighed. “Any chance we can just burn the place?”

“Tempting.” Jon grinned just enough for Martin to see it. “In the long run, though—”

“Yeah, yeah—it would probably just make things worse.”

“Shall we?” Jon asked, starting to rise to his feet.

“If you have to.”

“I do.”

The front door gave way at a light touch; the knob and deadbolt were completely useless. It seemed like the sort of place that had been broken into so many times that the owners had simply stopped replacing them. The inside of the house was at least as covered with webs and dust as the front porch.

“Well,” Martin said, “I hate this.”

“I don’t love it.” Jon reflexively reached for Martin’s hand. “Come on.”

They walked further into the depths of the house, which was quite large. There were multiple small rooms, which made sense for student housing, and a larger sitting room; it looked like there was a kitchen in the very back. He was so busy looking up to make sure he didn’t accidentally walk into anything, that he jumped about a foot when Jon stomped his heel against the floor.

“Jon, why would you—”

“Spider,” Jon said.

“Oh. Carry on, then.”

“Remember when you used to get upset with me for—”

“Don’t.”

Jon squeezed his hand, and Martin had the odd feeling that he was somehow more comfortable now than he had been for a while. They looked around them from what appeared to be roughly the middle of the floorplan.

“Should we go upstairs, or—”

“Look,” Jon cut him off, and pointed to the floor. Beneath the dirt and footprints of previous trespassers, Martin could see an unmistakable pattern in the wood stain that ran across multiple boards, beyond the edge of the room they were currently in. It gave the appearance of a long, dark, jagged crack. He may not have noticed it if he hadn’t been looking for it, but he couldn’t see anything else now.

“Do you think that’s—where it is?” Martin asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Jon started to pull Martin toward it, but Martin stayed where he was.

“Do you really have to stand right on it?”

“Just give me a moment.” Jon slipped his hand out of Martin’s before he had a chance to protest. Martin held his breath and gave him five seconds, then ten seconds.

“Anything?”

“Wait.”

Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds. He was counting each of them.

“Jon—”

“Wait. Please.” Jon was growing tenser, more anxious.

A minute.

“Jon, I don’t—”

“I told you to wait.” Jon snapped at him this time.

The momentary sting was quickly replaced by concern; that just wasn’t like Jon. He bit his lip, unsure what to do. If he insisted on interrupting him, tried to convince him to leave, Jon might not feel like he really gave it enough of a chance—or worse, he might blame Martin for the failed attempt to find whatever power he was seeking. He’d be too kind to say anything, of course, but they would both know.

He decided to continue waiting, as long as he could make himself. He pressed his hand to his mouth as a reminder. The house was so quiet; it occurred to him he should have been able to hear sounds from outside, but something about the place seemed to be swallowing them up before they could reach them.

In the stunted silence, Martin had the sudden feeling they were not alone.

Before he could make up his mind to disrupt him again, Jon spoke.

“There’s nothing,” he said meekly.

“What?” Martin asked.

“There’s nothing,” Jon said again. “I don’t feel anything. I really thought—” He cut himself off, his expression a mix of loss and confusion and sadness, and Martin was filled with a deep, distressing pity for him.

“Hey,” he said, crossing to Jon, forgetting his trepidation toward the mark on the floor. It seemed meaningless now, nothing more than an ugly accident at the lumber factory. He pulled Jon into his arms. “It’s going to be all right. We’ll figure it out.”

Jon didn’t answer, but he allowed Martin to hold him, eventually letting the weight of his head fall against Martin’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Martin said quietly.

“Are you?”

“Yes,” Martin answered. “Part of me is relieved, I’ll admit, but I don’t want you to be miserable, Jon. Honestly, I don’t. We’ll do whatever we need to do to help make this better, ok?”

Jon fell silent again, and in that silence Martin remembered the feeling he’d had just before Jon had spoken.

“Jon—can we get out of here? Sit outside? We can talk there. On the porch, even. I just have this feeling like—like we’re being watched.”

“What?” Jon pulled away enough to look up at his face.

“Not like—watched, I don’t think that even feels like anything. I just mean—like, regular being watched. If that’s a thing.”

Jon concentrated for a moment, but quickly gave up. “All right. We can go.”

Martin felt a second wave of relief wash over him. It’s over, he thought to himself, at least for the time being. He released Jon from his grasp, turning him gently toward the door—the faster they could get outside, back to the fresh air, the better for both of them.

A few steps, though, and Jon stumbled. Martin, instinctively reaching to support him, assumed at first that he had stepped wrong or tripped over something—but that wasn’t right. Jon was heavy in his arms, and Martin nearly fell himself trying to stop Jon from hitting the ground.

Ok. Martin collected his thoughts as quickly as possible as he gently set Jon down. He’s fainted. That wasn’t great, but it wasn’t entirely unexpected, given how he had been feeling and his inability to eat. I just need to give him a minute and he’ll come around.

That wasn’t right either, though, Martin quickly realized, because Jon had stopped breathing.

Shit, shit, shit. He had taken a CPR class many years ago, but he hadn’t thought about it in almost as long. What were the steps? He knew Jon wasn’t choking, and he remembered something about checking for a pulse, although he didn’t remember if you were supposed to do that right away or—

Do something.

He reached for Jon’s neck, pressing two fingers against his carotid artery. He waited.

I’m doing it wrong.

He readjusted. Still nothing.

“Shit.” Panic started to well up inside him again. Breaths? Chest compressions?

Call for help.

He pulled out his phone and started to dial, but quickly realized he had no reception. He held it up, moving it around, even standing again to see if he could get a signal, but no matter where he moved he couldn’t get a single bar of service. He thought about going outside to try there, but couldn’t stand the thought of leaving Jon alone in this place.

Chest compressions.

He knelt next to Jon, placing one hand on top of the other the way he thought he remembered. He pressed the heel of his palm against Jon’s sternum, just inches away from the scar he had put there only months ago.

Don’t.

The scar where he had driven a knife through muscle and maybe bone—he didn’t think it was supposed to be so easy to do that, but the cracking sound—

Don’t, not now.

—the cracking sound and then suddenly it had been so much easier, the knife went in and there was that single gasp of pain, and then he’d pulled the knife out because he couldn’t stand to leave it in, but all the blood came with it—

I killed him.

Jon was dying. The tape unspooled; the tower crumbled around them, and Martin held on. Jon lay dead in his arms as the world disappeared around them, and he held on. He held on for so long.

God, it hurts.

“Martin—”

I’m so sorry.

“Martin, let go.”

Martin opened his eyes and tried to remember where he was. His pulse was racing.

“Martin.”

He was sitting on the floor with Jon—Jon needed him to let go. He did, and Jon immediately took a deep breath. Martin still couldn’t quite remember where they were.

“You were dead.”

“No,” Jon answered, still breathing hard. “No, I just blacked out. I think I’m ok.”

“No. I killed you. There was—there was the knife—where did it—”

Jon, understanding, reached for Martin’s face. “Look at me. We’re at Hill Top Road. We came here together.”

“What?” Martin tried to remember, and eventually the details of their current situation came back to him. He looked around at the house. Jon was so pale. “Oh god. Jon, are you all right?”

“I think so. I think I just blacked out.”

“You weren’t breathing. I swear you weren’t breathing, and I couldn’t find a pulse—”

“Are you sure? Or were you…”

“I—I think so?” Although now that he thought about it, Martin realized he couldn’t be completely sure. “Maybe?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m—I’m ok now. I’m breathing.”

Martin looked around again. He hated this place. “Let’s leave. Please. Right now.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

It was harder to help Jon to his feet than either of them expected. His energy from earlier in the day had vanished almost entirely, and he leaned hard against Martin as they walked toward the door. The porch, which had previously seemed as dreadful as the house, now felt like a sanctuary as the sun streamed onto it through the support columns. It was almost unbelievable that nothing stopped them from reaching it, and Martin collapsed onto the wooden deck as soon as they did.

He made sure Jon had a relatively comfortable spot to lie, and then dragged himself to the steps, pulling his knees into his chest and blocking the light from his eyes with one arm. He stayed like that until he’d relaxed enough to reach into his pocket for his phone again. He had a little reception out here, at least. He scrolled through his contacts until he’d pulled up Sasha’s number.

“Hi Martin,” she answered cheerily. “Everything going all right?”

“Sasha, hey,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Listen, I’m sorry to do this—”

“Martin, I can barely hear you. Is everything all right?”

“Yeah—it is. Mostly.” He was too miserable to think up an actual lie. “Jon’s not feeling well today. I think—I think we’ll need the whole day off.”

“Did you say—is Jon ok?”

“He’s—” He looked at Jon where he lay in a patch of sunlight, eyes closed, taking shallow breaths. “He’s—I don’t know. He’s not great.”

“I’m—I’m sorry to hear that. Do you need anything?”

“No. We’ll manage.” He wasn’t sure that was true, but he had no idea what kind of help he could even ask for.

“You’re breaking up, but—please keep me updated? I’ll check in later.”

“All right.”

Martin ended the call.

#the magnus archives #tma #mag pod #tma spoilers #jonmartin #tma fanfic #my writing

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awasete-2 · 6 years ago

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Riverbank

Seven months ago, I went to a three-day Christian retreat in the backwoods of Missouri. I wrote about it.

In the front of the camp cabin, Jonathan, a bespectacled senior with a softspoken voice, reads off of a list on his phone. “Martin and Ryan; Philip and Xiaoteng.” Ten of us guys are circled around him, bundled up in sweaters and rain boots—even though it’s only September, the hours after midnight can become surprisingly frigid. “Uhm, David and William.” As Jonathan reads off each pair of names, the upperclassmen exchange knowing glances. They know what’s about to happen, even though the juniors are in the dark.

“Brian, you’re with, well, other Brian.” The taller Brian punches the shorter one on the shoulder, jostling the entire group. A snicker ruffles through our small group of boys.

“And Michael—you’re with Jonah.” I’m a little relieved. Jonah Zhang seems to be one of the gentler guides. We’re both technically the same age, but he’s been in Asian Christian Fellowship for longer than I have, making him a senior of sorts. He’s wearing his trademark Student Technology Services hoodie and a goofy smile on his face; when he walks towards me, he’s a little uncertain, awkward. It puts me at ease.

“We’ve said this to the first watch already, but I’m saying it again just to be safe. Make sure you’re bundled up, because the woods are always colder than you think. You may not have noticed this, but it’s dark as hell, so use your phones for flashlights. And pairs always stick together—coyote watching can be dangerous.”

Jonathan swings open the door, and the ten of us leave into the woods.

No one tells you how lonely freshman year is until you experience the loneliness for yourself. And, just like in faith, everyone’s moment of epiphany comes in different forms. Mine came suddenly, on a late Wednesday evening, when my face was hovering three inches away from the chemistry lecture on my laptop screen. With a cheap cafeteria chicken tender in my left hand, and a note-taking pencil in my right, my eyes suddenly glazed over and I realized I had done the same routine four nights in a row. Four days of going straight home after classes, getting chicken and fries, watching lectures, studying for tests, and letting my head crash my pillow to go to sleep. Four days in a row; half a week, a prison sentence, an eternity. The realization was devastating in its simplicity—it wasn’t that studying left me with no time to do anything else. There was just nothing else to fill my time.

My family’s incessant calls only served to accentuate my loneliness. That night, in our weekly group Facetime call, my mother asked: “Have you met any Asian friends yet?” And my grandfather chimed in: “Maybe even an Asian girlfriend?” Laughter from all parties in the call; laughter from Illinois, Pennsylvania, the Philippines. “Y-yeah! I’ve met a lot.” Improvising, I add: “I’ve, uh, even met some Filipino friends.”

This was the right answer. The three faces on my screen smiled, impressed. My mother piped up excitedly. “You know Cielo, don’t you, Michael? Your cousin! She joined the, ano, the Filipino Student Association at SLU. Fifty Filipinos! They have banquets and even dance the Tinikling. You should find those! Asian, Filipino student groups.”

Throughout this, I nodded enthusiastically. “Uh-huh. Yeah. Uhm, I, uh, I really have to study. A big test tomorrow.” These words, although sudden, were the easy way out—there was no way Asian parents would argue with the filial obligation of studying. “Oh, okay!” They say their goodbyes.

My father: “Study hard.”

My grandmother: “Are you eating well? Eat more.”

My mother: “And sleep early.” They all wave to me, and the screen shuts off.

The last thing I see before the call cut was my mother’s smiling face.

The night is clear, but the shade of the tall trees and the mist covering the ground keep anything from coming into view. So I stare at the back of Jonah’s hoodie for a landmark—as he walks, there’s no trace of his earlier awkwardness. He moves determinedly, and I have to hurry to keep up with him on the winding hiking paths. I want to make conversation, make a benign comment about how cold it is, but the rest of the group is hushed in a reverent silence. I swallow my apprehension and continue on.

We suddenly emerge from the woods, and in front of us a river unfolds; a fine mist hovers over it, and its reflection glows beneath the night sky. Down by the riverbank, a short distance away, I see a rickety wooden bridge floating on the river, connecting our side to the grassy clearing on the other. I’m still shivering from the cold as Jonah begins leading me towards the bridge.

“You’ve probably figured this out by now, but we’re not actually watching any coyotes,” he says candidly, breaking the silence. “We call it ‘coyote watching,’ but it’s a tradition that ACF guys always do for their brothers on the last night of the retreat. I think the girls have a similar tradition. And oh—watch your step. The bridge is slippery.” I follow Jonah down the bridge, closer to the far riverbank, and suddenly he sits down. He pats the ground next to him. “Have a seat,” he invites me. “I’m going to take off your socks.”

In the next moment, I’m feeling the cold air assaulting my bare toes, and I start to shiver even more intensely. I’m appalled; turning around, I see the other four pairs of guys doing the exact same thing, seated and spaced evenly around the bridge. All the underclassmen (myself included) are hovering their feet above the water and the seniors are bending over to gingerly peel their shoes and socks off. In the darkness, I see one of the seniors reach down, dip his hands in the water, and begin scrubbing his junior’s foot.

“No. No way. You don’t have to do something like that...” I trail off.

“No, I’m going to,” he says simply, as if it’s already been decided. Jonah’s procured a rag out of nowhere, and he’s bending over, soaking it in the cold lake water.

Indignantly, I protest. “Washing my feet? Jonah—you’re really going to wash my feet?” I look around, and I seem to be the only one protesting. I drop my voice, a little ashamed.

“It’s not as cold as you think. You get used to it.”

His hands meet me, and my entire body shivers.

Of course, I had been lying to my parents. It had been five months in college and I didn’t have any Asian friends to show for it. My original strategy of making friends, waiting for someone to magically appear and begin talking to me, wasn’t working, as evidenced by my crippling loneliness. So I started to follow my mother’s idea of finding Asian student groups.

Asian kids tend to stick together, and if you wanted to find the big Asian cliques at WashU, you really only had two choices—the international students (I was not an international student), and the Asian Christian Fellowship.

I once heard someone call ACF the “big daddy of all Asian student groups,” and indeed it was—its membership encompassed the presidents of the school’s Lunar New Year Festival, the North Korean awareness club, the K-pop dance team, and every Asian cultural club in between. Participating in its events were members of the Chinese, Taiwanese, Vietnamese, Japanese, Korean, Hong Kong, and Southeast Asian student groups. And, just like the name implied, it was filled to the brim with over a hundred Asian-American Christians.

I went starry-eyed thinking about this, imagining myself surrounded by other smiling Asian college students, with their arms around me as we posed for pictures. ACF was the portal to my new life, to being a part of culture clubs like my cousin Cielo, to performing in Lunar New Year, and to parties and kickbacks and late-night trips to McDonalds.

It really didn’t matter to me whether my friends were Asian or not, but the prospect of being less lonely while making my parents proud was irresistible. And I was passably Christian—I had a few years of Catholic elementary school under my belt, and I wore a bracelet with a cross sometimes. And so when an acquaintance from ACF invited me to attend their Fall Conference—a three day Christian retreat in the backwoods of Missouri—I said yes.

“Do you know why we do this?” Jonah asks. I shake my head no. He scoops up another dollop of frigid lake water and pours it over my toes. I’m still shivering; a breeze is passing through, and I haven’t gotten used to the cold yet.

“Before he was about to be killed, Jesus gathered his apostles for the Last Supper, right? And up until then, his role was always the teacher, the leader—the one who set examples, performed miracles, and all that kind of thing.

“But before the Supper, he goes out of his way to wash the apostle’s feet—something a servant usually does for their master’s guests. Jesus was trying to say that even the masters will have to serve as servants.

“We wash your feet because we—your upperclassmen—want to be your servants in God. And we’ve made a promise to walk alongside you as you explore your faith deeper, to find what you need to find.”

I work up the nerve to speak. “What have you found?”

Jonah finally removes his hands from my feet and breathes a contented sigh. “God’s love,” he says. “A perfect love. To me, it’s the reason for existing.” He looks at me expectantly—is he expecting me to prompt him further? To disagree?

“Other people might have different priorities. But we—we have our eyes on something bigger. This world is beautiful, and there is great value in loving it, but we believe that it can never fully satisfy us. We know that a love even more beautiful, even more perfect, still awaits us in the next life.”

My head is spinning—I’m not sure if it’s sleep deprivation or hypothermia from the cold water, but something keeps me from comprehending anything Jonah has said.

“And God’s love is something that you can have, too.”

My first night at ACF’s Fall Conference was the happiest I had felt in a long time. On the way to the camp, I awkwardly introduced myself to the other members in the car, each of us crammed in with duffel bags and overstuffed backpacks. (ACF had around nine or ten cars going to camp, all just as stuffed as ours.) The chummy junior next to me who had introduced himself as Ryan threw an arm around me: “Good to have you, Michael! I hope you don’t mind Taylor Swift, because that’s all Lucy plays in her car.” The rest of the car laughed; Lucy whipped around and smacked him on the knee. “I’ll kick you out of this car,” she threatened, and suddenly, I found myself laughing too. We spent the next hour-and-a-half belting the lyrics to every Taylor Swift song we could think of. I hadn’t sung or smiled that much in a long time—I was afraid I was going to lose my voice.

Once we arrived, night had already fallen. Lucy told us to leave our supplies in the car, and follow her into the main cabin. “We’re a little late for worship, so walk in quietly,” she said in a hushed voice. As our small caravan shuffled into the cabin, I saw a few students setting up instruments—an electric guitar, a keyboard, a drum set—in the front of the room, and scores of ACF members seated in foldable chairs facing the makeshift stage. Just as we seated ourselves in the back row, the lights dimmed and the crowd hushed, with no trace of the rowdy socializing a few seconds before.

The music began to play—the guitar and a piano uncertainly stumbling into their opening chords. Someone had turned on a projector, and lyrics showed up in big white letters on the screen in front of the room. Everyone stood up, and I stood up too, afraid to be left out.

“Worthy of every song we could ever sing.”

I watched as a transformation began to settle across the audience. People closed their eyes, took deep breaths, and began swaying to the music. They recited the first lyric in unison—everyone seemed to know the song except me.

“Worthy of all the praise we could ever bring.”

The voices began to gain confidence, lifted along by the rising chorus. In the darkened room, I could see a sea of faces, some stoic, some smiling wide, some struggling to hold back tears. I felt like I couldn’t join in—I was awestruck by the concert unfolding around me. “We live for you,” the crowd sang in unison. “We live for you.”

The strangest thing about the faces in the crowd was that I recognized them. Peering across the room, I saw Will and Joseph and Simon, three boys from my study group that always pantomimed basketball shots instead of paying attention during review sessions. Here, they pumped their fists; their booming voices made the chorus sound like a national anthem.

To my left stood birdlike, brown-haired Allison clutching her hands close to her heart, fingernails turning white. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes closed, as if expecting a kiss from somebody. But all the while she continued to sing, her quiet voice harmonizing with the rest of the crowd.

And directly behind me was Martin—stoic, emotionless, heavyset Martin of WashU football team fame—with both hands raised to the air and his eyes shut tight. “Open up my eyes in wonder,” he belted. “Open up my eyes.”

Voice upon voice built upon each other, drowning out the instruments, forming a deafening cacophony of worship. In the darkened room, I could only see outstretched arms, tear-streaked faces; my ears and heart were pounding with the music, singing, sobbing; it was hard for me to breathe. The room, to me, was beating and spinning.

Nearby, a boy collapsed into his seat, his head in his hands, and his body shaking as he sobbed. His friend immediately sat with him, wrapping an arm around him, and I heard him say, “Shh, it’s okay. We’re here for you, okay. God is here.”

I began to cry. I was overwhelmed at the depth of their dedication, the outpouring of love they were displaying all at once, all together. I looked wildly around at my classmates, my acquaintances, my brothers and sisters in Christ: how long have you been hiding something like this? Is this what you were thinking about the whole time, during classes, on the ride here, before you go to sleep, when you talk to your parents? Is this what you were holding back?

Suddenly, I realized that I was one of them too. Standing in the center of the room, I had become indistinguishable from any of the other sobbing, crying, singing Asian Christians in the Missouri countryside. To love God, to dedicate my life to him—this was possible for me, too. I was born with this same chance. Our voices had become one.

I stretched my arm upwards. I wondered, would I be able to reach this too? To feel what they are all feeling? To see what they can see? And in spite of myself, I began to sing, through tears: “I will put my trust in you alone,” I choked. “And I will not be shaken.”

Jonah is still looking at me expectantly. The worship songs from last night are replaying in my head. My feet are still cold, and dripping wet.

I finally ask: “Where did you… how did you find all of this? Has everyone…” I fumble with my words. “How does every ACF member know how to do this?”

“We all started in different places,” he replies. “For me, ACF was so similar to my church at home that the transition was very natural. But everyone here”—he gestures towards the rest of the bridge, with the other pairs of boys—“we’re all still figuring out how to love God, and how to dedicate everything we do to him. Don’t think of yourself as inexperienced, or anything; I saw you singing at worship last night.” We both laugh.

“And if you ever want to talk or read or pray about the things you’ve explored here, the promises you’ve made—it would be my joy to do that with you.”

Jonah pulls a towel from his pockets to dry my feet, and as he does, the bridge jolts and shifts on the water. I am suddenly paranoid, as if someone’s about to burst in and arrest me for faking it, for lying. I hadn’t been seriously religious since elementary school, when all you had to do to please God was finish your Noah’s Ark coloring book and memorize the rosary. So why was Jonah washing my feet, extending this invitation to somebody like me? Doesn’t he know that I came here just to make Asian friends, not for God?

But if this was the path I needed to take to find friends, to please my parents, to finally stop watching lectures by myself on Friday nights, then part of me was ready to take that chance. Love, acceptance—I didn’t care whether it was from Jonah or God or from every Asian Christian at Washington University. I just wanted to feel like I did last night, when I sang with my hands held high, when my soul felt full and complete. Jonah looks at me, and his brown eyes promise eternal life. They say that I have been through enough.

“I—I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say,” I admit.

“It’s okay. We don’t have to say anything,” Jonah comforts me. “If you want, we can pray instead?”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“That’s okay. I’ll just pray for you, then.”

“I don’t know how to, well, have someone pray for me.”

“I can teach you that too,” he says, clasping his hands in mine. “Close your eyes.”

I’m meeting a friend a few months later after Fall Conference, eating cafeteria chicken tenders and catching up, and offhandedly I mention my brief foray into religiosity. She’s Asian, incidentally—through a series of shared classes, we’ve fallen in to the habit of grabbing meals together.

“Wait—you’re in ACF? I just found out that so many people I know were in it, too! The president of our dance team always talks about it.”

“Was. Or I kind of am. I’m not super active or anything.”

“You know, my parents want me to join.”

“Yeah, same. My parents were thrilled when I told them about it.”

“They want me to find a nice, Korean, Christian man. Can you imagine?” Fiddling with a napkin, she lowers her voice. “Aren’t they, like, kind of a cult?”

I pause. Part of me resists. The word sounds wrong—it feels like I’d be slapping Jonah in the face, or splashing lake water on him and laughing. You washed my feet, weirdo.

She backpedals. “Oh, nonono, don’t get me wrong, if you really like it, I don’t want to call it a cult or anything. Uhh, I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.” She stares down at her fries.

“It’s okay!” I reassure her. Without thinking: “You’re right. They kind of are.”

“I told you!” We both laugh. In the corner of my eye, I see Jonah leave the cafeteria.

In an instant, we make eye contact, and suddenly I remember, the singing, the washing, his merciful eyes. He’s messaged me every week or so since then, and I’ve either made excuses or ignored them altogether. I feel a surge of guilt, trailing a string of broken promises behind me.

But he is looking at me with so, so much kindness. He smiles. I smile back. And absolved of my sins, I turn away.

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networkingdefinition · 6 years ago

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Leo Quotes

Official Website: Leo Quotes

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Every drama requires a cast. The cast may be so huge, as in Leo Tolstoy’s ‘Anna Karenina,’ that the author or editor provides a list of characters to keep them straight. Or it may be an intimate cast of two. – Nancy Kress

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Give like the sun, and the whole world grows tall. – Atticus

Funny People is my favorite performance of myself to date. Even though it’s a comedy and there are serious moments, I really felt like Leo felt like a real person. It didn’t feel like I was playing myself. Whether it’s a comedy or drama, I just try to make it as realistic as possible. – Jonah Hill

Here comes the sun. – The Beatles, Here Comes The Sun

I am a Leo, and I love to be active and creative. – Howie Dorough

I carry around this little lion named Leo, which I’ve had for as long as I can remember. – Shawn Mendes

I did imitations of anyone who came to my parents’ house, and that was my identity at school – if there were ten minutes to lunch, and the teacher was done with the lesson, he’d say, ‘Okay, Leo, get up there and do something.’ – Leonardo DiCaprio

I do wish everyone would call me Leo. It’s not that I don’t like Melissa. But the more I hear it called out, the worse it sounds. – Melissa Leo

I don’t believe that my first name is Leo or that my last name is Tolstoy. I’m a storyteller. – Robert Ludlum

I had a bulletin board in my bedroom with every picture of Leo ever taken – keep in mind, this was pre-‘Titanic’ and pre-Us Weekly, practically pre-Internet. I had to buy ‘The Leonardo DiCaprio Album’ and cut out my favorite pics. – Jenny Han

I have such an ego ’cause I’m a double Leo. I can’t let go of me, you know, so it’s very difficult for me to be somebody else and not me. I’m so into me. – Paul Mooney

I like art history and art criticism. Leo Steinberg has always been my favorite. He’s very original, very accurate and acute. – Helen Vendler

I listened to the veteran wrestlers that had tons of experience, like Leo Burke. I was never really alone. – Robert Maillet

I met Leo Fender, who is the guru of all amplifiers, and he gave me a Stratocaster. He became a second father to me. – Dick Dale

I read a book called ‘Transatlantic’, which is a history of the great shipping lines. Also, of course, I had read about the Titanic and saw Leo drowning at the end of the ‘Titanic’ movie and all that stuff. – Erik Larson

I really do not care that Messi isn’t scoring every match. Leo always produces match-changing moments. – Gerardo Martino

I thought back to my middle-school experience of having slumber parties and watching Romeo + Juliet and staring at Leo and thinking about my first kiss and what I wanted it to be like. And when you have your first real love, it’s an epiphany, you know? It’s like a whole new world. – Bonnie McKee

I would like to have an assortment of words, but what can I say about Leo? He is breaking all the records, and those he will still beat. He makes the public always expect something special from him, and he delivers it. – Ernesto Valverde

If Leo is at his level, it’s going to be very difficult to find a solution to stop him. – Luis Enrique

I’m a huge fan of Don Leo Jonathan. I love that era of wrestling. – Cesaro

I’m a leo, and damn proud of it. – Unknown

I’m a middle child, so I have middle-child syndrome. With a middle child, you always have to take in everything and adjust and maybe compromise a little bit so you’re able to see both sides of an issue. I’m also a Leo – I love astrology – so that affected me, just being a lion. – Jessica Williams

I’m Pisces with Leo rising. The Pisces part is the dreamer. The Leo says, ‘Let’s execute.’ – Quincy Jones

In the summer of 1866, as Leo Tolstoy prepared for his serialized novel ‘War and Peace’ to be published as a single volume, he wrote to illustrator Mikhail Bashilov, hoping to commission drawings for the new edition of the novel, which he referred to by its original title,1805.- Alexander Chee

It is a pleasure to see Leo, an Argentine, as the top scorer in the Champions League. – Gerardo Martino

It is an honour and a pleasure to be able to play with Leo Messi. I want to learn. He is the best player in the world and in history. I am delighted to be able to share costumes. I want to learn a lot from him on and off the field. – Ousmane Dembele

It is best to be born in April or August when the life-giving Sun is in its exaltation sign Aries or Leo, its home, for then we enter the sea of life on the crest-wave and are backed in the battle of existence by an abundant fund of vim and energy. – Max Heindel

It would not be honest if I did a review, because I’ve worked with Leo Messi, whom I consider the best player I’ve seen. I cannot comment or compare with Cristiano Ronaldo because I have not worked with him. That is not to say that I do not have as much respect for Cristiano as a footballer. – Frank Rijkaard

It’s an incredible feeling when you look across the dressing room and see Andres, Leo, Luis and Sergio Busquets, and everyone else. They are players I used to watch on TV or play with on PlayStation, and now I am sharing the same dressing room. It’s incredible for me. – Philippe Coutinho

I’ve always heard Leo saying he is happy at Barcelona. I’ll take the message that he is very comfortable here. – Luis Enrique

I’ve never met a player like Leo Messi. Julen Lopetegui

Lauv comes from the Latvian word for lion, and my mom’s side of the family is from Latvia – it’s a place I’ve been probably 15 times or more. I’m also a Leo, and my real name, Ari, means lion. – Lauv

Leo admires and is admired, loves and is loved. – Linda Goodman

Leo Burke was an unbelievable trainer. Him and Tom Prichard. Tom Prichard was not a big guy. And I learned a lot from him. – Mark Henry

Leo couldn’t deliver Mr. Martin Scorsese his Oscar with ‘The Aviator’, but I will go on record to say I will do so in ‘The Departed’. – Anthony Anderson

Leo Durocher was our manager and he brought Willie up to me and said, ‘This is Willie Mays and he’s your new roommate.’ You could see right away that this young man was a natural. He had those real big hands, great power and speed and would catch everything hit in his direction. He’s the best center fielder that ever lived, no question. – Monte Irvin

Leo Hurwicz is the father of mechanism design theory and has inspired much of my work, and Roger Myerson is an old friend and collaborator and a tremendous economist. – Eric Maskin

Leo is the best player in the world; that is very clear. – Thiago Alcantara

Leo Messi is a little football God. I love playing alongside him. We understand each other without needing to talk. – Dani Alves

Leo would also be unstoppable if I played him at full-back. Messi is simply the best there is. – Luis Enrique

Leo, sadly, has Parkinson’s, but he used to cook all sorts of dazzling things. – Jilly Cooper

My father, Leo Henry Brown, really was talented – he could write. He had a gift, and he had a great, sly humor. – Angie Dickinson

My kids and I make pasta three days a week now. It’s not even so much about the eating of it; they just like the process. Benno is the stuffer, and Leo is the catcher. They’ve got their jobs down. – Mario Batali

My life as Mrs. Leo Durocher and baseball come first. – Laraine Day

My sign is Leo. A Leo has to walk with pride. When he takes a step, he has to put his foot down. You walk into a room and you want people to know your presence, without you doing anything. – Wesley Snipes

Norbert Leo Butz is a master class in energy. – Lauren Ambrose

Of course there is ‘Messidependence.’ It would exist in any team in the world, but when he is not there, we also have to play and try to win. Leo is fundamental for us and marks the style; it is well known that he is the best in the world for something. – Ernesto Valverde

One might say Leos possess a kind of instant passion. – Linda Goodman

Ronaldo leaving would seem to have ended the competition between Leo Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo because people rarely mention one without mentioning the other. A lot of people are interested – me, too – to see how it will affect Real Madrid’s football and what they might do in the transfer market. – Ernesto Valverde

So I think it was a good thing It was a little surreal watching Leo scream ‘I’m not going to die today!’ with our music playing – that was the last thing on my mind when I wrote the song. – Jon Crosby

The first time I met Leo Messi, I didn’t know who he was, only that I couldn’t believe the boots he was wearing. But he is like a brother to me. It was at the start of 2005, when I was with the Argentine under-17 squad and I saw him chatting with Ezequiel Garay and some other players about the boots he’d brought back from the U.S.A. – Sergio Aguero

The Kate Winslet thing has been a shocker. I was like, that is the most ridiculous claim. Amazing, obviously. She’s been my idol since I re-enacted ‘Titanic’ and fell in love with Leo. And it’s a privilege to be called the next anything. But I suppose to be the next you is all you can do. – Florence Pugh

The Leo contains the essence of royalty. – Linda Goodman

The vibration of Leo, ruled by the Sun itself, is almost tangible, a thing you can actually feel throughout your whole being in the presence of a Lion or Lioness. — Linda Goodman

There are no words to describe Leo. He continues to break records every time one is put in front of him. – Gerardo Martino

There is something fundamental about Leo in terms of what he transmits to the supporters and what he transmits to the opposition when he starts to run at you. And I speak from experience. – Ernesto Valverde

There’s no really signature Leo DiCaprio role, like Jack Nicholson is Jack Nicholson no matter what movie he’s in. – Dennis Christopher

What I’d most highlight about Leo Messi is his huge sense of responsibility for the team. It shows in every game in every competition. – Ernesto Valverde

When I played Leonardo DiCaprio’s mother, they liked that Leo had very hooded eyes and a rounded nose with a ball. They said, They look like they could be mother and son. – Ellen Barkin

When Leo takes the record from me, it will hurt a little. But it’s not just anyone taking it away. It’s not a normal person. A Martian is taking it from me. That makes me feel a little better. – Gabriel Batistuta

You know, I am a Leo. Lion is a giant part of me. – Patrick Swayze

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equitiesstocks · 6 years ago