#* muse ic / c. sterling

[biirds]

hey watch your back! that’s sterling “birdie” andrews. people say she has lived in sunnyvale for 1 year. I heard they are a 21 year old student and museum guide. don’t you think they look like elle fanning? they remind me of worn down roller skates, books filled with scribbles and doodles, summer rain, vanilla flavored drinks, pink lipstick on someone else’s cheeks.

THE BASICS

full name: sterling andrews

nicknames: birdie, by everyone. 

age: 21 years old

hometown: shadyside

current location: sunnyvale

gender: cis woman

pronouns: she/her

sexuality: bisexual

occupation: fine arts student at sunnyside university; museum guide

playlist

B I O

it starts as any other story: boy meets girl, the seasons change, and suddenly there’s a house, a baby and a future. henry and eva andrews are the epitome of possibility, a bright eyed young couple, born and raised in shadyside, believing they are the future of the town. for a couple of years, sterling lives in a fantasy world, a reformed farm house filled with books, baby toys and colorful flyers. but fate always has a funny way of chasing after people.

eva andrews dies when sterling is barely two. there is no big accident or mystery, just an unexpected heart attack that transforms her childhood into a murky place. at times, birdie remembers the golden afternoons, her father teaching her how to ride the bike, climbing trees with friends, cheap ice cream sandwiches and laughter. at others, there are only bitter winters with screaming matches and a loneliness that seems incurable. henry andrews drinks some fingers of whisky every night with a sad little grin, and they never talk about the ghost that lives with them. 

birdie learns the piano because that’s what her mother played, but she’s only ever decent with it. she plays at the little league because it makes her father smile, gets the best grades in class, works her ass off in a shitty diner. for at least sixteen years she is a chronic people pleaser, hiding her more rebellious tendencies with smiles and pleasantries. the only thing she allows herself to have selfishly are sketchbooks filled with paint, charcoal and the angsty musings of a teenager.

after a gap year of working and torturing herself with the weight of the future, birdie submits her sketchbook to sunnyvale university. she gets a full ride scholarship to the fine arts program. birdie packs her bags and doesn’t dare to look back, because she knows it would make her come back running to the only place that’s ever been home (as fucked up as it could be at times).

T R I V I A

has an one eyed black cat named meowbeth siddal. siddal is generally a ball of love and purring around birdie and a menace to anyone else. beware.

her father is a middle school math teacher. her mother used to be an union organizer.

though birdie loves working on her own pieces, which are a mix of disturbing and romantic, she intends on becoming an art restorer, since the work (and the paychecks) allow for more stability. 

carries her father’s old film camera everywhere. if you’re her friend there’s probably some pictures of you hanging around her room.

her favored method of transport is going around in her beat up roller skates.

W A N T E D  C O N N E C T I O N S

childhood best friends - they were always sneaking to each other’s houses, climbing trees and exchanging books. most likely someone from shadyside who grew up and went to school together. their relationship might be rocky since birdie moved to sunnyside.

first sunnyvale friend - the person who took her under their wing when she first moved.

more to be added

[whoacanada]

‘Supremacy’, Part I

Pairing: Zimbits

Shameless Tropes: Cup Magic, Doppelganger AU, What-If, ‘not-so-Evil’ Twins

Warnings: Implied drug and alcohol abuse, fudging of timelines a little bit

A/N: Title thanks to Muse’s ‘Supremacy’, which I listened to on repeat for most of the time I mapped out this fic. Written as a late Christmas present for @omgpieplease and @heyfightme

Summary: Coming off his second cup win in as many seasons, Canadiens’ Forward Jack Laurent Zimmermann is the most beloved athlete in Canada. 

Though his public persona is sterling, his private life is a mess and Montréal’s front office is desperately hiding more than a few secrets beneath the C on Jack’s sweater. 

When a drunken cup wish strands him in an alternate reality where he dropped out of the draft, went to college, and still managed to make it to the NHL, Jack becomes desperate to make his counterpart’s world his new permanent home.

Montréal, QC, — two lives removed from a handful of terrible decisions… 

“Phillip? Another?”

The bartender has been serving him as long as Jack has lived in the high rise a block over and the man knows how Jack likes his ‘mimosas’: with vodka instead of champagne so the paparazzi don’t get antsy.

He downs the rest of his glass, pokes at what’s left of his omelet, and ignores another call from his father. There is no part of him that wants to deal with whatever story Bettman’s team has spun for the Canadiens front office.

His phone vibrates again, wriggling toward the edge of the table like it’s possessed, and Jack finally swipes to take the call.

"How was your cup day?” 

Bob wastes no time and Jack leans back in his seat, taking notice of the teenage girls a few tables over covertly trying to take his photo. He plasters on a smile and waves with his free hand. The blonde with braces and blue eyeshadow gasps and ducks back into the booth, before peeking over the cushion to see if he’s still watching. 

He is. He's always watching. The phone in her hand might as well be a gun.

"I didn't damage it,” Jack answers, reaching to take his new drink from the waitress.

“I’m staring at an official memo that cites ‘Inappropriate Behavior’.”

“Oh, is that all? You can deal with ‘Inappropriate’, can’t you?” Jack pulls a pen from the pocket of his jacket and scribbles an autograph on a napkin, snags a passing waiter and whispers,  ‘for the girl in the corner booth’.

“I swear to Christ — don’t take that tone with me. What the hell has gotten into you?”

“Oh, you know better than to ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”

“You can’t keep doing this —“

Jack debates hanging up — chancing a house call from his furious father and a fat organization fine — but the alcohol in his system is softening the situation just enough that Jack can’t seem to care.

“And what is ‘this’, exactly? Winning? Bringing Cups home to Montreal? What was it you told me, again? Something about how you don’t give a ‘flying fuck’ what I get up to on my own time as long I look good doing it?”

“Are you using again?"

“Fuck, don’t I wish,” the words are out before he can stop them and the line goes silent; for a moment, Jack thinks the call may have actually dropped.

“…Don’t tell me that. Never tell me that.”

Right. Plausible deniability.

“Yeah? What will you do if I don't? Suspend me?” Jack dares, waving at the girl again. She looks like she’s about to pass out and Jack wishes he could concentrate that excitement and shoot it right into his veins. “Or will you send me to rehab? I'm sure that'll play well.”

“Don’t make me take action, Jack. Neither of us will enjoy it.”

The girl in the corner is waving excitedly, and Jack knows she’s moments from working up the courage to come over and say thank you.

“Good talk, Bob.” He hangs up on his father, knowing damn well he’ll pay for that move later. Jack knows better than to motion for a bill, instead, he tosses down a hundred dollar note and waves halfheartedly at the wait staff he can see.

His good mood is long gone.

“Have you talked to your parents?”

“They don’t know. About any of it.”

Jack runs the nail of his thumb along the skin of his pointer finger, trying to calm his nerves.

“Well, are you going to tell them? I mean, you might straight-up vanish.”

The FaceTime connection keeps freezing and Jack stares at the disapproving downturn of Kent's lips for six seconds before the feed catches up.

"Don't think that would be the most prudent course of action at this point."

"Just, tell me this: when was the last time you were actually happy?"

It's almost upsetting how quickly he realizes he knows the answer.

"Ugh. How are you so handsome?" Bittle asks, tugging Jack's hair out from its bun so the sweaty locks fall on his face. "It's disgusting. You're disgusting. A disgusting, handsome, sweaty hockey player."

“Doesn’t seem to bother you much,” Jack pauses from where he's pressing messy kisses to Bittle's flushed torso. "It's all those pretty boys you train with, making you crave something more rugged."

His partner reaches up to scratch his nails over the stubble on Jack's cheek. "You're pretty cocky, hon," he whispers, voice thick like honeyed wine, and Jack's done for. He could die happy with this spitfire in his arms and a gold medal around his neck.

"I'm literally the best the world has to offer, I can afford to be cocky," Jack laughs and covers Eric's mouth with his own, tugging at Bittle's bottom lip gently with his teeth. "And so are you. We're a perfect match."

"We are?"

"You’ve made a fan of me," Jack runs a thumb over the Olympic rings tattooed on Eric's hip. "I've been trying to find a way to talk to you since Sochi."

"Seriously?"

"Not to scare you off or anything but I really wanted to meet you."

Eric’s bravado tapers and he tries to hide his face but Jack doesn’t miss the way the skin over his cheekbones flushes a warm peach; it makes his breath catch in his throat.

“Glad I live up to the hype,” Eric whispers shyly, and Jack dips his head again for a kiss relishing how he can feel the way Bittle smiles against his lips. It's almost better than winning.

Almost.

"Pyeongchang."

"The Olympics?"

Jack wants to say yes so desperately because it feels unclean to verbalize his obsession but Kenny, as usual, beats him to the punch.

"No, shit, you're talking about --" Jack looks away from the screen, not quite willing to see pity on another ex's face. "You know, you never actually told me what happened," Kenny prods gently. "Must have been something serious if you're still hung up on the guy."

Morning comes too soon and while Jack can ignore the alarm on his phone, Bittle isn't so content. When Jack rolls over, intent on clutching Eric as close as possible for as long as possible, he finds his partner watching him with an expression Jack can't quite read, his phone clutched tightly in his fist.

"I should head out. I have a phone interview at nine and my publicist needs to —” he stops himself and takes a measured breath before asking, “do you have a Valium or something?”

Jack’s still bleary with sleep but he nods to his bag. Eric steps over his clothes from the night before to dig through Jack’s things for a pill bottle. Crouched the way he is, Jack can make out the tell-tale purple bruise of a bite mark on his hip.

“Someone took a picture of us in Korea,” Eric explains, cracking half a pill and tossing it back dry. “You can’t tell it’s you in the photos — but my  publicist has been fielding calls from sponsors talking about morality clause violations.”

After the initial panic that accompanies ‘picture of us’, Jack breathes and refocuses on what Eric isn’t saying, his posture, all of the new information that he needs to work through.

“You’re in violation for going on a date?”

“I’m in violation for kissing an unknown man in public, in a foreign country, while wearing clothing belonging to an ‘identifiable brand’ .”

“That’s bullshit. You’re gay. You’re out, it’s not a secret.”

“I can date but, being ‘publicly indecent’ with a random man is unbecoming of Team USA,” Bittle quotes lamely, dropping his arms and tossing his phone onto the bedspread. “Fuck.”

“I’m not a random guy,” Jack defends but he doesn’t need to fill in the gaps. He just won his second cup, he isn’t public, and he has no plans to come out. The sheet covering him is suddenly too heavy as he kicks at the bedding to get some of the building energy out.

“Literally no one else knows that. Right now I’m just your secret,” Eric points out, pulling on the same briefs Jack removed himself not eight hours earlier. “I’m not a hockey player, Jack. I don’t get paid a hundred million dollars to fling pucks into nets. My job is 90% image — I need to pay for training and ice time, and when you have sponsors there can be really shitty strings attached. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, you know better than anyone.”

“You’re not a secret, you’re…” Jack trails off realizing he doesn’t know how to finish his sentence. Eric turns to him and looks older than Jack has ever seen him.

“I’m your ‘what’, Jack?”

“My boyfriend,” Jack swallows against the lump in his throat. “Or, I wanted you to be.”

Eric falls back on the bed and pulls a leg underneath himself. Leaning against the headboard, Jack can see their reflection on the glass of the television mounted to the wall — like a photo they’ll never be able to actually take. He knows what’s coming because he’s been here before.

Jack’s never been great with goodbyes.

"You're hyper-focusing like a motherfucker, have you talked to your therapist about this? That was like four months ago."

"Well, it still hurts like yesterday," Jack scoffs and takes a pull from his beer.

"Okay, look, it doesn't matter," Kenny refocuses, "you made a wish on your cup day, a vague-ass, stupid wish, and we need to figure out what the fuck is about to happen to you. Maybe you get lucky and nothing happens but you need to talk to your father in case you end up like a zombie or some shit —“

"Fuck my father," Jack snaps. "He's two steps from throwing me on IR, the last thing I need to do is pour gasoline on that fire."

“Wait, what did you do, now? Piss in the cup?”

“No.” Jack doesn’t elaborate and Kenny’s brow furrows with suspicion.

“Then talk to your Uncle. Anyone. Just as a backup plan for when you blow up.”

“I should get to bed,” Jack hints, desperately wanting the conversation to be over, and, ever diligent, Parson nods and tells him to call first thing in the morning. Just to be sure he hasn’t expired in the night.

They say their goodbyes and Jack closes the lid on his laptop; falling back against the pillows, willing sleep to come and hoping against hope he’ll feel better when he wakes up.

Providence, RI 

It takes a moment for those attending the Falconers’ first Family Skate of the season to realize there are two Jack Zimmermanns facing off at center ice. 

One in Falconers’ blue, the other in Canadiens’ red.