#Another human! Walt AU sort of

[pinkytoothlesso11]

Week 2 of Stricklake month: Guardian

Walter Strickler once lead a normal, slightly lonely life in Arcadia. Until he was captured by a shady secret organisation obsessed with creating the ultimate super soilder. With animal and troll DNA. Now a hybrid, Walter plans to escape. And take the doctor he fell in love with, forced to work for the organisation that ruined his life, with him along with her son. And hope he can reach them in time.

[alanshee-keeper-of-realms]

More like a Cinderella Tail,

So imma still working on Mickeys Beginnings in the Who Framed Roger Rabbit type AU World of off the animation table, but this scenes too funny to save and I had to share,

Aka in my notes as How Walt got Mickey to do his scenes in the very beginning,

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"I just don't what we are gonna do Roy, Mickey he's unlike Julius and Ozzie wrecking the sets refusing to act, running off-" he pulled down a blind watching Mickey chase after Minerva who looked right peeved at the other, whacking him on the head as he went to grab for her skirt again,

He stepped back sighing, they had 3 shorts, 3 of them and Michael so far had ruined every single one of the scenes they were attempting, they'd put everything into the fella and his girl so they could not create another, besides he had a gut feeling the Mouse needed motivation of some sort, beginning to pace trying to think he heard Ub who was in the corner quip in a teasing way

"Maybe you should bribe him with cheese," the animators eyes widened turning sharply

"What did you say?" His old friend shrugged with a grin

"Mice like cheese, right? Bribe him with cheese he does a scene, he gets a piece."

Walt returned the smile it was perfect like training animals. Roy looked dumbfounded between his brother and Iwerks before shrugging with a shake of the head,

"Well, whatever works, they're toons pretty sure that would work with their logic. I don't need to tell ya Walter if that mouse doesn't get these right that we are finished and will have to crawl back to Dad," the younger could only mutter,

"I know Roy, we will get him to behave,"

With the plan set Walt went down to the local deli and purchased a small block of cheddar, cost him a bit but to his excitment as soon as he had waved the food in front of the mouse Mickey had instantly scampered over and now sat on his haunches at the man's feet keenly listening as he laid out the rules

"Alright Mickey, you do a scene like we ask and you get a piece of cheese for being good. Fair trade?" The mouse nodded as the human cut a cube off, holding down the piece

The toon eagerly took it nibbling on the procured food happily, and then to Walts delight Mickey actually stood bipedal, strode on set and got to work. He was still being a bit mischievous with flipping Minnie's skirts and torturing a couple of the Toon animals but over all the footage was a lot better than the last 2 attempts,

Each time they called cut, Mickey would go on all fours bounding over for his reward, Walt wondered if Toons were like trained dogs at this point. But the intelligence in Michael's eyes spoke to the man that this Mouse Toon was more like a baby and toddler he just had to teach him,

That's if the Mouse didn't sink them first, for now they had sound to do on Steamboat Willie, the first noise he'd ever heard Michael make besides his squeaks,

He had whistled the first sort of intelligence the men had ever seen, it was a simple tune Walt himself whistled frequently, but it showed mimicry and again was an exciting prospect

Right now though bribing was better then again teaching. Perhaps once Mickey started showing he was more clever then mimicking him then he'd start guiding the Toon. He watched Mickey and Minnie chase one another around the studio like usual, he really did question if he should stop the behavior

[iam93percentstardust]

Haaaapppy Birthday Month!!! A prompt!: Mermen!Stony! Do they have to be actualfax mermen? Nien! They could be a mermaid bar au ( see Dive Bar in sacramento) or perhaps it is the 1970’s and Disneyland still has cast members as mermaids in their lagoon but now it also includes mermen. Or they are possibly actualfax mermen and and they meet and fall in love. Idk, I just know merpeople. Happy Birthday again <3

I loved this prompt so much that I sort of combined all three ideas? Also I'm very ashamed of myself for not knowing Dive Bar exists because that is right up my alley (and now I definitely need to make a trip out to California)

Anyway thanks for the birthday wishes. This prompt definitely got away from me so here are 5000 words of shapeshifting mermaids that you can find on ao3 here:

~

Steve is of the personal opinion that if more humans knew just how many of their beloved close friends and neighbors were non-human, there would be an uproar. And not even just the people close to them—there isn’t a corner of the world left untouched by magic, from sirens topping the charts to trolls scoring touchdowns to witches making dreams come true at the Happiest Place on Earth. Nowhere is that more obvious than in the theme park industry.

Steve personally blames Walt Disney for it. What the man could do without magic was simply incredible, and it left the rest of the industry scrambling to catch up with him, frequently using magic to get an edge. Which is how Mermaidia, a horribly-named (but so chosen to play off of Mermaid Fever caused by the frequent appearance of mers in human media) and mer-owned-and-operated cousin to SeaWorld, got its start.

Mermaidia, as Steve has heard his entire life, is unique in that not only is it one of the most ethical aquatic theme parks in the world with enclosures more than large enough for  the animals they keep, but in that the entire park is owned and staffed by mermaids—not that the humans know that, of course. Mers were the first shapeshifters, born even before weres and dragons, and going from tail to legs is as simple as wishing it done.

He leaves the elevator that travels from the underwater city located just off the coast of the archipelago that makes up Mermaidia to the park headquarters located on the largest of the park’s islands. His PA, Natasha, is waiting for him just outside the elevator with a copy of the day’s schedule and a cup of tea. He accepts both and takes a sip as he glances over the schedule.

“Why am I meeting with the new performer?” he asks, gaze pausing on the little Meeting with Tony Carbonell highlighted in red at the top of the schedule. He starts walking toward his office. If he’s got a meeting with Carbonell first thing, then he wants to make sure his office is in order. “I’m not on the rota for performances for another few weeks.” Despite being the owner of the park since a decade ago when his parents, the original founders of Mermaidia, passed, Steve got his start at the park performing in one of the park’s three mer-centered shows. He still likes to perform when he has a free day, but he doesn’t have one of those coming up for a while.

Natasha replies, “There are security concerns regarding his employment.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asks, frowning at her. “He hasn’t even shown up for his first day yet. He can’t possible have gotten into trouble already.”

“It’s not him, Steve,” Natasha says. “Or—it is him, but not in the way you’re thinking.”

“Explain,” Steve says.

But Natasha shakes her head and waits until Steve’s office door has closed behind him before she says, “He’s royal.”

Steve’s hands still in tidying his desk. “Royal,” he repeats flatly.

Natasha nods. “You know the queen has been talking about the prince getting a job.”

He does know. The news has been all over the city for weeks that the spoiled heir to the throne would be getting a job after one too many public mistakes, and if Steve had had any inkling that he would be coming to Mermaidia, he would have put together the first name Tony with the queen’s childhood name Carbonell instantly. But he hadn’t. He’d assumed, evidently wrongfully, that the young Stark, well-known to be gifted with mechanics and engineering, would stay as far away from entertainment and customer service as possible.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “Send him in when he gets here. We can discuss security details then.”

Natasha opens her mouth like she’s going to ask something—she nearly always does; she likes to know things, which makes her invaluable to Steve as she always knows what’s going on in his company, but is also deeply frustrating when she turns that on him—but a pointed look at the door has her leaving without a word. Steve slumps back into his desk chair—dwarven-made and far more comfortable than anything mass-produced by humans—and groans, dropping his head into his hands.

Tony Stark, working in his park.

What’s next, his first boyfriend deciding to work here too?

Steve has never told anyone this, let alone his nosy assistant, but he remembers Tony from their shared childhood in the palace. Before he created Mermaidia, Steve’s father had been one of the king’s bodyguards. Sometimes, Steve think he must have spent most of his boyhood swimming after Tony, the younger mer having been both too intelligent and too mischievous for his own good, but he hadn’t. It was only five years before the February Uprising that left Steve’s dad permanently unable to shift into his mer form and Tony’s dad, the king, dead.

The last Steve saw Tony Stark, he’d been blaming Steve for his dad’s inability to protect the king as Steve and his ma left the palace. With Steve’s dad unable to shift, they’d retired to the archipelago above the city, left unclaimed by both humankind and mer. A decade later, they’d opened Mermaidia and five years after that, both his parents were gone and Steve was left the sole owner of the park.

With all that, he hasn’t thought of Tony other than in passing in years. He’d long since realized that Tony’s blame for what happened to his father was born out of grief and a childlike inability to understand what had happened. Now that they’re older, he has no doubt that Tony’s come to realize that the king’s bodyguards had done all they could. Steve’s dad wasn’t the only one to be injured that night, and he had been one of the few left alive.

Steve hasn’t seen Tony since that last night at the palace, not in person anyway, though he’s seen plenty of Tony in the magic bubbles that pass for news amongst mers, none of his appearances good. The pretty child had turned into a pretty man, and the combination of his looks and his inability to keep his head down has made him an attractive target for anyone looking to make a little bit of money off of selling stories. Truthfully, the only thing that surprises Steve about the queen forcing her son to find a job is that it took her so long.

“Steve,” Natasha says, poking her head into Steve’s office. “Mr. Carbonell is here.” She looks disapprovingly around his office. “I thought you were going to tidy up in here.”

“Got distracted,” Steve says, straightening his tie. He can do this. He can see his childhood best friend for the first time in twenty-five years and maintain a cool disposition. “Thanks, send him in.”

Tony must have been waiting right behind her because the words have no sooner left Steve’s mouth than Tony is shimmying past her, nearly overbalancing once he pops into the room.

“Tony,” someone exasperatedly says from behind Natasha. “You’re supposed to let me enter the room first.”

“Sorry,” Tony says cheekily, throwing a grin over his shoulder. “Got a little excited there.”

Natasha steps aside for a tall black man, who follows Tony into the office on legs that clearly aren’t used to being legs yet. Steve can’t see any weapons on him, but judging by his words, he’d be willing to bet that this is the bodyguard concerned for Tony’s safety while he’s employed by Mermaidia—Colonel Rhodes, the note on Steve’s schedule had called him. Steve stands and offers his hand to Rhodes first, shaking it in a way that’s more common to humans than mers but is long habit after years of dealing with humans in a business capacity. It’s only once the door has closed behind him that he turns to Tony and bows.

“Your Highness,” he says formally.

For the first time, the smile on Tony’s face falters.

“Please, sit down,” Steve urges the two of them, taking his own seat again while he gestures at the chairs behind them. He waits until they’re both seated before continuing. “Welcome to Mermaidia, Your Highness. I understand that you’re using a glamour to protect yourself?”

It’s an unnecessary question. Steve can see the glamour shimmering just under Tony’s skin. They’re tricky things, glamours, much more complicated than humans make them out to be. To someone who doesn’t know who’s wearing it, the glamour projects an altered version of the wearer—in Tony’s case, face a little more angular than it should be, hair a few shades lighter, and jewel blue eyes. But Steve does know who’s beneath the glamour and so he sees the dark hair and the warm brown eyes, the glamour shimmering like a mirage only when Tony moves.

“Yeah,” Tony says, giving Steve a cautious look. “I was always supposed to come here with the glamour but then Mama got worried and sent Rhodey here with me.”

“Colonel Rhodes,” Steve says politely, turning his attention to the other mer. “What do you need from us?”

“I know Tony’s working as a performer,” Rhodes replies, “so what I need is a way to stay close to him without having to be in the show itself.”

“We can arrange that,” Steve says, already thinking about possible positions they could put Rhodes in. “You will, of course, be paid as an employee.” Rhodes looks surprised about that and starts to open his mouth, but Steve waves him off. “It wouldn’t feel right, asking you to work here as a cover and not paying you. We take care of our employees here. Anything else?”

“I’d like to take a look at your existing security.”

“Of course. I can hook you up with Bucky Barnes, our current head of security, to go over the finer details with you.”

“And I’d like additional security at each of Tony’s shows.”

Steve nods. “That’ll need to be something you arrange with Bucky. Are there any other questions?”

“Yeah, actually,” Tony pipes up. “Rhodey, can you give us the room for a second?” Rhodes looks dubious. “Oh, come on, it’s Steve, he’s not going to hurt me.”

This does not make Rhodes appear any less dubious, but he stands up. “I’ll leave the door open.”

“I owe you an apology,” Tony says, leaning forward in his chair. “I said some pretty terrible things the last time we saw each other—”

“You were a child,” Steve protests automatically, even though it’s nothing he hasn’t thought before.

“Yeah, but that’s not an excuse. You had your life turned upside down by the attack too, and we should have grown closer together. I shouldn’t have let my anger get the best of me. So, I’m sorry.”

Steve blinks. “Apology accepted.”

“Great!” Tony says, smiling brightly. Steve’s breath catches at how the smile lights up his face. The news bubbles hadn’t been lying; he really is very pretty. “Now, I think you owe me an apology too.”

“Oh, I do, do I?” Steve asks nonplussed.

“Yeah. How come you never invited me to your park, Stevie? Really, I’m hurt.”

Steve laughs and points at the door. “I think you’ve got paperwork to fill out, Mr. Carbonell. Better get going.”

Tony makes a face, but stands. “I’m going to get that apology from you.”

“How about this?” Steve offers. “I’ll come see you in the show once you’ve finished training.”

Tony’s eyes light up. “I’ll take you up on that offer, Mr. Rogers.”

~

For all that Steve had had great intentions of staying far away from the pools Tony’s shown practiced in—he’d accepted Tony’s apology and they’re at least friendly now, but once burned and all that—he can’t resist ducking down there the first time the show’s director sends him a report of how the practices are progressing. By rights, Steve shouldn’t be getting any of these reports; they should just be going straight to the department heads. But his parents had taken a hands-on approach when running the park, and Steve has every intention of maintaining that legacy, so he oversees operations as personally as he can.

The director’s review comes to him with glowing praise for Tony, which doesn’t actually surprise Steve. He would imagine that Tony’s life would be full of public faces versus private faces. Sliding into another role, especially one so close to his own, must feel very easy. Even so, it’s effusive enough that Steve can’t help but feel curious and wander down to the pools to see for himself.

The show is simple enough and based on a mer legend to boot: an attractive palace guard sent to rescue the mer ruler from an evil sea witch. The genders of the characters are easily changed out to suit whoever winds up with the role, a decision that was unpopular with the humans at first though none of the mer staff have ever cared about such a thing. One of the park’s veterans, a friend of Steve’s named Sharon, who’s been here almost as long as he has, has been cast in the role of the palace guard for the season. Tony, in a twist of irony, was cast as the young ruler.

The practice pools are located on the back halves of the islands, well out of sight of the guests, and take a bit of a hike to get to—if one has to walk. Fortunately, Steve is mer, and he swims around the island instead, a much easier way to get to the pools.

He emerges from the water, seamlessly transitioning from tail to legs, idly wondering at the magic that transitions his clothes as well so that he doesn’t lose them every time he shifts. The show, he realizes as he approaches the stage and pool—one of the largest they have and yet still requires set changes—is in the middle of a run-through. The entire show is performed underwater with only a few early scenes performed on land, namely the opening chorus performed by a few mers acting as sailors. The pool itself, unlike the one they’ll perform in for guests of the park, is set in the ground so that the only way to view it is from a platform above, which is where Rhodes is currently standing, arms crossed. Steve wanders over to join him. From their vantage point, he can make out the jewel-bright flashes of the performers’ tails. It takes him a moment to locate Tony. He’s looking for the bright gold and red of the royal family, but Tony’s glamour must be stronger on his tail because he sees the mer with the dark blue and white tail several times before realizing that the reason it looks so odd is because it’s not real.

“Rogers,” Rhodes says quietly so as not to disturb the performers.

“Rhodes,” Steve replies, nodding at him.

“Come to check out the show?” Rhodes asks, raising an eyebrow in a way that makes Steve feel that he knows exactly why Steve is here—and that it has little to do with the show itself. “You know, he talks about you all the time.”

“He does?” Steve asks, only realizing too late that he sounds hopeful. Rhodes grins at him.

“Yeah. I’ve been his bodyguard for most of a decade, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard him talk about anyone half as much as he talks about you. He’s really proud of all the work you’ve put into this place. Feels bad about what he said to you last time you saw each other.”

“He could have said something earlier,” Steve says, annoyed.

Rhodes shrugs. “I don’t think he thought he had the right to.”

Which, huh. Combined with what Steve is learning about this older Tony from the reports the director’s sent in—that he’s a hard worker who’s easily made friends with his costars, always shows up on time, and never once complains about the long rehearsal hours—it paints a very different picture than the news bubbles do.

He says as much to Rhodes, who gives him an approving look, but any further discussion stops when a sharp bosun’s whistle pierces the air, signaling for breaktime.

“I’ll never get used to that,” Rhodes says casually, moving to the edge of the platform and looking straight down. Steve follows him and spots Tony swimming towards them parallel to the pool’s walls. Moving as fast as he is, it’s easier to parse through the glamour to the glimmers of gold and red beneath. “Better move. He likes to show off.”

Tony bursts out of the water, using the extra push from his tail to clear the water and leap onto the platform. He transitions from tail to legs halfway through the jump—much easier than most mers can manage, even ones who work on land—and tucks himself into a roll, somersaulting past Steve and Rhodes, and comes to his feet.

“Ta-da!” he exclaims.

“Yes, yes, you’re very impre—” Rhodes begins dryly, but Tony catches sight of Steve then.

His face lights up. “You came!” he says, looking positively delighted that Steve is there.

Steve feels his own face blush bright red. “Ah,” he says awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “It was—I like to keep an eye on everything in the park.”

Tony looks like he sees right through Steve’s bluffing, but he doesn’t do anything other than give him a knowing look. “So what do you think?”

“You look good,” Steve says without thinking, which is true. Tony is shirtless in this form other than the gold jewelry he wears for his role, and it offsets his slender, toned body in a very distracting way. He wears a bright turquoise gem around his neck that all but screams magic. This, Steve suspects, is the source of the glamour. He suddenly realizes what he just said. His blush deepens as a delighted smile spreads across Tony’s face. “I mean—the show. The show looks good. What do you tell everyone that’s for?”

Tony continues beaming at him for a moment before he looks down at the gem Steve’s gesturing to. “Oh, I just say it’s for heart problems. Do you think I look good, Steve?”

Steve glares at him. “You know you do.”

“Yeah, but—” Tony takes a step closer to him, and suddenly, he’s in Steve’s space and Steve is finding it hard to breathe. He hadn’t anticipated this when Natasha told him who Tony Carbonell really was. How could he have? He hadn’t seen Tony in years. How could he have expected the bright burst of attraction every time their paths crossed. “Do you think I look good?”

Steve looks at him, at his dark brown eyes sparkling in the morning sun and his pink mouth begging to be kissed red. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “I do.”

Tony’s smile softens. “I missed you, Big Blue.”

“Big—what?”

Tony’s gaze flickers down to Steve’s legs. “That’s a pretty big tail you’ve got there,” he murmurs, pupils blowing wide. “Makes me wonder—”

“Mr. Rogers!” Janet, the show’s director, exclaims. She joins them on the raised platform and throws her arms around Steve. Tony steps back, heated stare fading as he turns and looks back over the pool. Janet is a little older than Steve’s mom would have been, and she had become like a second mother to him in the days after his parents’ deaths. He adores her to pieces for all that he’s been unable to get her to stop calling him Mr. Rogers. “Making friends with the new star?”

“Something like that,” Steve says.

“Have you had a chance to go over the new blocking yet?” Janet asks him.

Steve says truthfully, “No, I’ve been busy.” One of the emails Janet had sent him earlier in the week had involved the minute changes she’d made to the show since last tourist season, but Steve hasn’t had a chance to come down to the pools and go over them yet. Natasha has kept him busy with meetings and visiting the other departments. And since he isn’t on the performance rota for another few weeks once the season opens, he hasn’t worried about it.

“Are you busy now?”

He thinks he knows where this is going, but he’s never been able to lie to Janet before, and he doubts he’ll be able to now. “No.”

“Good. Get your costume and gear from Sharon and get in the pool. We’ll run through it a few times with you.”

“Wait, what?” Tony asks.

“Sometimes, I do the performances,” Steve says, trying to seem more casual than he feels. He strips off his suit jacket and shirt, knowing better than to argue with Janet. “It’s a good way to stay up to date with everything going on in the park.”

“Is that so?” Tony asks lowly, smirking at him. Steve shivers and turns away, diving into the pool, transforming the instant he hits the water.

~

Even with the changes, Steve could do most of the show in his sleep, which is good because the moment he takes in the sight of Tony chained to the rock, angrily snapping at the sea witch that his loyal guard is coming for him, Steve’s brain decides to take a hike southward and stays there.

It’s not that he hadn’t known that Tony’s mer form is gorgeous because he had. Anyone with eyes and access to a news bubble knows that. Even with the glamour, Tony is handsome. Without it—with his sinuous tail and its golden scales around his stomach giving way to bright red—he’s stunning. But he hadn’t anticipated that the way Tony’s tail lashes angrily against the rock and his wrists twist in their chains, catching the dappled sunlight filtering through the water, would make him feel.

He goes through the motions, barely noticing when Janet stops them to correct his movements according to the new script. He says the lines, wondering if he’s ever meant them as much as he does now. He will rescue Tony, no matter that he isn’t truly in any danger.

And when he’s defeated the sea witch and taken Tony into his arms, Tony gazing up at him like he never wants to look away, he realizes that he’s never felt so right as he does now.

Oh.

Oh.

~

“Have lunch with me,” he asks Tony after they’re done with rehearsal, to which Tony readily agrees. Steve takes him to one of the higher end restaurants in the park. He’s needed to go by there anyway to approve the final menu for this year’s season. Tony just gives him an excuse to go there sooner than his scheduled visit next week, which he’s sure the chefs are grateful for since it’ll give them more time to prepare if he asks them to make any changes.

They spend hours in the restaurant talking, far longer than Tony’s lunch break should have allowed for (though he doubts that Janet will complain; she and Natasha have been trying to set him up for ages). They work their way through every item on the menu, talking about everything and nothing and all the things in between. Tony proves himself to be just as smart as everyone says he is and as funny as he is smart and as kind as he is funny. Steve wonders at the disconnect between everything he’s read about Tony and the person he sees in front of him, but he has enough experience with that disconnect as well to know that not everything he reads can be accurate. After all, he himself isn’t nearly the recluse human media tries to paint him as.

Their lunch is only the first of many. Every day, Steve finds himself swimming over to the pools just before lunch, hoping to catch Tony before he joins the rest of the cast for his break. And every day, even if Steve is running late, Tony waits for him, clearly more interested in spending that time with Steve. They’ve grown as close as they once were as children and more than, and Steve often wishes that he could work up the courage to even just take Tony’s hand as it rests on the table, but he hasn’t managed to yet.

Mermaidia opens for the season, and they both get busier than they have been before. They still meet up when they can, but with six shows each day, Tony is frequently exhausted at the end of the day. In addition to his duties as the owner the park, Steve takes shifts whenever he can—in the gift shops, in the restaurants, as a tour guide in the aquariums. His turn to work Tony’s show hasn’t come up yet, but he counts down the days. Between Tony’s exhaustion and Steve’s busy schedule, their meetings grow briefer and briefer though Steve still tries his best to make time for Tony and it’s clear that Tony does the same for him.

A few days before Steve is supposed to take over Sharon’s role for the day, Natasha informs him that he has no meetings scheduled and she’s blocked his calendar. He frowns at her. He was supposed to have an interview with one of those human television shows. Every few years, one of them gets it into their heads that they’ll be the ones to figure out the secrets of Mermaidia—both Steve and his parents have always said that the mermaids of Mermaidia work through magic—and he’s come due for another one.

“They cancelled,” Natasha says unconcernedly. He takes that to mean as she scared them off. Natasha can be terrifying when she wants to be. “If I were you, I’d recommend going out to the waterfall.”

The waterfall is Steve’s favorite place on any of the islands. Located on one of the smaller islands that make up the park, the waterfall empties into the bay, which the island forms a natural barrier around. Protected from human eyes by some magic that Steve’s parents had put in place, it’s the one place in Mermaidia outside of the show pools where he can feel free to change into his mer form without worrying about someone spotting him.

“Thanks,” he says, then narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Why?”

“Just thought it might be nice,” Natasha says innocently. She doesn’t crack under his glare, and Steve eventually gives up. He’s sure she’s got some sort of secret reason for making him go, but he can’t deny that he wants to.

“Alright,” he says eventually. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He swims over to the waterfall, wholly unsurprised to find Tony there when he arrives. Tony’s sitting on one of the rocks lining the beach, red and gold tail flashing in the sun. He’s removed the jewel from around his neck, so that Steve doesn’t have to fight past the glamour to see just him. Steve swims right up to him. Tony must spot the blue and silver of Steve’s own tail from a way off because he doesn’t seem surprised at all when Steve pops out of the water even though he couldn’t possible have heard him over the sounds of the waterfall.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Tony says, twisting to drape across the rock, putting his face very close to Steve’s, whose breath catches.

“So,” Steve says, sounding strangled. He clears his throat and tries again. “So, which one put you up to this?”

“Janet,” Tony replies. “She told me she thought one of the understudies was slacking off and she wanted to sub him in to catch him off guard.”

“I pity whoever comes to see the show today,” Steve remarks.

Tony laughs, his breath puffing across Steve’s mouth. “We both know Sharon is more than talented enough to make up for it.” His gaze drops to Steve’s lips, going dark and heated.

Steve’s tongue darts out to wet his mouth. “Ah, where’s Rhodes?”

“Around,” Tony murmurs, waving a casual hand. “He won’t bother us, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Well, in that case,” Steve begins and then reaches up, grabbing Tony’s arms and hauling him over his head and into the water. Tony hits the water with a huge splash, screeching loud enough that Steve can still hear him above water.

He dives too, darting away from Tony’s teasing grab. They chase each other through the bay, shouting taunts back and forth. Tony is a dirty cheat, gathering up sand from the bottom of the bay to toss back in Steve’s eyes, though he could have expected that—even as a boy, Tony hated to lose. In retaliation, Steve uses his knowledge of the bay to dart through one of the caves lining the stone walls of the island. If he times it right, he’ll exit the other side either just ahead of Tony or practically on top of him.

He emerges right as Tony swims by and manages to catch Tony’s hand, spinning him around and into the rock. Tony’s back hits the wall with a soft “Oof.” He doesn’t try to escape now that Steve’s got him pinned, only relaxes his wrist into Steve’s grip.

“Caught you,” Steve breathes, bubbles streaming from his mouth.

“Sure did,” Tony says easily, twining his tail around Steve’s, drawing a shiver from Steve. “We match, you know.”

“Hmm?”

“Look at our tails, Steve.”

Steve does. He wouldn’t have thought that Tony’s red and gold could be considered as matching with his own blue and silver, but they look good together, intertwined as they are. His heart beats faster. He puts his free hand at Tony’s waist and slides it around to his back, the rough scales catching against the skin of his hand as he pulls Tony into him.

“Tony,” he says helplessly, not entirely sure what he’s asking for. Tony must get it, however—he always seems to know what Steve is looking for—because he smiles at Steve and puts his other hand around the back of Steve’s neck and tugs him down.

Their lips meet, sliding against each other as they float there, suspended in the water, in this moment. Tony’s mouth tastes like the unique blend of fresh and saltwater that comes from the waterfall pounding into the bay. Steve pulls him even closer and kisses him again, opening his mouth for Tony’s questing tongue. Tony is whispering something into his mouth, something that Steve can’t hear over the rushing in his ears—or maybe that’s the sound of the waterfall filtering through the bay.

They pull apart and come together again and again, Tony’s hand drifting down from Steve’s neck to his shoulder to his bare chest. Steve kisses his way across the line of Tony’s jaw to his throat. Tony gasps his name, and Steve returns to his mouth, kissing him again.

He doesn’t notice when they start to drift upwards, only when they break the surface and they suddenly gasp in air instead of water. He strokes Tony’s face and slides his tail up and down Tony’s.

“I really like you,” Steve says, kissing the salt from Tony’s cheeks.

“Good,” Tony says, sliding his hand back up and twisting his fingers into Steve’s hair. “I really like you too.”

“I’m glad you decided to work here,” Steve says, possibly too honest since Tony pulls away from him, eyes searching Steve’s face. It’s a long moment before Tony’s face softens into a warm smile.

“Best job I’ve ever had,” Tony replies.

Steve laughs. “Only job you’ve ever had.”

“Makes the choice easy then, doesn’t it?”

Steve kisses him again, Tony’s fingers tightening in his hair to keep him there. “I want to see you more often.”

“Abandon your duties,” Tony says immediately. “Take over Sharon’s role. Spend every day with me.”

“I was thinking we could start with dinner,” Steve suggests instead.

Tony thinks about it. “Yeah, okay, dinner sounds good too.”

“I’m so glad you approve,” Steve says dryly, but he thinks his words are undercut by the way he pulls Tony back to him.

From the way Tony kisses him, he thinks Tony knows it too.

[undeadchestnut]

Chestnut's Trollhunters AUs Masterpost

Uh yeah, what the title says. I have so much art for different AUs and it's all over the place, felt like trying to get things in order SOMEHOW. And maybe you'll find a thing or two you've missed?

Oh no hang on, this list turned out so long, what am I even doing, here, let me save you from scrolling:

Happily Ever After AU

Anything related to a Stricklake Wedding and Stricklake family domestic life that ignores the events of RotT completely. (Some of the stuff was created long before RotT came out, but I'm sorting it in here as well.)

Proposal and Wedding:

To Family - short fic about Walt proposing to Barbara

Wedding Vows

Knife Fight

Wedding Dances

When the guests have left

Wedding Night (Spicy! NsfW)

Other happy life things:

Domestic Moments

Gargoyle/Barbara and Walter, sitting in a tree...

Comfy

Cozy on a rainy day

Hair and Horn Care

How to grow Celery

Tired Babies

Christmas Sweater Family

Nymph and Satyr

The first time I sneakily drew them with wedding rings (Yes, before RotT came out, yes, RotT made it personal, no, I will never forgive.)

New Looks (drawn just after the trailer dropped, when I still dared to be excited)

It zips in the back

Tall NotEnrique

Karaoke Night

Trollhunter!Barbara AU

Title says it all, I think. Barbara gets to be the Trollhunter!

Barbara, Bular and Morgana (And Strickler)

Troll!Barb and Human Strickler (THEY ARE CUTE!!!)

Stricklake Kisses (Only one of them is related to this AU but I rlly like it so-)

Eternal Night, Eternal Kiss

Morgana revives the Heartstone

Friends and Enemies

Shadowmancer!Strickler saves the Changelings

Dramatic post-battle kiss

Shadowmancer!Strickler "possessed" by Morgana

Beast!Barb and Shadowmancer!Strickler

Beast!Barb and Shadowmancer!Strickler II (Jim is there as well!)

Trollhunter!Strickler AU

This one is so big, it gets its own Masterpost!

Excalibarb

Barbara gets to wield Excalibur! And wear cool armor! Because it's cool!

Swordfight Training

Armor Designs

Excalibarb and Jim

Healing Magic

Roleswap!AU

Everything is the same as in the Trollhunters story we know, except... Barbara and Walter have swapped places! Walter Lake is a doctor and single dad to Jim, Barbara Strickler is the centuries old changeling assassin. A personal favorite, if I'm being honest. >:)

First Looks

Character designs and a kiss

She's Trouble

Screenshot Redraws:

Dinner Date

Good Look for Picture Day?

Barbara?

Jim

Unsorted

Forget-Me-Not - A Stricklake Playlist

Yet Another Stricklake Kiss

Facial Expressions Swap

Hair Swap?

Strickler breaking down - Fanfic Fanart

Strickbaby and Stalkling mommy

Sea Dragon AU

Goldie!Barb AU

Goldie!Barb AU designs

My first fanart of Strickler wooo

What do I know about being human? - Part 1 | Part 2 (My first Stricklake thing. There's a lot I'd do differently now, both writing- and art-wise, but it's still there if you want to read it.)

Everything changes, nothing dies.

Strickler has a dog for some reason

Antramonstrum

The Strickward Saga (I'm not sorry)

[geekgemsspooksandtoons]

I'm just gonna share this random idea. I don't think I do anything serious with it. Despite the serious and deepness of it.

Because of my making of my Bioshock reimagining AU named Bioshock Rebirth which is kind of like a what if story too in a way. But I can talk about that another time.

I remember last week I think there was an idea or something like this.

"Wow considering how I'm approaching this Bioshock AU if the series was rebooted. Imagine how Bendy And The Ink Machine was rebooted. I'd give it the biggest mind fuck more than I guess the original game".

Now....I'm gonna reveal that. Swear this is giving me Bioshock Infinite vibes which I do recall thinking about. But I'm not spoiling anything.

Andrew Joseph: I need to kill Joey....I need to stop him! I WANT TO SAVE ALL OF YOU! *He's sounds like an emotional but angry mess who's crying*

Allison Angel: Andrew.......you are Joey. :( *She sounds really saying that as she shows him some sort of magical mirror that showcases his real identity*

Andrew:

The idea is basically, "Bendy And The Ink Machine but Joey is the protagonist". Yet think I thought of this today maybe. That Joey felt so sincerely guilty over everything he's done.

How he ran the studio, how he treated his employees, his own best friend Henry disowns him, getting the ink machine built, the sacrifices, and him locking away Bendy. The closest thing he had to a son.

But Joey couldn't take the reality that he did it. So he some how makes his own OC as he goes into the world of the ink machine. Because he hates himself so much and anyone who recognizes him will probably kill him on sight.

He makes a new version of himself named Andrew Joseph who's in his mid 20's to early 30's. A young man who's not exactly a veteran animator but who's new to working at Joey Drew Studios. A man who puts others before him who's tough but very tender around people. Maybe a out of service marine/soldier but I'm sounding weird.

Andrew Joseph is the man Joey wants himself to be. Maybe someone like Henry.

Even Andrew's name is some what of a backwards version of Joey's own name. Just minus the y.

Honestly the idea of this weird I guess AU is that it seems very bleak. Mainly I'm just thinking it ends everyone in the studio. Mainly the characters you meet who look at you in your face. In the middle is Ink Bendy as Joey embraces death as his own demonic son just drowns him in ink.

With Joey and everyone else hoping Joey's death frees them all. With Bendy's last words being, "I'm sorry papa" despite Bendy's hatred against him. Once he realizes who Andrew was and his purpose.

Honestly it sounds depressing. But it's interesting because for a long time I keep imagining Joey's soul is so toxic and corrupted. That in my Bendy sequel AU. He basically became a demonic entity because he was so stubborn in life to not acknowledge how horrible he was. Even when characters like Sammy and Susie realize how horrible they've become in that sequel AU when they get their memories back.

I don't know what the direction of Joey will go in the games. But right now they are sticking with, "This man's an evil version of Mr. Krabs" and whatever else. Despite yeah that sounds silly. Yet stuff like, "Walt Disney with a darkside" and, "Lex Luthor fused with Mr. Krabs" would sound better.

Something I wanted to share, that's all. It's just rare I think of Joey as human.

[imagitory]

D-Views: Muppet Treasure Island

Hi, everyone! Welcome to another installment of D-Views, my on-going written review series for films that fall under the Disney umbrella, as well as those that were influenced by those films! For more reviews for movies like Mary Poppins, Treasure Planet, and The Prince of Egypt, please consult my “Disney Reviews” tag and, of course, if you enjoy this review or any of the others, please consider liking and reblogging!

Today’s film is one of my childhood favorites, starring a cast of some of my favorite people, as well as frogs, pigs, and even whatevers. This is Muppet Treasure Island! (Thank you for your votes, @the-alexandrian-alchemist, @silvvergears, @extremelybears​, @livinlifelikeishould​ and @karalora​!)

Ever since 1976, the characters of the Muppet Show have been American pop culture icons. The show itself won a total of 21 Emmy nominations and four television awards over its long run, and by 1990 its cast had also starred in several critically acclaimed films (The Muppet Movie, The Great Muppet Caper, and The Muppets Take Manhattan) and the very popular animated TV show Muppet Babies. And all of that wouldn’t have been possible without the Muppets’ creator, Jim Henson.

Like at the Walt Disney Company, the loss of their leader in 1990 hit Jim Henson Productions very hard. One silver lining, however, is that just like with Walt Disney, Jim Henson was memorialized not just by the characters he created, but by his many achievements and the many friendships he’d made in life. He received a Star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame alongside Kermit the Frog; was inducted into the Television Hall of Fame; earned a memorial in his hometown Hyattsville, Maryland; was posthumously named a Disney Legend; was the focus of the heartfelt TV special The Muppets Celebrate Jim Henson; and was laid to rest with two formal funeral services complete with performances of some of his favorite songs. And just like the Walt Disney Company, even after the death of someone who meant so much to them, Jim Henson Productions got back up and promised to do more in the memory of their lost leader. Jim’s son Brian Henson took the reins and directed the Disney-co-produced Christmas movie The Muppet Christmas Carol in 1992, before he moved on to their next project and today’s subject, Muppet Treasure Island.

So, here’s the thing -- I have a LOT of nostalgia for this movie. I will be upfront about that. But even with that acknowledged, I was sort of stunned when I found out how lukewarm the reaction to this movie was, when it was released in theaters. Sure, I knew it hadn’t broken the bank, but even if it earned about $34 million worldwide, it received no honors or awards, only hit third at the box office opening weekend behind the movies Broken Arrow and Happy Gilmore, and even now only boasts an average 73% rating at Rotten Tomatoes. Critics at the time criticized how it was more “Treasure Island” than “Muppet”, with Roger Ebert calling it “less cleverly written” and Gene Siskel even more coldly deeming it “boring.” Although I’ll readily acknowledge that reading those reactions makes me want to run outside and scream “FUCK YOU, GENE SISKEL” at the top of my lungs, I promise to give a more rational review of this movie instead, one hopefully that acknowledges any possible shortcomings, but also will celebrate this film and how completely NOT boring it is.

One of the best things about this movie hits us in the face right off the bat -- the music, written by scoring giant Hans Zimmer and Nick Glennie-Smith. As much as I enjoy a lot of Muppet musicals, I attest that Muppet Treasure Island has the most cohesive score overall of any Muppet production. The Muppets were always creatures of the short, sweet vignette -- of the variety show -- of many disparate pieces sewn loosely together into a whole like a patchwork quilt. Even though The Muppet Christmas Carol’s soundtrack comes very close in its cohesion and I would say The Muppets (2011) -- my personal favorite Muppet movie -- is truer to the spirit of the Muppet Show in its music while also paying tribute to old-fashioned movie musicals, Muppet Treasure Island just paints a full-bodied picture from the off-set, building on refrains that return and morph over the course of the picture. From the very beginning, we get that this venture is NOT a standard Muppet movie. Like The Muppet Christmas Carol, the Muppets’ humor will only be part of the story told -- in TMCC, it takes a backseat to sincere emotions like love and redemption, while here in MTI, it takes a backseat to adventure and swashbuckling action.

The score also seamlessly flows into our first song, “Shiver My Timbers,” which just screams “pirate!” I’ve loved pirates ever since I was a little kid, and Muppet Treasure Island was one of the main reasons why. I was okay with Peter Pan, but Muppet Treasure Island was what really got me excited about pirates. They were rough, ruthless, and dangerous, but it was exciting to face off against them in an epic musical adventure, even if your only weapons were a couple of artfully thrown starfish. In the 90′s, pirate films weren’t really “in” -- it wouldn’t be until 2003 with the release of Pirates of the Caribbean that they became popular again -- but I think Muppet Treasure Island, through its music, really embraces the fun, action-packed thrills that Disney would later capitalize on in the Pirates films.

After our prologue, we meet Billy Bones (played by the perfectly cast Billy Connolly) and, of course, our hero, Jim Hawkins, played by newcomer Kevin Bishop. Kevin was the very first of a hundred kids who showed up for the audition to meet the casting agents, and he was selected for the part then and there. Sadly post-Muppets he moved on to stage and television, but for what it’s worth, I quite like Kevin in the role of Jim. He’s distinctly depicted as a boy, complete with a pre-puberty “boy soprano” singing voice (which I acknowledge is an acquired taste, but I personally enjoy), but that characterization only serves to accent how large of an arc he goes through over the course of the film. He starts off as smart, sincere, honest, and dreamy, but also very innocent and trusting, and over the course of the story, he learns to ground himself in who he is and what he believes in, to the point where he has to sever ties with someone he once considered a friend and mentor. Accompanying Jim in his journey are Gonzo and Rizzo, who largely serve as comic relief but do still serve as good friends and companions to Jim, as evident by the three characters’ “I Want” song, “Something Better.” Yes, Gonzo and Rizzo are sidekicks, but they’re still distinct personalities that bounce well off each other and “straight-man” Jim. Originally the filmmakers had considered simply having Gonzo and Rizzo being two characters called “Jim” and “Hawkins” respectively (splitting the part in two, not unlike what they did with Statler and Waldorf in The Muppet Christmas Carol), but due to concerns that the choice would result in a lack of heart in the finished product, that idea was scrapped. I think it ultimately was the better decision to leave the drama to the humans -- it’s not that the Muppets can’t conjure sincere emotion (just look at “Pictures in my Head” or “Man or Muppet”), but I still think having any of the existing Muppets fulfill the “coming of age” narrative the original Jim Hawkins goes through would’ve been a bit of a stretch. Even in The Muppet Christmas Carol or non-Muppet-show Jim Henson production Labyrinth, the main characters with a story arc are played by human actors who are able to ground the picture despite the cast of colorful, irreverent characters.

One of the main criticisms that critics of the time lobbed at this movie is that it feels more “Treasure Island” than “Muppet”, and in a way it’s a decent point, if not phrased very badly. Unlike in other Muppet projects, the humor plays second fiddle to the plot and the characters are not the characters we know from the Muppet Show with their Muppet Show backstories and consciousness. In The Muppet Christmas Carol, the film could very easily be seen as a “production” being put on by the Muppets, even if it’s never overtly stated as such, thanks to Gonzo (as Charles Dickens) constantly breaking the fourth wall. In Muppet Treasure Island, however, Gonzo and Rizzo have their own non-Muppet-show history as friends of Jim Hawkins way before ever meeting the other Muppets like Kermit and Sam the Eagle, and Kermit and Miss Piggy have a whole soap-opera romance that involves a wedding and getting marooned by pirates (we’ll get to that later). So yes, this is more “Treasure Island,” but it’s not less “Muppet” -- it’s less “Muppet Show.” These Muppets have different histories, but they’re the same characters despite this. Gonzo is an eccentric thrill-seeker -- Rizzo is a cowardly cynic -- Kermit is a soft-spoken pacifist -- Fozzie is a lovable dimwit -- Piggy is a self-centered diva. Think of Muppet Treasure Island as a Muppet AU fanfiction -- these may not be exactly the characters you know, and yet...they are! They’re the exact same big personalities with the same quirks, strengths, and weaknesses, just in an alternate universe. And honestly, I think it’s really cool, to see these sorts of characters so exclusively used for comedy in a world that’s not flat-out comedic -- one that’s kind of dirty and rough around the edges, with swashbuckling action and real danger around every corner.

The nice thing is that although yes, the comedy isn’t the central focus anymore, there is still really good humor in this film, a lot of it thanks to the shift in tone. There’s just something so very, very funny to me about Billy Bones’s death scene being followed up by Rizzo, Gonzo, and Jim just flat-out freaking out and dashing out of the room screaming like stupid kids, or the tense action scene where the pirates storm into the inn being punctuated by Rizzo trying to help Gonzo load the gun, only to spill the bag of bullets, or the epic entrance of the illustrious Captain Smollett’s carriage ending with the tall, solemn coachman stepping aside to reveal the Captain himself, played by Kermit the Frog. I think it plays into the ideas of subverting expectations and building up a punchline properly before delivering the joke -- as each scene is built up, we’re left constantly unsure if the film’s going to play things straight or just be completely irreverent, and the contrast is what can make a joke much funnier than in a purely, solely humorous scenario. There are a few points where the contrast can become a bit labored, but I laugh so much more during this movie that I ever have watching my favorite reruns of the Muppet Show, no matter how much I enjoy them. It’s something that, again, the Pirates of the Caribbean films would capitalize on much later. (Too bad they couldn’t incorporate that humor into any catchy musical numbers! Disney, where’s my Pirates of the Caribbean musical?)

Aha, and now we come to the brightest of the shining stars in this film -- our villain, Long John Silver, played by the amazing Tim Curry. I’m sorry, it’s an incontrovertible truth that Curry is a unique, magical ingredient that, when added to any movie, just elevates the cinematic dish to a whole new level and leaves you drooling for one more scene with him. I remember someone once saying that Curry is sort of like a Muppet in human skin thanks to his outrageous, yet likable acting, and...yeah, it makes it so that he fits perfectly in this movie, where he has to interact so closely with the Muppets. The nice thing is, though, that he also has a lot of chemistry with his human co-star Kevin Bishop, to the extent that you sincerely feel for the relationship that forms between Jim and Silver even if you know Silver’s intentions from the start. I particularly like their exchange in the ridiculously catchy “Sailing for Adventure,” as well as their scene at the front of the ship where they discuss their fathers and the stars.

Just as the adventure is getting going, however, it stops dead with the wind’s abandonment of the Hispaniola. Out of nowhere, the ship breaks out into the most ridiculous, most “Muppet” of all of the musical numbers, “Cabin Fever.” The song was one of my favorite parts when I was little and it’s always made me laugh, but it’s definitely the biggest detour of the movie that up until that point lived in its own pirate-centric world. It’s a very short-lived detour and as I said, it’s ridiculously funny, but it doesn’t have any bearing on the plot and I could see how people might find it kind of pointless, particularly since it doesn’t even feature three of our main characters, Jim, Silver, or Smollett. One other critique I will give the film is that some of the effects nowadays don’t look very real, like the Hispaniola being composited over still matte paintings -- there are points where the production values remind me a bit of the old Wishbone TV series, where they have to angle the shot just so or get creative just to try to make the ship look as big as it should be. But honestly, there were points where Wishbone impressed me with those same sorts of layering and green-screen effects despite its limited budget, and those cheaper effects don’t look tacky or out-of-place, so I personally don’t mind them that much.

Because this is a Muppet movie, it’s unsurprising that our Mr. Arrow (played by Sam the Eagle) isn’t really killed, instead just being tricked off of the ship by a manipulative Silver, but it says something that, even with that softened plot turn, the stakes are not completely dismantled. We still see the pirates as a legitimate threat when they kidnap Jim and take over the Hispaniola, even when they burst into song. Tim Curry’s “only number,” “A Professional Pirate,” is a perfect expression of his expert, charming showmanship, which in my mind truly can’t be matched by any other performer in Hollywood, past or present. No one gives a performance like Tim Curry. It makes it so that even when I was a bratty kid getting irritated about Silver calling privateer Sir Francis Drake a pirate and using “buccaneer” as a synonym for “pirate,” I would sing this song at the top of my lungs, trying to even reach 75% of the energy Curry put into his vocals.

At long last, Miss Piggy makes her grand debut as “Queen Boom Sha-Kal-a-Kal,” a.k.a. Benjamina Gunn. Although the diva doesn’t end up getting much screentime, she certainly gets a grand entrance, complete with an elephant steed decorated with flowers and a full musical number complete with a tribal chant and ethereal vocalizing. And true to form, when she lays eyes on her one true love, Kermit...she smacks him so hard that he’s thrown backwards off his feet and into a gong. What’s particularly interesting about Piggy in this movie is that although she and Fozzie are voiced by Frank Oz as always, both she and Fozzie were actually puppeted by Kevin Clash, as Oz was unavailable during this film’s production, and Oz’s vocals for both characters were added in post-production. Despite the difference in puppeteer, however, both characters are just as likable as ever -- I’d honestly had no clue that they weren’t performed by the same person! The film even got to use the full-bodied remote-controlled puppets for Kermit and Piggy for the love duet “Love Led Us Here,” which is kicked off by an Evita joke I never got as a kid but as an adult makes me grin like a friggin’ idiot. Fortunately the duet is inter-cut with Silver and the pirates finding the treasure, rather than it being chock-full of romantic flashbacks or prolonged looks between the two lovebirds, giving it a lighter tone than it would’ve had otherwise.

With a much reduced crew comprised only of Rizzo, Gonzo, Squire Trelawney, Dr. Honeydew, Beaker, and the newly returned Mr. Arrow, Jim comes to Benjamina and Smollett’s rescue and returns to Treasure Island to face Silver and the pirates. The action scene is full of humor, but because of the world established in the rest of the film, I would argue it still has stakes. The blows still hurt and there’s still a threat of defeat and danger, most notably when Long John Silver prepares to fight. Even if you don’t think the Muppets are going to die persay, you still feel the suspense in wanting to see what’s going to happen next. And when Silver surrenders, he himself can see the real treasure Jim found on his adventure -- a family...a group of people Muppets who will support him and encourage the very best in him.

Silver’s escape scene is a beautifully heart-wrenching scene -- one that could only have been earned by two excellent performances over the course of the film by Kevin Bishop and Tim Curry. Even though both Silver and Jim know that they’re different people and they could never walk the same path, it doesn’t mean that they don’t still greatly esteem and care about each other. In Jim’s case, it’s especially difficult, given that in parting ways with Silver, he has to cut loose of a very poor potential father figure who would’ve only dragged him down in the long run, but who was so likable in his own damaged way. It proves to be a very bittersweet scene sprinkled into a very happy, cheerful ending, complete with the chipper island-inspired end credits bop “Love Power.”

Muppet Treasure Island is -- in my opinion, at least -- one of the best Muppet movies ever made. It broke away from quite a few Muppet conventions, like the characters breaking the fourth wall and being aware of themselves being in a movie or TV show, and embraced a much less humorous tone in both its writing and cinematography. Yes, it reimagined a classic book like The Muppet Christmas Carol did, but this movie took the next step, embracing the world of the original novel as well as the set-up and immersing the Muppets’ cast of characters in it. Although I can see why some people would be more partial to the original Muppet movie formula and love it a lot myself, I really, really respect Brian Henson and the rest of this film’s crew for taking the Muppets in such a different direction. It was an entertaining, action-packed, funny pirate movie before those sorts of movies became popular again, and it remains my favorite “pirate” movie of all time, as well as my personal favorite incarnation of the Treasure Island story (barely beating out Treasure Planet). I know childhood nostalgia can play a role in what media can give you joy as an adult, but I truly don’t think it’s the only factor here -- it’s also just a really good movie, and I can only hope that more people will consider giving it a chance and have just as much fun Sailing for Adventure as I did!

[braincoins]

Okay so, at this point, I have no freaking clue if I’ll get this done by Halloween, esp. since I’ll be in Walt Disney World for a week, BUT just so y’all know what I’m working on.

Take Max Brooks’ World War Z. Take Mira Grant/ @seananmcguire‘s Newsflesh series. Mix them together. That’s the AU I dropped our beloved characters into this creepy season. Possibly best summed up (right now, at least), as:

Lance: YOU WERE A ZOMBIE?!?! Shiro: ... ... I got better.

and of course you know it’ll be shallura ‘cause I continue to have needs

Anyway, I started work on it before Happy Fun Radiation Times began to kick my ass (I still have two more treatments [groan]), came back today, re-read and did a quick editing pass on what I had, and started adding to it. Teaser.. rather long teaser, actually, sorry ‘bout that, below the cut:

           They were devolving into their own squabbles and dirty comments, and she felt herself bristling. She cleared her throat and yelled above the chaos, “INFECTED CAN BE CURED!”

           They all stopped dead and looked at her.

           “Bullshit. Bullshit,” the one-eyed one said again for emphasis. “You can’t cure a zombie with anything ‘cept a bullet.”

           “You can’t cure a zombie,” she agreed, “but you can cure an Infected. They act differently than zombies do AND they are, just barely, still alive. What kills Infected – outside of bullets – is starvation and malnutrition, exposure to the elements, occasionally another illness they  had before being turned that isn’t being treated, or an injury that festers – most often the very bite wound that turned them. Because they mainly bite and tear off a chunk, eat that, and move on. THEIR bite transmits the virus that creates more Infected.

           “Once an Infected dies, they become a true zombie, and true zombies just eat. They don’t care about leaving the target alive to spread the disease, but a virus wants to be spread. That’s what the Infected do: spread the virus.

           “Technically, being bitten by a zombie is only dangerous in the sense of the bacterial transmission from their mouths, same as a normal, living human, only probably much worse due to the lack of oral hygiene and the rather…carnivorous diet.” She cleared her throat. “Only the Infected spread the zombie virus, and if you can find one, they can be cured.”

           Silence reigned until the young girl spoke up again. “You’re saying they can be cured. Are you talking theoretically or…?”

           Allura smiled and raised her voice a little to call, “Captain.”

           The door opened to admit a young man her age in a white t-shirt, gray hoodie & sweatpants, and standard issue shoes. He would have blended into any crowd and disappeared were it not for his handsome good looks and broad shoulders… and the strange shock of white hair, the angry scar over his nose, and the fact that he was missing his right arm. (Though in the aftermath of the Z War, missing a limb wasn’t all that uncommon.) He walked over to stand next to her, door closing behind him, and cleared his throat.

           “My name is Takashi Shirogane,” he said. “I’m… I was a captain in the Air Force. And… I used to be Infected.”

           Everyone in the room jumped up with shouts of “bullshit” and “lies” and “hoax,” save for a young man with dark hair who just stared at him.

           “I TORE A LITTLE GIRL’S LARYNX OUT!” he yelled at them.

           They shut up again, and sat down.

           Allura winced and laid a hand on his arm. “Shiro, you don’t have to…”

           He pulled away from her and continued to glare at them. “WITH MY TEETH. And it felt right, it felt good, it felt like exactly what I should be doing! Do you know what it’s like, to be cured now and to still have the memory of her blood in my mouth? NO, YOU DON’T!”

           The tears ran down his cheeks but he continued, “I was bitten on the right arm. My buddies cut it off to try to save me. It didn’t work. The virus moves fast. Most of the rest of my scars are after I turned. Even some of my hair went white. I don’t know how that happened.

           “I bashed my head through a glass window to try to get at some people. That’s where I got this,” he traced the scar across his nose. “I didn’t care that I was bleeding. I only had one thought: Bite. Bite. It wasn’t even ‘feed,’ it was bite and that was all I cared about. It was the only thing I cared about. To me, humans weren’t human. Or maybe they were, but they weren’t like me. They were things to bite, to feel the tear of skin and the gush of blood. THAT’S ALL.” He hung his head. “That’s all I could think about.”

           Allura pushed herself forward to take over the narrative again. “We found him when he was still recently turned. As you can tell, he hadn’t lost much muscle mass yet. He hadn’t started to deteriorate. There may be a point at which we can’t turn them back, where they’re too far gone physically to survive being cured.”

           “Look, what do you want from us?” the one-eyed man said quietly.

           “I want a few people from your unit to come help us in the field. And I have something to offer in exchange.”

           “What’s that?”

           She held up the small, sleek, thin silver box with a dish antenna the size of a large man’s hand attached to it. “This is…”

           “…an iPod. I haven’t seen one of those in ages,” the young girl said.

           “…a scanner,” she continued as if the interruption hadn’t happened. “And yes, we used iPods; we were able to get our hands on a lot of them, and they were easy to convert.” She cleared her throat. “This can correctly tell you who’s a zombie and who’s Infected, as well as who’s a living breathing human.” She set it down on the desk. “And these,” she picked up what looked like a smoke grenade, “are filled with the cure in gaseous form.”

           “Uhhh,” said a large young man near the back, “doesn’t that just make a bunch of normal humans around a bunch of zombies? I mean, if what you’re saying is true…”

           “Well, yes, but that’s why you use the scanner to find and take out the zombies first. The cure won’t work on them. The cure is nothing but smoke to us – which we will cough and choke on, like any other smoke – and to the zombies, but they don’t breathe, so they won’t care. The Infected will cough and choke and fall to the ground. Then they start having seizures, but once the air clears, they’re mostly cured.”

           “Mostly,” repeated one of them. It was the young dark-haired man who’d been staring at Shiro since he’d walked in.

           “Mostly,” she agreed with a nod. “Shoot them then with this,” she pulled out a small dart, “and they’ll be fully cured. The gaseous form starts the cure, but it’s not enough to cure them usually: it’s too diffuse. This is concentrated, and it’ll finish the work the gas started. It can also work on its own, if you only have a single Infected to deal with, but for large crowds, the cannister will work better.”

           “Do you remember being cured?” the young girl asked Shiro. She seemed very intent upon this and upon him.

           His brow furrowed. “I remember seizing up. I was shot with the tranq dart, not gassed, and as an Infected, you don’t really feel pain. I knew I was bleeding badly when I got this,” he pointed to the scar over his nose again, “but it didn’t hurt, and I didn’t care that I was bleeding. I was just aware of it. So I was aware of a poke, but then when I started seizing that was when things changed. I was… scared. For the first time in a long time, I was scared of what was happening to me, and then there was pain again, and I was screaming.” He closed his eyes. “I thought I was dying, and I was glad. I was glad I was dying and that was when I realized something had changed because I hadn’t felt good about anything except biting people in weeks. Everything went dark, and when I woke up, I was in a bed in a room. I mean, I guess it was technically a cell: I couldn’t open the door from the inside. But there was a window at the top, no glass, just some bars, and I yelled for some water. And food. And that’s when I realized I was… me again. Or at least more me than I had been.”

           Allura broke in again. “We monitored him for weeks. Took samples. He reads fully human, slightly malnourished.”

           “I still think this is all bullshit. How do we know any of this is true?”

           “I was there.”

           Everyone turned to look at dark-haired young man who had spoken.

           “I was there right after he was bit and we had to…”

           “Keith?” Shiro moved around the desk towards him. “Is that really you?”

           “Is that really you?” he shot back at him. “I saw you get bit, I helped hold you down while we cut your arm off... if you’re really Shiro.”

           Shiro stopped and considered that. “Ask.”

           “How old are you?”

           He arched an eyebrow. “Well, I’d say I’m twenty-five; you’d say I’m six and a quarter ‘cause you’re a fucking brat and I’m a leap year baby.” He grinned.

           She thought Keith might have stopped breathing. “How’d you meet me?”

           “They sent me to your school to recruit the kids about to graduate. You gave me a hard time because you hate authority, but you wanted to fly, I could see it in your eyes, I could almost feel it. And the first time you got in the simulator, you blew everyone away. You even beat my top score. You wanted to fly, you wanted the thrill of it, and you had natural goddamn talent. So I convinced you…”

           “…that putting up with the bullshit was worth being able to fly the sort of planes I could only get my hands on in the USAF.”

           Shiro smiled. “It’s good to see you again, Keith.”

           And Keith launched himself out of the old school desk and into a hug that Shiro returned instantly. “You were dead.”

           “I was mostly dead. Turns out mostly dead is slightly alive.”

           “Oh, shut the fuck up with your cheesy movie quotes.”

           “But you caught it.”

           “You made me watch it like a dozen times.” Keith sniffled against Shiro’s chest.

           Allura looked around at them. “Convinced yet?”

[bisasterdi]

Meet Cutes: Maleficent

Fic! This is just a quick little story I wrote for one of the mods of @goodomensbigbang​.

Rating: PG (to be safe, brief mention of non-consensual groping which is not initiated by either member of the pairing)

Warnings: The aforementioned groping, human AU (in case that’s not your thing)

Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley

Summary: Crowley is a character performer working at Walt Disney World, and Aziraphale (who bounces around in several retail/attendant roles) finds himself assigned to be Crowley’s character attendant on the first day Crowley is performing as Maleficent.

(Not really planning to put this on AO3 since it’s kinda short, but I thought I’d go ahead and share it here.)

****

Aziraphale sighed, making his way through the utilidors under the Magic Kingdom, clutching a character attendant costume in his hands. His fingers worried at it as he unleashed a torrent of recrimination against himself in his head, knowing he’d be uncomfortable all day simply because of a lack of foresight on his part.

He’d known he’d been scheduled for this role on this shift over a week ago, but it kept slipping his mind. It hadn’t been a priority, with all the hopping he’d done from park to park, to go to Costuming well ahead of time to ensure he’d gotten a character attendant uniform in his preferred size. Though, he wouldn’t have been able to easily select one of the ensembles he’d hoarded, given how many he needed access to.

Muttering under his breath, the words sounding suspiciously like, “This rule about only having five costumes checked out at a time is utter rubbish for those of us with supervisors who seem to delight in putting us in completely different areas of the resort every blessed day.”

Aziraphale fretted some more once he reached the changing area, turning the bright blue, button down shirt over and over in his hands, trying to console himself that it was only one size smaller than he would have liked. The khaki pants, at least, would be comfortable. He’d simply have to tough his way through the day and take this as a learning experience.

He’d done quite a good job giving himself a pep talk, he thought, when he only winced a little as he buttoned the shirt. Sneaking a look in the mirror, he noticed that if he sucked in his stomach and slouched just a bit, he looked quite normal. It was only if he squared his shoulders completely that the buttons began to gap. With that sorted, he made his way to meet the character performer he was to begin his day with.

****

Looking again at his tiny slip of paper (and good lord, were those slips of paper ubiquitous, the little instructions that pointed the hundreds of cast members toward their current assignment) and squinting at the tiny type, his eyebrows raised. He knew the sequel to the Maleficent movie was premiering soon, but he hadn’t heard that there would be an in-park character greeting to go along with it. Even a relative newcomer such as Aziraphale knew that meet-and-greet face characters with such elaborate make-up, prosthetics, and costuming requirements were quite rare.

He found his partner for that morning in the underground break room closest to the castle, lounging backward on a worn, bright green sofa, and somehow managing not to jostle the—hat?…helmet?…Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to call it—making up Maleficent’s horns from their head.

“Hello,” Aziraphale said, giving a tiny wave that he immediately regretted, as it seemed far too…well, nerdy…for someone as stunning as the person he’d been greeting.

“Right, hello,” his Maleficent answered, their meticulously groomed and pencilled-in eyebrows raising.

“I’m your character attendant today,” Aziraphale said, shaking his piece of scheduling paper in front of him, yet another action he immediately regretted. While he always felt at ease when he was on stage, doing his assigned duties and helping guests, he couldn’t seem to shake his nervous tics and uncomfortable demeanor when he was backstage, among his fellow cast members. He wasn’t making many friends, which was unfortunate, as that was largely the reason he’d sought out employment in the first place.

“Great. Oh, and don’t worry about the voice,” Maleficent said. “I’ll put on the proper one once we’re out there.”

Ah. Come to think of it, Maleficent’s voice was quite low at the moment.

“Right. Might as well get this out in the open, as it’s been an issue for some of the attendants I’ve had before when I’m assigned to a face character. I was born male. Sometimes I feel male, like today. Sometimes I feel female. And sometimes, I don’t feel either.”

“I assure you, I have no issue with any of that.”

“Crowley,” his Maleficent said, holding out his hand, though his body language was still quite guarded—leaning away, eyes narrowed, his other arm held protectively around his stomach.

“Lovely to meet you, Crowley. And I must say, you must have been the first person who came to mind when they decided to have a Maleficent meet-and-greet. You’re the very picture of the character.”

Crowley laughed. “Well, I’m thin, I’ll give you that. The robe and this bloody collar thing I’m wearing ‘round my neck hides a lot of what Maleficent wouldn’t have,” he said, with a wink that nearly made Aziraphale shiver with the beginnings of what would surely be a regrettably one-sided crush.

“But your cheekbones…” Aziraphale murmured, unable to stop himself, and he felt his face getting hot.

“It’s all the make-up department. They can do proper magic with some contour.”

The regal angles of his face most assuredly were not just the product of a talented make-up artist. Aziraphale looked at his slip of paper again, merely to have something to do.

“Well, I know why I was assigned to you. No one will even notice that my bloody shirt is too small when you’re there for them to look at.” Aziraphale cringed, wondering why this was what his nervous mouth would start blathering about the moment there was a break in the conversation.

Crowley looked him up and down, even sitting up a little to do it. His head cocked to the side a little as the barest smirk pulled at the corners of his bright red lips.

“Your costume fits you perfectly,” he said, his head cocking the other way as they made eye contact. “You look strong. Solid.”

“It’s all right. You can say, ‘large’,” Aziraphale said, forcing a laugh.

“Rubbish. I know what I see, and it’s exactly what I said. They must have chosen you because you can protect me from the dads who think it’s okay to hit on the character performers while their wives are busy watching their kids.”

“They won’t lay a finger on you while I’m your attendant,” Aziraphale promised. He knew the scenario Crowley had outlined was far from rare for the character performers who portrayed female characters, though the very notion of it happening turned Aziraphale’s stomach. “If you’re ever uncomfortable with a guest, we can have a secret gesture you could make toward me, if you like.”

Crowley stood up, drawing himself up to his full height and grabbing his prop staff, complete with a glowing green jewel at the top.

“How about I beckon to you, like this,” he said, and held out one long arm, flowing sleeves sluicing downward as his fingers crooked toward Aziraphale.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, wondering if he’d ever be able to put that image out of his mind.

“If I see that,” he said, forcing himself to remember that professionalism was key, “I will intervene immediately.”

“Just…” Crowley began, letting the hand of his outstretched arm fall onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Please don’t let it break the flow of things. I’ve been written up for poor show a few times, and I can’t afford another strike.”

“Of course. I won’t let any harm come to you.” Aziraphale winced again, wondering how he could have turned into a besotted idiot so quickly, and where all of this overly-florid language had come from.

“Well,” Crowley said, flashing a bright white smile behind the lipstick that painted the contours of his lips. “I believe it’s time for us to be on stage.”

****

They were about 10 minutes into their set when it happened.

Aziraphale had turned his back for one bloody moment, as the mother of the child currently rummaging for their autograph book in their backpack had asked if he had a spare Sharpie, and he heard a decidedly non-Maleficent noise coming from Crowley.

By the time he’d handed over the pen and whirled around, he found Crowley’s eyes narrowed as he took a step or two back, and the father of this group with a lascivious smirk on his mean, pinched little face. Their Photopass photographer leaned over and whispered to Aziraphale.

“Dad copped a feel,” she said, furious. “I’ve got two shots of it. You can’t see exactly what’s going on, but the angle of his arm…it’s clear what he was doing.”

Aziraphale looked back at Crowley, who looked angry enough to transform into Maleficent’s dragon form himself, and he set his jaw, determined to fix things.

“Well, dad, I believe it’s time for your daughter to meet our sorceress, don’t you?” Aziraphale said, stepping forward briskly to lead the man out. The girl took his place and several photos were shot, and to Crowley’s credit, Aziraphale couldn’t spot a single difference in the quality of their interaction, despite what had just happened.

Aziraphale felt utterly ill. He’d promised not to allow anything like this to happen, and not a handful of minutes after they were on stage, he’d slipped.

Perhaps his family had been right. There’d been no necessity to take a job, no matter how lonely he’d been. He could live off his inheritance comfortably for the rest of his life, but he’d wanted more. It had been folly to allow himself to fall in love with the idea of this place, after he’d taken an impromptu vacation here during a particularly boring stretch of accomplishing nothing of note.

The interaction ended and Aziraphale couldn’t allow another moment to pass without an apology, so he put out a gentle hand to ask the next group to wait.

“Maleficent has bid me listen to her for a moment, I’m afraid. Surely she needs an ingredient for a spell, or something else quite important. We’ll be with you as soon as she’s given me her instructions.”

Crowley played along, crossing his long, graceful arms over his chest, and raising his chin imperiously. Aziraphale vaguely remembered watching Sleeping Beauty long ago, and a scene where the Princess Aurora was enthralled by one of Maleficent’s spells, walking helplessly toward her doom. Aziraphale felt so much as though the same thing was happening to him that he could actually hear the music from that scene playing in his mind as he closed the distance between them.

“I’m so sorry, Maleficent,” Aziraphale whispered, turning them both so their backs were facing the guests. (You never knew who could read lips in a big place such as this.) “I should never have taken my eyes off you when a guest was so nearby.” He bit his lip. “I’m useless,” he added. “We’d just spoken about this and I let you down.”

“Wait. Stop that. I didn’t even have a chance to use our signal before handsy over there got his palm on my arse, all right? He was too quick. And don’t beat yourself up. I’ve had much worse gropers before, and attendants who didn’t care about it nearly as much as you do.”

“Well. No more, you won’t. I simply won’t allow it to happen again.”

“My guardian angel, are you?” Crowley said, his eyes widening, full of something Aziraphale’s hopeful heart heard as interest.

“Nothing so gallant as that.”

“I’ll be the judge of how gallant it is, if you don’t mind. I am the all-powerful Maleficent, after all.”

Before Aziraphale could think of a response, Crowley’s hand (those elegant nails, painted a shimmery black having a hypnotic effect on Aziraphale) gracefully nudged his attendant away, and Maleficent beckoned to the next family to approach.

“You handled that really well,” the photographer told him, leaning in to tell him between her efforts of cajoling the kids into different poses. “A lot of those creeps end up leaving a complaint at town hall when they get rebuffed. I even made sure I had incriminating shots of what happened, I was so sure that’s the way this one would end. I don’t think that pervert even realizes how efficiently the two of you got him sidelined.”

That, at least, lifted Aziraphale’s spirits a bit. While the man had certainly deserved quite a chewing out, that was never going to be a realistic outcome, given where they were. Aziraphale had managed to work with Crowley to keep them both from getting a complaint lodged against them, something neither of them could really afford, and that was the most that could have been done.

****

At the end of the set, Aziraphale took Crowley by the arm and began to lead him away to the closest gate which would take them backstage. He hadn’t thought about it beforehand, it simply seemed natural when they both began to walk away together.

“Don’t think I didn’t see how you maneuvered that kid whose father was goading him to hit me into a pose that put him more than an arm’s length away from me,” Crowley whispered, leaning down closely enough that Aziraphale felt Crowley’s breath sweep gently across his cheek.

“I made a promise to you.”

“Listen…” Crowley began, but for the first time since they’d met earlier that day, he sounded a bit unsure of himself. “I know I said before that I’ve sometimes been in a bit of hot water with managers in Character Performance, but I do get a few perks, as well.”

“Perks?” Aziraphale parroted, holding the gate open for Crowley to sweep through it, his long black robe swirling around his legs.

“I can be more than a few of the characters they have trouble casting. My height, the fact that I don’t give a toss if my character is male or female, even if it’s a face character…I cover some difficult ground for them.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Aziraphale agreed, just imagining how wonderful it must be to carve out such a space for yourself. To really do something, to bring joy to people and know you were good at it.

“You’re the best attendant I’ve ever been assigned,” Crowley said, looking straight ahead as they walked, his voice sounding oddly nervous.

“I hardly think I was any better—”

“I can usually ask for whomever I’d like to be scheduled with me,” Crowley said, interrupting, his words running together as they tumbled out of his mouth. “Would you mind if I requested you, in future?”

Aziraphale stopped walking entirely and Crowley followed suit, the two of them motionless under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the underground utilidor.

“You want—”

“Yes,” Crowley said, quickly.

Aziraphale nodded, and was filled with a burst of courage he’d rarely known at any other time in his life.

“Would you like to have lunch together, in the cafeteria, when our shift is done?”

Crowley shook his head, and Aziraphale’s stomach dropped.

“Takes me ages to get out of all this,” he said, gesturing to the costume. “And to get all the make-up off.”

“Worth the wait,” Aziraphale whispered, still wondering at the lovely enigma of the creature before him.

“You might not like me as much without all the illusion,” Crowley said. “I’m quite boring, without the horns.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

Crowley finally met his gaze again, his eyes bright and searching.

“Yeah,” he agreed, that hint of a smile playing at his lips again. “I think I’d like that.”

[skeletonscribbles]

Wishes - Finale

it is....finished. thank you all for the love you’ve shown this little story. I love these Losers so much and I will miss the hell out of this AU, but...this is where I leave them, so, without further ado:

Title: “The Second Star To The Right” (Richie)

Warnings: I personally am sad because it’s over but otherwise I don’t think anything except Bad Star Wars Jokes

Rating: G

Read on Ao3

Tag List:  @roobarrtrashmouth @jem-carstairs-is-perfection@tozier-club @aizeninlefox @stanheartsbill@imrichie @softeds@pretzelstoday @melancholypurple@wheezygreens@ayyyymichele @loser-marsh Special Shoutout to Michele ( @ayyyymichele) for all the wonderful art she’s produced for this AU. she’s incredible and I am so fucking grateful <3

RICHIE TOZIER ATTRACTIONS CAST - JUNGLE CRUISE soon to be NOT EMPLOYED BY THE MOUSE but for the meantime, he’s in ANAHEIM, CALIFORNIA - DISNEYLAND PARK JULY 20th 8 P.M.

“I have something to say.”

If any one of the five people trudging towards Tomorrowland that weren’t Eddie had spoken up, Richie would have kept on walking. Total cold shoulder, doneski. He was tired of hashing shit out with his friends in public places, and they’d all promised to be cool at Disneyland. They’d kept that promise so far. There was no reason to ruin everything with only two park hours left in the whole fucking trip.

But. It was Eddie, so he did what needed to be done.

He stopped in the dead center of the walkway, and let Stan, Bev, and Bill crash into him like demented human dominoes.

“Richard,” Stan said into his back. Richie hadn’t turned around to assess the damage - he couldn’t, given the fact that Stan’s face was firmly planted between his shoulder blades - but the violent whispered curses and smack of hands against pavement coming from behind him suggested that Bev and Bill had truly been knocked down and were getting back up again, Chumbawumba style.

“In my defense--” Richie began, but he knew before he even started the sentence that it was fruitless. There was a 100% chance that Stan was going to shove him towards the nearest trashcan (and there was always a nearest trashcan - good ol’ Walt with his ‘trashcans every 10 feet’ rule).

His only real mistake was trying to catch his fall with his hands rather than just crashing into the aluminum menace forthright. Putting his arms out in front of him meant that he pushed open the swinging trash cover just enough to be elbow-deep in someone’s discarded Dole Whip.

“Well,” Richie said, extracting his hands and assessing the damage. “At least we weren’t in Toontown. Dunno what I would have all over my hands if we were.”

“Yeah, at least coming out of Adventureland you know that if it’s yellow-orange, it’s Dole Whip,” Ben agreed. Bev, who was still glowering at Richie, smacked Ben on the arm as if to chastise him for even speaking to Richie, and Ben was forced to shrug apologetically.

“Oh, you idiot. You deserved that.” Richie heard Eddie’s disgruntled mumbling before he saw him, but even without the visual, Richie knew exactly what his boyfriend was doing: rushing towards Richie with Kleenex and maybe a wet wipe in his outstretched hands. Richie turned a little bit to look at Eddie’s frenzied fumbling, smiled softly at the sight, and decided that it probably wasn’t the right moment to tell him that he hadn’t zipped his fanny pack back up all the way. There’d be a funnier time to break that news - like right before they were strapped in at Space Mountain, for example.

Richie took the Kleenex and looked back at the rest of their friends. Bill was examining his hands - it looked like he’d taken the brunt of the fall, as further evidenced by the expression on Mike’s face as he looked conflictedly between Bill’s stinging red palms and Richie’s face. Stan was over leaning on the nearest lamppost, a satisfied smirk on his face, and Ben and Bev were right behind Eddie, trying and failing not to giggle to themselves over Eddie’s nursing tendencies.

Even with everything that had just gone down, the energy in the air felt really chill. The seven of them were zen with one another in a way that they hadn’t been since the previous fall, and Richie was totally into it.

He turned his eyes back down towards Eddie, who was muttering to himself as he meticulously sanitized and wiped down every inch of Richie’s hands, and allowed himself to feel a little bit surprised.

It was kind of a fucking miracle that their little orientation group of sorts had made it through the year.

More than that - it was definitely a fucking miracle that Mike was crossing over to Stan the way that he was, that their mock-exasperated nudges were still precursors to enclasped hands. It was a gigantic fucking miracle that Eddie was getting rid of the Kleenex, now, and attaching himself to Richie’s side like a sloth - a gigantic fucking miracle that Richie had to re-wrap his mind around every damn day.

Ben and Bev were...less of a miracle, but that was heterosexuals for you. Richie didn’t begrudge them their stability - in fact, he was pretty frigging impressed by it, especially given the shit Bev had gone through. (As the only two occasional smokers in the group and often the only two who had any taste in anything at all, they’d decided to suck it up and go all in on their individual friendship...and fuck, had that been a good decision. It was enough to make him almost regret heckling her at costuming before they’d really known each other, now. Almost.)

And then the biggest miracle of all was Bill fucking Denbrough, who had now crossed to lean against the offending trash can. Richie was no expert on maturity, but even he could tell that Bill was a different kind of dude now than he was six months ago (never mind the kid he’d been when he and Richie had first met). 25 years old, and Bill was finally getting somewhere.

And Richie...Richie was too. It was different, but also kind of the same, so he and Bill had a neat little solidarity that neither of them really understood going on. It was pretty fucking great.

“Eddie, did you want to say something?” Bill asked, steadfastly ignoring his phone buzzing in his pocket in favor of paying attention to his friends. Richie made eye contact with Stan upon noticing Bill’s lack of attachment to his device, because he knew Stan would notice too, and they shared an impressed eyebrow waggle before turning towards Eddie.

“Yes.” Richie couldn’t see Eddie’s face in the position that they were in, just the top of his head, but he could feel Eddie nodding against his arm. “And it’s important.”

“You’re leaving Richie for me,” Mike guessed, sliding his hand out from where it had been intertwined with Stan’s and planting it on his hip jauntily. Richie mirrored him with his own hand, bopping his hip a little to distract everyone from the fact that he really, really hated this joke.

Not that they didn’t know, anyway. Not that he hadn’t made it obvious every damn time that he was sensitive or insecure or whatever the fuck about this particular thing. But - what kind of funnyman was he if he couldn’t take a joke, right? Even if it was the same damn joke about one of Richie’s deepest fears made for a month straight .

But - there was still something different in the air tonight, and Richie could tell that Stan was in touch with it. He was less drawn back than usual; more comfortable in his own skin - if Richie was going to do an impression of the Stan in front of him in that very instant, he’d slump his shoulders a little bit instead of drawing them up to his ears like he usually did.

It was probably for that reason that Stan said “Say it, Eddie,” instead of his usual “No, you’re leaving Richie for ME,” and Richie let out a relieved guffaw.

“Hit it, Fer-gie,” he drawled, keeping Stan’s ‘say it, Eddie’ cadence, and Stan flipped him off with a sweet, sappy grin.

Eddie noticed absolutely none of the weirdness in the previous exchange, which Richie found to be equal parts adorable and concerning. He just plowed on ahead.

“I want to remind everyone that Bev and I have little legs,” Eddie said, taking a moment to glare at every single one of them individually, “and that we have been walking for four days, and when you have to jog to keep up--”

“Good point!” Bev chimed in. “You’re giants and monsters, all of you.”

“So,” Bill said, looking between Eddie and Bev in an attempt to figure out what was being asked of him. “You’re...tired?”

“And also I would like some ice cream,” Eddie finished, and immediately turned on Richie to give puppy-dog eyes.

God, the fucking puppy-dog eyes. He really needed to get better at resisting those, or he’d be at Eddie’s beck and call for the rest of his miserable--

...well, no. It wouldn’t be miserable if it were with Eddie - not by a long shot.

“I’ll buy you one,” Richie said resolutely, and then absolutely couldn’t help but lean down and kiss his smiling mouth.

(He still couldn’t really believe he got to do that whenever he wanted, when all was said and done. He wasn’t about to waste an opportunity.)

“We can afford to slow down, definitely.” Ben was smiling that soft, easy, reassuring Ben smile, and Richie kind of loved him for it. He was shutting down the ‘pack as much as you can into the last two hours’ counterargument before it had even begun. “Maybe we just do Star Tours and then head to the hub for the fireworks? If we get there early we’ll probably be closer to the castle.”

“Good deal,” Richie agreed, grinning at the thought of riding Star Tours again. He’d been making up new little incorrect facts about Star Wars throughout the trip and feeding them to Eddie, and he was hoping that by the time they finished their vacation, Eddie would have total confidence in a version of Star Wars that absolutely did not exist. He was sure that particular prank would pay off solidly someday. “Wanna walk?”

“Ice cream cart first,” Eddie insisted, grabbing Richie’s hand and leading him out towards Main Street. “I wanna bite Mickey’s ice cream ears off.”

“Bizarre and vaguely sexual of you, Eddie,” Stan commented, mirroring Eddie by taking Mike’s hand and pulling. “We’re in.”

“Same,” chorused Bev, sneaking up to push her way in the middle of Richie and Eddie. They allowed her into their sphere with matching smiles, slinging their arms over and around her. “Boys? You ready?”

Ben and Bill looked quickly at one another, and then back at Bev, and Richie inhaled sharply. There was a secret inherent in their interaction - Richie was kind of generally a dumbass, but he was good at reading a room, and what Ben and Bill had going seemed like kind of a big deal.

Was tonight going to be the night…?

Bev, for her part, didn’t suspect a thing. She waved an idle hand at them and carried on. “Hurry up, then.”

Richie bit his lip and allowed himself to be dragged along. His thoughts were racing, which meant he was uncharacteristically silent amidst his friends’ chatter.

If Ben was going to say his piece, Richie should probably follow suit, right? Not that Ben’s thing and Richie’s thing were even remotely similar, but...Richie was starting to learn that it was better to have everything out in the open.

It was funny, he thought, that wishes came with responsibilities - that he’d gotten exactly what he wanted with his friends and his relationships, and things were still sometimes hard. There was no way around having to fix his garbage communication skills anymore. Self-improvement had become a weird sort of necessity.

But. Maybe he had kind of wished for that, too.

“Eddie,” he said, willing himself to not chicken out.

They had arrived at the ice cream cart. Eddie disentangled himself from Bev, slid past Stan and Mike, and planted himself in front of Richie, eyes dark with concern.

“My whole name, huh?” Eddie asked softly, biting at his bottom lip. Behind him, Bill and Ben were finally approaching the group. They were talking in low voices, and Richie clenched his fists, wishing vaguely to have some of their strength; to be less terrified of telling the truth.

“Eds,” Richie corrected himself, pushing a hand back through his hair nervously. “I’ve been meaning...I was going to tell you something. Or ask. Maybe.”

Eddie’s eyes widened. “Richie, if this is a proposal, why did you pick the least romantic spot in all of Disneyland--”

“No, no,” Richie said quickly, putting his hands in front of him to drive home the point. “No. Uh. I got a call right before we left from the theatre I’ve been performing at, and they have an opening for a full-time member of their production team…”

“You told me you applied,” Eddie reminded him, putting a reassuring hand on his forearm. “Are you trying to tell me you got the job?”

Richie stared at Eddie’s face, willing him to express some kind of emotion for Richie to gauge, but it wasn’t taking - Eddie’s features remained annoyingly blank.

“Yes,” Richie said, closing his eyes and hoping for the best. “And. I think...I think I really want it.”

Eddie didn’t respond out loud for a moment. Instead, he slid a hand up to Richie’s face, and traced his thumb over Richie’s cheekbone.

“I’m so proud of you,” Eddie whispered, and Richie felt all of the tension leave his body in one fell swoop. He fell down into Eddie’s arms bonelessly, and Eddie stumbled backwards a little bit.

“It means that I’d be leaving the company,” Richie reminded him, lips tight against Eddie’s ear.

“But it’s a permanent position,” Eddie replied, and Richie could all but see the smile on his cute little face. “You’re going to be in Orlando, still. We’re going to be together.”

“We are,” Richie confirmed, straightening up and smiling back down at Eddie. “I was just...I didn’t know if--”

Eddie laughed sweetly and took both of Richie’s hands in his own. “Idiot. Aren’t we past this? I love you.” He tilted his face up expectantly. “I’m glad you told me.”

Richie couldn’t help but oblige him with a kiss. “Sorry I’m stupid.”

“Don’t get in the habit of saying that or it’s all you’ll ever say from here on out.” Stan was walking towards them, holding out two Mickey ice cream bars. “You’re welcome for these, by the way. If you try to pay me back by sneaking money into my wallet when you think I’m not paying attention, Richie, I’ll release incriminating screenshots into the group chat.”

“If it’s the conversation where the two of you talk at length about High School Musical, I’ve already seen it,” Eddie said, taking an ice cream bar and tearing open the wrapper.

Stan sighed. “I’ll think of something else, then.”

“If we’re set with ice cream, then we should get moving,” Bill announced, checking his watch. “We don’t have as much time as we think. We should get in line for Star Tours as soon as possible.”

“We’re really gunning for good seats at the fireworks, huh?” Mike asked teasingly, clapping Bill on the shoulder. Bill smiled a little bit, but it was clear that his agreeing nod was serious - and his little glance at Ben after he finished nodding was, too.

God. It was really going to happen tonight.

“Let’s go, then,” Richie said, not wanting to begrudge Ben any last little detail. He unwrapped his ice cream bar and tried to insert as much of it into his mouth as he possibly could. “Strrrr Trrrrr awhrrrh!”

“He means Star Tours away,” Eddie translated, biting one of Mickey’s ears off neatly. “And let’s please not run. My legs are so little.”

“Walking fast?” Bill offered, smiling cheekily.

“Walking at a pace that is comfortable for everyone,” Mike said, moving to demonstrate said pace, and together they fell into an easy step.

The wait time for Star Tours was short - only 10 minutes - and they gathered at the mouth of the line for a quick moment before plunging ahead.

“We’re okay with this being our last ride?” Bev asked, leaning against the metal frame of the attraction with her hands in her pockets. “Ben, you didn’t want it to be Indiana Jones?”

Ben shook his head wistfully. “As great as that ride is, I’m good.”

She met Richie’s eyes, then, and he knew immediately what she was about to ask. “And Richie--”

“Mr. Toad and I are good for now,” Richie assured her with a wink. “No need to revisit that one. Let’s go into space, huh?”

No one agreed out loud, but Bill started moving into the queue and the rest of them were following suit, so Richie allowed himself a moment of feeling like his leadership skills had improved before wandering after them.

“Do you think that if we see the Ewoks again, Luke Skywalker will be with them? He’s their leader, right?” Eddie asked, turning towards Richie with wide eyes.

Richie slid his arm over Eddie’s shoulders in a practiced motion and made to respond, but Stan beat him to it.

“Luke Skywalker can’t be the leader of the Ewoks because his lightsaber is red and theirs are all green, Eddie,” Stan said matter-of-factly. “If you knew anything about Star Wars, you’d know that. Luke Skywalker’s only allowed to lead those guys in planes. Red Luke Leader and all that.”

Richie quickly pulled out his phone to set a reminder to thank Stan somehow for his genius addition to Richie’s newly invented Star Wars lore, and also to ask Stan how much of that he genuinely believed was true.

“Planes?” Eddie wrinkled his nose. “I thought the stereotype was that gays couldn’t drive.”

“I am very proud of the work that I’m doing on Star Wars: Galaxy’s Edge,” Ben interjected loudly, “and I cannot wait to never show any of you what I’m doing, or go to that park with you when it opens, or talk to any of you about Star Wars ever again.”

Richie laughed out loud. “Ben, buddy, you’ve got to settle down. Your emotions are betraying you. Have you ever heard the tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise--”

Bill turned around from the front of the queue, forehead cinched up in either stress or amusement. “Wait, no, that can’t be a real thing.”

“That’s the only thing that’s been said this entire time that’s a real thing, actually,” Mike said through gritted teeth.

“Should we watch Star Wars on our next movie night?” Bev asked, smiling thinly. “Would that resolve a few things?”

The responses to that were chaotic and entirely mixed, and Richie reveled in the fact that the anarchy he’d caused lasted all the way up until they got on to the ride.

Their simulator went through the pod-racing section, and then Naboo with the Gungans, which meant that Stan was going to be speaking in incomprehensible memes for days. Richie would have complained loudly and obnoxiously about that, but it was almost time for the fireworks, which meant that it was almost time for Ben’s big moment.

Richie didn’t want to insert himself in the middle of whatever Ben and Bill were planning, but he couldn’t help feeling a little bit nervous about the whole thing….which was weird, because he usually didn’t feel nervous about things that weren’t his.

This thing was different, though. This thing had some gravity to it, and there were a bunch of different ways it could go wrong.

First of all, Bill didn’t have an amazing track record with plans like these. Granted, Ben and Bev weren’t Stan and Mike, but having Bill involved meant that everything was probably going to be a lot riskier than it would be otherwise, and Richie was tired of risk-taking where his friends were involved. They’d agreed on no drama for this trip. This could knock that whole agreement out of whack.

Second, if Ben pulled this off...well, everything would change, wouldn’t it? They’d just finally gotten their shit together well enough to be friends again. Would they be able to survive a change at this point?

Third...well, third was Eddie, and all of the things that he was going to have to start thinking about if Ben was successful.

Third could wait.

But. First and second were legitimate issues, and it was for that reason that Richie found himself slipping away from Eddie and Stan and sidling over to Bill.

“What’s the plan?” he asked, speaking quickly and quietly so as not to be overheard.

Bill raised his eyebrows, but otherwise didn’t seem surprised that Richie was asking. “Just getting as close as we can so that Ben can do his thing when it starts. Nothing elaborate.”

“Nothing risky?” Richie asked, doing his best Stan impression. “No personal pyrotechnics, no Goofy go-go dancers--”

“Just you,” Bill joked, eyes shiny with mischief. “You’re the only risk. Don’t fuck anything up, Richie.”

“Yeah, nah, I won’t,” Richie agreed. “But. It’s gonna be okay, right?”

Bill took a moment to look thoughtful, and Richie almost rolled his eyes. It was a yes or no question, and the correct answer was obvious, but when Bill responded, Richie found himself kind of grateful that Bill hadn’t taken the easy way out.

“You know how Bev thinks our friendship is destiny?” he asked, smiling a secret smile.

“Don’t fucking beat around the bush, Denbrough,” Richie complained, tugging at the hairband around his wrist irritably.

“I have a point,” Bill said, “which is that I agree with her, except that I think that the destiny part is more us destined to want to be around each other, which is different than just being destined to be friends. We have to work on it, but we will, because we want to.”

Richie sighed. “So what you’re saying is that it doesn’t matter what we do because we’re gonna work it out in the end no matter what?”

Bill shrugged. “Sure.”

Richie thought about pressing the issue, but ultimately decided against it. What Bill said had been comforting, in a way, and that was enough.

“Why are you helping with this, anyway?” he asked instead, adjusting his glasses idly. “Aren’t you sick of being around relationships at this point?”

Bill tapped at his phone in his pocket with another secret smile. “Don’t count me out yet, Rich. I’ve got someone to introduce you to when we get back. And so...no. I’m good.” He paused, looking over at Ben and Bev, who were talking excitedly to one another as they pushed through the crowd, looking for an optimal spot. “And they’re going to be so happy.”

“I guess that’s all we can ask for,” Richie said, smiling a little bit as he watched them laugh together.

“What is?” Eddie, Stan, and Mike had caught up to them - or maybe had come back to them, Richie had lost track of them completely for a moment.

“Being happy,” Bill replied, stopping just off to the side of the Disneyland Partners statue. “Is this a good spot?”

“Yes!” everyone chorused in unison. They’d have a perfect view of both the castle and the fireworks from where they were.

Richie turned to Eddie and proffered a hand, and Eddie took it, beaming widely up at him. Seized with a sweet impulse, Richie raised Eddie’s hand to his mouth, and Eddie laughed, rolling his eyes with a quiet sort of affection that made Richie’s heart stutter a little bit. He opened his mouth to speak, but Eddie shushed him before he could start.

“Don’t say a single thing about dreams coming true or whatever tacky Disney shit,” Eddie warned amidst giggles, trying and failing to narrow his eyes.

“No…” Richie started, willing the right words to come out of his mouth, “no, I was thinking, actually…”

Eddie tugged sharply at his arm, huffing out a shaky breath. “Is THIS a proposal?”

“No.” Richie turned his head to make solid eye contact with Eddie. “No, we’ve still...not yet, sweetheart, we’ve still got some shit to work out before that goes down, I think. But I was wondering...I was wondering if you were happy. That’s all.”

The music around them swelled, and the first firework lit from over Sleeping Beauty’s castle. Eddie gasped, eyes alight, and out of the corner of his eye, Richie saw Ben go down on one knee.

Richie knew Bev had said yes by the whoops and cheers that exploded around him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of Eddie’s face.

“Eddie,” Richie said again, willing Eddie to smile.

Eddie’s responding grin was absolutely enormous.

“I’m happy, Richie,” he replied, “I am so fucking happy.”

When Richie closed his eyes, he could see reflections in front of his eyelids - of Ben kneeling down, of the fireworks going off over the castle, of Eddie’s blinding, beautiful smile.

He opened his eyes again.

“Me too, Eds,” he said, taking Eddie’s hand and soaking in the moment. “Me too.”

[meiloorun-notthefruit]

heyyo!! do you have more hc for the tlatg au because im absolutely loving it lots right now its so interesting ;;

aw anon, thank you, I’m glad your enjoying the AU as much as me and @jswatson-holmes enjoy throwing headcanons and ideas at each other. This has made my day :-)

anyways, have 

Some Headcanons

Scrooge, Donald, Daisy - basically the entirety of the animated characters - try to hide Webby from the men upstairs because these toons know if they see her, they’re going to know she isn’t supposed to be there (not yet at least.)

Webby is very good at not being seen and she can fight too (Beakley taught her well) and that’s a really good thing because the rest of the gang painfully knows that when Webby is found, she’s going to need to pull out all the stops, in order to make it through the total chaos that’s going to go down.

As already said in another post, Webby disguise herself as one of the triplets -  whenever possible, whenever needed. Eventually she even becomes known as the unseen 4th nephew Phooey Duck.

Webby also goes in as a stunt double too; she knows how to perform several sequences that would take many characters a few takes to get right (thanks again to Beakley and her training) and even though toons are basically immortal, time is money, and HDLW are only kids, so it would take a lot longer for them to get the take just right.

So if a triplet somehow suddenly knows how to land/perform {insert semi-dangerous toon stunt here**}, then the Execs aren’t going to question it and are definitely putting said stunt in the film.

This isn’t to say that Huey, Dewey, and Louie don’t know how do stunts; Webby teaches them how to of course and then all 4 of them proceed to scare the feathers off their uncle.

Webby loves doing it - the stunts, the tricks and pranks and all - but Donald stresses out for his adopted niece (yes niece. FITE ME.) He wants all of his kids to be safe.

No one can really tell HDLW apart. Heck so far, only Donald’s been able to tell them apart when they’re in costume (which is most of the time, except when they’re in the Rooms/Character/Production Closet)

That’s cause Donald’s got an Eye for Detail.

Webby looks a lot like the triplets if you don’t look at her too closely.

She had to cut her head feathers short for the disguise to work, and at first, she’s upset to lose the hair, but Minnie and Daisy make her feel better about the loss (Amelia Earhart, Katharine Hepburn, Flappers, hair and feathers like this are much more manageable, no need for hair and beauty and ink and paint //humans// to touch you as much anymore, etc).

Minnie and Daisy wear they’re hair short from that point onward.

It stays that way.

When Mickey and Oswald do eventually reunite in this AU, there’s a lot of ugly crying and sobbing.

They’re brothers who were forcibly deprived of one another and seperated - it’s the first time they meet each other face to face - of course there’s crying.

This reunion takes place just outside Oswald’s room, which took Mickey 10 years (it’s 1938) to find; Walt hid it well. 

Mickey has to break down the door and descend into the Underground.

The Underground, if anyone is going through the TLAtG AU on my blog, is a series of caverns and tunnels connecting several prominent Studios. Oswald was trapped down there - it’s where he’s been for the 10 years he was missing. 

It’s sort of dumping ground for unneeded/broken toons (–Wasteland– it’s Wasteland. Thank Watson for that amazing accidental connection), after they’ve begun to fade away.

The place is enough to give both Mickey and Oswald nightmares for the next 5 decades.

The first person Mickey tells about his situation with Oswald (long lost brother, they share the same heart - which is particularly dangerous, have a sort of psychic link to each other, yada, yada, yada, etc,etc)  is Donald (he tells him in 1934.)

Donald of course thinks Mickey has gone crazy, but then all Mickey has to do is do something Oswald would do, and in this case, it’s pull of his ears and hand em’ to Donald.

There is a lot of horrified yelling on Donald’s half

Mickey can’t hear any of it

Needless to say, that problem is solved. But it doesn’t stop Donald from thinking Mickey (and Oswald) have a few screws loose.

The Bunny Children love their Uncle Mickey and the way they show it is by tackling him to the floor anytime he walks into a room (sort of like Calvin and Hobbes).

Mickey can never enter a room without looking twice now.

Expect more uncle and niblings bonding later

This got long whoops. 

[brothersapart]

Blast from the past!

@torchmlp replied to your post:

Oh, Blast from the Past?

@wolfie180g asked:

blast from the past?

Anonymous asked:

Blast from the Past?

Anonymous asked:

Hey, BFTP isn’t Blast From The Past is it? Also it’s really neat that you guys are doing an AU with a smol Dean and Jacob, and tol Sam :) Thank you so much for sharing these stories!

(Thanks nonnie! This is a ton of fun and we love to share >w>)

That’s the one! Sam’s staying at familiar motel and it’s going to be a Blast from the Past!

Once they get past introductions.

From his angle under the dresser, Jacob could almost see the glaring red numbers on the alarm clock across the room. Whatever hour they broadcast to the room, all he knew was that it was late afternoon. The sun was already setting outside, leaving just an orange glow peeking around the shabby curtains on the window.

Late for humans, perhaps, but for people like him, it was nearing the perfect time to be out and about. Standing at less than three and three-quarter inches tall, Jacob would be lucky to stand taller than someone’s shoe. His caution under the dresser was born of how true and serious that truth was. It would only take one mistake, one moment of inattention, to land him in trouble.

He’d been taught that lesson every day since he woke up in a world too big for him. Only fourteen years old, and he’d had to accept a new life.

His old one was literally out of reach. Furniture towered overhead and people were powerful giants with the power to lock him away for good.

He shifted from one foot to the other, his handmade leather boots pressing into the dusty carpet fibers. Walt, a man his size who had taken him on as a pupil of sorts, had made the boots for him, along with the satchel that rested against his side and comforted him with its presence. Everything he owned was in there, and he drummed his fingers silently against the top flap. Hopefully he would come away from this room with a little extra.

It wasn’t his greatest plan, coming out to check out the room by himself. An inner voice that sounded a lot like Walt scolded him for it. He reassured it that he wouldn’t take long. Then he could resume looking for wherever Dean had already wandered in his own search for supplies. He was always better at finding exactly what he needed.

Dean was like Jacob. Small, and trapped in the harsh living they had to make for themselves in the walls of the Trails West. He’d been shrunk down for ten years by the time Jacob arrived. It had hardened him in ways Jacob doubted he’d ever fully understand. Whenever Walt finished with a lecture, it seemed like Dean was there with another one just to remind him.

Stuck here forever. Gotta take care of yourself. No one out there will.

He took a slow breath and eyed the table in the room. The lamp on the dresser directly above him provided some extra light for the cluttered surface. Luckily, no one sat in the rickety chair next to it.

He wasn’t out of the woods. There was a human in the room, the only reason Jacob hadn’t come any farther out than the dresser. The man was milling by the bed and rummaging through his duffel bag. Jacob wasn’t sure, but the guy had to be nearly as tall as his dad had been, so many years ago. His heart did a flip as he leaned out just enough to assess the man’s height before ducking back out of sight.

Definitely a big guy. Easily over six feet tall, one of the tallest people he’d seen since shrinking down. Jacob was supposed to grow that tall one day. That promise was long gone by now. Now he’d have to hope for four inches of height.

He heaved a slow breath. The duffel bag on the bed was a sign of a road tripper. Maybe someone on his way to a new job, or visiting friends far away. Whatever he was there for, the motel was only serving to keep him from nodding off on the long drive.

These kinds of folks tended to have snacks, so he’d learned. Quick and easily accessible food that, if they could take off with some, would be great for them.

Getting ahead of himself, Jacob wondered what the guy might have hidden away in that bag. It had been a while since he’d had trail mix.

[alanshee-keeper-of-realms]

Working on another idea called the Kingdom of the Forgotten

It's a rewrite of Chip and Dale 2022, this time centralizing on Oswald as the antagonist. Here's a small snippet showing the tone of this version.

Bendy is fun to throw in as well I can't play the game due to all the jumpscares, which cause my POTs to flare. But I'm trying to learn the lore in other ways to include him in this,

This is seperate from the Off the Animation Table AU

------------------

Mickey slowly blinked consciousness returning, groaning as he sat up a hand going to his head. He remembered talking to Oswald and confronting him about his possible highly illegal Bootlegging operation.

"Well well well" his head whipped around at a voice that sounded deep and somehow wet,"Looky who it is," he scrambled back as he was met by a creature dripping in ink its face consumed by teeth, it was a demon toon of some sort however the mouse didn't care to find out more, his heart pounding as the creature slammed a hand down near him leaving an ink splatter

There was more laughter in the shadows as he squeaked curling in on himself, giggles ensued as the light above swayed, showing gleaming pie eyes surrounding them

"Alright, Bendy, you have had your fun. You'll get to have more soon my friend," the creature looked towards the other voice looking disappointed but his body morphed in a sickening blob that writhed until finally a toon emerged it looked like a cutesy Demon from the early rubberhose era, he smiled at Mickey, his pie eyes however shined with a malicious nature

"Of course, Ozzie!" He giggled, skipping towards where the voice came from before the rabbit stepped into the light with a smirk on his face as Bendy and was that Felix, stepped up behind the other,

Oswalds form was not of the Once Upon a Studio design, it was his Trolley Troubles look. However, he wore the same business shirt the sleeves now rolled up as he glared at his little brother, crossing his arms,

"Oswald? Why?" The mouse quickly stood up confusion running through his mind as the rabbit snorted

"Still have your eyes closed? You see Bendy here? That form is the result of experimentation, my son was lobotimized Felix was hit frequently by dip stained whips, all of us have been the victims of Human Primalness, this made us wiser then most,"

"So we can just demand an apology!"

"oh, you naive little mouse, that won't do anything," he shook his head,

"Nothing" Bendy snarled,

"But I wouldn't expect the King of the Known to know what happens to The Forgotten,"

"King of the Known?" Mickey repeated slowly head cocked in his confusion

Oswalds eyes met his, narrowing

"Tell me Michael brother mine, what do you think happens to toons like me? Like Bendy and Felix, ones that humans have forgotten like old toys and play things?"

The mouse paused and thought, he would think they'd be allowed to peacefully retire until they flickered or decayed to the point of non-existence, so that's what he vocalized,

"I would think you'd be told good job and retired to some place peacefully,"

Howls of laughter went through the space Oswald joining in, his friend elbowing him,

"Man Ozzie ya said he's so naive but I didn think he was this deluded!" Came from the Ink demon as Mickey shrunk,

"Told ya Walt's golden boy" the other quipped back, it struck at the mouses core a bit of anger now burning at the name of their creator coming from his brother's mouth like poison,

"We are torn apart Michael,"

"Experimented," came Bendys deeper more sludge like voice,

"Abused," Felix glared

The mouse felt sickened as more joined in shouting what had happened to them after their fame faded,

Assaulted

Burned

Cut open

Tortured

He felt his stomach twisting as Oswald held a hand up, the voices simmering down as he crept closer,

"Your the beloved Mickey Mouse, King of the Known" his brother leaned over with a smile as Bendy giggled and Felix smirked," You know who I am? I am the King of the Forgotten the lost and Mistreated you've met our darling Bendy from the forgotten Joey Drew Studios and you of course know Felix, my brother in law. But I won't dare forget my Citizens! "

Mickeys eye s winced as the Studio lit up before they adjusted and they went wide, hundreds of Black and White toons some dripping others flickered but all glared at the mouse who suddenly realized why Chip and Dale told him not to confront Oswald,

"Welcome to the Forgotten Kingdom!" He threw his arms out as everyone joined him in jeering and laughing,

[tenderdnp]

we’re already each other’s, yet you aren’t mine

beta: @star-crossed-phan​

artist: @just-another-phanfic​ + a pt. ii of her art is here!

word count: 26.2k

rating: PG-13; genres are romance, fluff, and angst

warnings: mild language, homophobia (internal and external), mild homophobic slurs, alcohol, hints at sexual intimacy

summary: in a time where tattoos bloom upon the skin out of nowhere - dan is a boy who paints watercolor roses in his backyard and has a single hidden marigold behind his ear, all while phil, who has tattoos of daisies around his ankles + shoulders, writes poetry on the front porch next door. (a high school, art student au)

author’s note: aaaa my first pbb fic!! :’)) thank you so much to kayla for betaing this! you are so sweet, and we talked more than just about editing which was so lovely. bless you for sticking with me even though the word count went from what was supposed to be 5k straight to 25k; you’re a real one! and thank you to kat for being a great pinch hitter artist, your moodboards make my heart go !!!!!

and a p.s. —  this fic was inspired by @demonphannie​’s post and @audaw​’s art. ty for existing

moodboard by @just-another-phanfic

. . .

For centuries, humanity has held art to the highest of esteems. Early neanderthals began it all with their coarse hands, withdrawing the dirt from the earth below their feet to leave marks upon rugged stone walls, the ones that would convey the beginnings of history. In the millenniums that followed, an elitism has formed around the most talented ones who have managed to make a name for themselves. The names of these creators are commonplace in many households amongst the nations; buildings are erected with the mere purpose of showcasing such artistic creation.

Perhaps it is for that reason that the phenomenon in which ink would envelop one’s skin was thus regarded as a wonder, rather than as an alarming fright.

Despite seeming harmless, precaution took place of course: scientists all over the globe have dedicated themselves to research the peculiar tattoos. Theories ranging from genetic mutations related to the brain’s creative processes to shifts in the earth’s overall physical environment resulting in a strange seismic change have arisen, but nothing about their origins have been confirmed as of yet. For that matter, nothing has been confirmed as to how exactly they appear either.

<<>>

It’s the sound of lips on skin and lips on lips that makes his shoulders tense and his hair stand on end. He can’t ignore them, they’re only three lockers down after all, and his peripheral vision just happens to be especially keen. Dan Howell has the new girl -new as in she had literally transferred into their art school several days ago- pinned against the locker’s cold metal, his lips pressing against hers again and again. It isn't a shock, really. She is likely his latest rendezvous, i.e. the new girl in both the real and alternative sense.

The probable truth of that fact makes his gut twist.

His thoughts are confirmed by gossipers in the hallway, their ringing giggles unintentionally piquing his interest. Their conversation automatically separating from the bustle of bodies and hallway sound, he listens in on their eager chatter.

“Did you hear who it was this time?”

Her friend squeals —was that necessary?— in response. “No I haven't! Who?!”

“It was Erin—”

“Erin? The new girl who came in and started here last week?”

“Yes! Well, she came in a totally different way last night,” he could hear a smirk and a wink in her voice. The if you know what i mean was a little more than heavily implied, making him internally cringe. “Everybody’s saying that they just locked eyes across Chris’ living room and like, totally fell in love. Or lust. You know how it is.”

“Of course,” the friend laughs knowingly, “Not a single girl has ever lasted too long.”

From there, as the conversation topic shifted, his attention followed. Suddenly irritated, he shuts his locker with a slam, not loud enough to gain the passerbys’ attention, but enough to snap Dan and Erin (she has a name now) out of it. By the time he turns around, Erin shoots a mildly peeved glance his way. Familiar words of it's always cloudy except for, when you look into the past, one night… flow from his worn earbuds to hit his eardrums as he makes his way to class, clearing his mind and relaxing his annoyance.

He shakes his head to himself, and puts a little smile on his face. It happens all the time, so he shouldn’t be bothered. Today is gonna be a good day.

He can feel it.

<<>>

As per usual, he is the first one in the classroom. It is a basic english class, because despite being at the art school for written work and thus having several writing and literary classes under his belt, he is still required to take a “basic” class for the english language.

His efforts to convince the principal to change his situation (that other students have voiced to have as well) otherwise was, needless to say, futile.

The class bores him a bit, but it’s not like he can do anything about it. More often than not, he keeps to himself and simply chooses to not actively participate in class. Besides, being one of the teacher’s favorites due to having a particularly advanced grasp of the material is not necessarily the worst thing in the world (plus it gives him time to write rather than pay attention).

Several minutes pass before Dan enters the classroom. As per usual he is the last to enter, with Erin in tow. Her blonde curls are even more all over the place than they usually are and his typically perfectly straightened hair is a little less than perfect; to add even more to that, their clothes are crinkled, leaving little to nothing to the imagination as to what their shenanigans were. The teacher makes no comment but a slight disappointed exhale and a passing gesture of the hand for them to take their seats before he opens up the class for the lesson.

“Now for the past two weeks we have been talking about poetry…” Mr. Lamansi begins, clapping his hands together. “And for today in particular, we will be focusing on Walt Whitman’s Song of the Open Road.”

The class proceeds by his calling on various students in a random fashion to take turns with reading stanzas, his choice sometimes falling on the ones with their hands raised and other times upon those who were purposefully remaining quiet and avoiding eye contact. Phil allows himself to take advantage of this time to freewrite, allowing his pen and mind to wander.

brown is all sorts of golden in the sense it gives...

“Phil? Could you read these few lines for us?”

At the teacher’s interruption, Phil looks up and nods, proceeding to put down his pen and stand up from his seat as every other student had. His hands hold his textbook as he prepares himself to speak, but the moment he opens his mouth, Mr. Lamansi stops him.

“Actually Phil,” Mr. Lamansi begins, “Can you come up and read in front of the class? This is one of my favorite parts.”

Phil bites his lip. “Y-yeah. That's fine.”

Everyone’s focus is on him as he strides towards where the teacher directed him to go. He’s not a fan of this kind of thing you know, being the center of unwanted attention that is, and each stare only seems to be encouraging the swirls that are slowly appearing on his lower back. Once he reaches his spot in the front, each set of seemingly judgemental eyes causes buttercups to rapidly pop up on a concentrated spot on the inside of his wrists, mapping the places where he feels anxiety and unease.

An awkward cough to clear his throat and break the stillness of the room comes first. Then, he begins.

And it's captivating.

“The earth expanding right hand and left hand, The picture alive, every part in its best light, The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted, The cheerful voice of the public road—the gay fresh sentiment of the road. O highway I travel! O public road! do you say to me, Do not leave me? Do you say, Venture not? If you leave me, you are lost? Do you say, I am already prepared—I am well-beaten and undenied—adhere to me? O public road! I say back, I am not afraid to leave you—yet I love you; You express me better than I can express myself; You shall be more to me than my poem.”

His voice pulls at the heartstrings of everyone watching him, or at the very least, grabs their gaze so that they don't look away. Other students were bored and monotone in vocal delivery, but his take on it is deep and rich. It's lovely, and all the students (okay, except maybe a select few, but you can't win them all) are listening. Breathtaking is definitely the right word to describe it, for the full classroom of rowdy adolescents are nearly completely silent.

Unbeknownst to him, when he's finished, Dan’s lips are parted oh so slightly in a sort of soft awe.

As Phil sits back in his seat, his face burns red, a murmur of applause going through the room. His teacher praises and thanks him, but he pays it no mind. His eyes shift down at his desk as he brainstorms and works on a poem for the rest of the period, until the bell eventually rings.

Now mind you, Philip Lester was usually very observant. His eyes were open, all the time— as a poet he had to take inspiration from every facet of the world around him. However, perhaps if his mind didn't force itself to replay the most anxious of moments, and he wasn't so distracted by his writing, Phil would have caught how peculiar it was for a certain Dan Howell to throw a fleeting gaze at him just before leaving the room.

<<>>

philip michael lester. flashback; age four.

Life was pretty nice when one’s age was still a single digit number.

While his mother was cooking, Phil was sat in the chair at the dining table. Legs swinging in the air because he was far too short to reach the floor, with a face of curiosity he pointed a small finger at what was on her bicep.

“Mum, why does your skin have different colors there?”

She briefly stopped her stirring upon the stove, her eyebrows scrunching in confusion a little before she saw what he was pointing at and laughed in understanding. “This?” she clarified while she smiled, pointing at the tattoo of a concert ticket that lay on her upper arm.

“Yeah!” young Phil exclaimed, nodding eagerly. “And Daddy has one too!”

His mother hummed in agreement and continued to make supper. “Indeed he does,” she laughed, “And that's on purpose you know. The first time I met him was at a concert.” Her voice became wistful as she continued, “I was sold a counterfeit ticket and because of that was absolutely devastated, with tears in my eyes and all, and was on the way to being sent home. On my way out, I had bumped shoulders with your father. We were completely knocked down to the floor! And then…” Her hand stopped once more as her words trailed off.

“And then he noticed my eyes and asked me what's wrong. Once he heard about what had happened, he told me that his friend became sick and that he had a free ticket. Only if I wanted it of course. I accepted it, we ended up having a great time, kept contact, and eventually started dating. I got one half of a concert ticket on my left arm, and your father had a concert ticket on his right.”

“Wow! Now you two are matching, right mum?”

“Yep! They say that nothing’s been proven but if anything,” she turned towards her son and made a pointing gesture to emphasize her words. “This appeared out of love, I’ll tell you that.”

“Love?”

“Yeah, love.”

Phil’s cheeks beam with a smile. “Love sounds so nice.”

As she sets a bowl of Phil’s favorite soup in front of him, an easy reply comes as a response. “Oh it is, dear. It really is.”

<<>>

“Just milk and a bag of crisps? Again?”

Phil places his tray down with a playful eyeroll. “Peej, you know it's because I’m not hungry.” He sits down next to his best friend, unzipping his backpack to take out his phone and aimlessly scroll while they’re chatting.

With his mouth still full, PJ says pointedly, “Yeah sure.” He swallows his food. “I’m just worried sometimes, you know.”

“I know,” Phil laughs, “And I appreciate it.”

PJ does a cheeky little grin and wave with a jokingly bashful, “Aw you’re making blush and all Philip, but let’s cut the sap.” He takes another bite of his lunch. “So how are you? How’s your day been so far?”

“Ugh,” Phil groans. He stuffs his face with practically six crisps at once, annoyed. He had nearly forgotten about how his day started, and now PJ had reminded him. He chews rapidly before he swallows so that he may continue talking.

“Dan was making out with some girl this morning at the lockers… It was obnoxious. Annoying as hell.”

PJ just smirks. His body leans in closely, accompanied by a wiggle of his eyebrows and reply in a teasing tone, “Are you sure annoyed is how you’re really feelin’ Philly? No jealousy because of ‘ol pretty boy—”

“How are things going with that film project?” Phil quickly interjects PJ’s sentence with his cheeks suddenly red, making PJ immediately drop both his smirk and the topic. Ooo ouch, how touchy.

“It’s good! It’s going. I hope to actually start the filming part soon.”

Pride for his friend swells in Phil’s chest. “That’s great!”

“Yeah I guess, but I’m stuck with the script. I’m really lacking inspiration,” PJ mutters, his eyes looking back down to his food.

“Oh, I totally get that,” Phil nods with a wave of his hand. “It’ll pass, don’t worry.”

The other laughs, immediately dismissing the comment. “Pff, yeah right! Coming from the guy who never stops writing ever.”

“Peeeej! Trust me, I’m serious! Okay listen—” Phil’s voice softening, almost as if he was revealing a big secret. “Sometimes you just need a break, you know? Or to look for inspiration in unlikely places. You have to have a muse.”

“Aw Philly, are you saying that you have a muse?” PJ smiles.

Before he can answer, Phil catches a glimpse of Dan walking to join his group of friends, and in doing so, Dan passes by he and PJ’s lunch table. Phil only lets his eyes linger for a moment more before he turns to look back at PJ, and gives him his response, letting out a low hum first. A cheeky hint of something is playing at the edges of his lips.

“I guess you could say that.”

<<>>

brown is all sorts of golden in the sense it gives as much warmth as a gentle sun    when it touches every bit of soil and soul of the earth a sign that even angels admire from afar, a bronzy glow of the ages - p.l.

<<>>

“Now creative writing has a key word: creative. And what does creative mean?” implores freshly graduated teacher Miss Caroline (who, at the beginning of the year, refused to be called Miss Alabang due to it apparently being “too formal”). A resounding lack of feedback comes from the class. Rolling her eyes in response, she shoots them all a you guys are useless look, accompanied by the typical seriously you could do better eyebrow raise.

Not many people are in this particular class, so theoretically, there should be more student engagement. But oh, on the contrary, it was not working out that way.

Throwing her hands up in the air with a passion, she exclaims, “It means to think outside of the box of course! Which is why there will be an interesting new project for the midterm. Never before done, never before seen by this institution.”

She begins to pace around the room, her voice rising and falling in a way that seems to soar over students’ heads and then capture their attention, while her gaze creates eye contact with each and every person to guarantee their engagement. “This project,” she says with a pause for dramatic effect, “will be a collaboration with the art students.”

“Exactly right.”

Art teacher Miss Land enters the scene. Her chin is raised with a sort of delicate poise and her hands are held behind her back, a contrasting yet pleasing juxtaposition that is a great complement to Miss Caroline’s own casual stance and posture. While Miss Caroline has a voice that projects itself as much as her eccentric presence, Miss Land’s is a bit more subdued in the sense that listeners had to concentrate more to hear her.

“The idea is to bridge together visual art and written art…”

“...essentially taking words and bringing them to life.”

“Both pieces must be able to both stand on their own, yet inspire one another. A mix of two mediums that are strong individually, yet when put together, fabricate something that reaches beyond what one could achieve as a solo piece,” Miss Land elaborates.

“Any questions?” asks Miss Caroline. The students helpfully provide her the deafening silence that fills the room in response.

Miss Land nods. “Good. My students, please don’t crowd around the door. Line up against the front, please.” She gestures to the front board, each art student awkwardly shuffling to their own spot, standing expectedly as the creative writing students sat and looked upon them with neutral expressions. Most are calm and collected except for a select few, who shift in their seats at the thought of working with unfamiliar people and a medium they didn't know. Among the art students is new girl Erin who couldn’t care less, and she has a hand on Dan’s arm while she whispers into his ear. He chuckles, and makes playful a face back at her as if saying, “Shh, we’ve got to listen now.”

Miss Land then glances at Miss Caroline, sharing an exchange of the eyes before coming to a silent understanding. From there, Miss Caroline addresses the group as a whole.

“So I’m going to randomly choose a student from my creative writing class, while she,” placing emphasis on the last word and looking pointedly at Miss Land, “will randomly choose an art student of her own. Okay? Sounds good. So first off: Eli Romano.”

“...Louise Pentland,” completes Miss Land.

“Andee Steiner with…”

“Erin Romer.”

“PJ Liguori.”

“Chris Kendall, you’re up.”

“Philip Lester…”

“...Dan Howell.”

As partnerships are created one by one, it is so interesting to see the reactions of each couple (couple used for the lack of a better term here, of course). For example, Eli, Andee, Louise, and many others seemed like the type to not mind whomever they were to be assigned to. Erin on the other hand? No one missed the huff she let out and the scrunch of her nose when she heard that she was not assigned to Dan. Chris Kendall stuck his tongue in his cheek with a smirk then let out a big grin when he sauntered over the PJ’s desk, while PJ himself held a soft smile.

In regards to Phil, he kept it together. If together meant his leg started bouncing at a great speed, that is. As long as no one looked below the desk, no one would notice. His fingers start picking at the ends of his sleeves. Buttercups were starting to appear.

And Dan was just an enigma. Nothing in the eyes, nothing in his stance, only a polite smile.

Once the partner assignments are completed, papers are handed out, and a direction is given for everyone to go with their respective other half of their duo, the art students disperse and fill the empty seats. Immediately, chatter begins to diffuse throughout the previously quiet room.

Squeaks come from the moving of chairs and desks, along with slight oomphs of backpacks being tossed down to the linoleum floor and pushed to the side in order to be out of the way. Phil bites his lip as Dan sits in the desk next to his own, and with every ounce of effort in his body he tries to make sure his voice is steady when he breaks the ice between them.

“So, I guess we have to exchange info right?”

“I guess,” Dan replies simply, scratching his neck awkwardly. “I don’t really know, but I guess there’s not really any other option. I mean, what else can we do.”

Not too far from them is PJ, who leans back in his chair and sends a questioning glance over to Phil, who then does a small shrug in reply. Turning back to Dan, he purses his lips a little before continuing. “Okay, so uh, my number is…” Phil lists the memorized numbers with ease, then repeats it once more. “You got that?”

Before Dan can even nod, the bell rings, and out of nowhere Erin grabs Dan’s hand right for the two of them to immediately bolt out the door.

<<>>

Dan is reading over the paper that the art teacher gave them earlier. He wants to start brainstorming, the concept of combining two different art forms seems really interesting… It would probably be best to discuss it with his partner, though.

His partner: Phil Lester. Dan knows him, he lives next door to him so how could he not, and they have gone to school together for a while now. Yet despite having known him all these years, he only knows of him. Dan has never spoken a word to Phil, to his knowledge.

Although he never paid mind to him before, when Phil read Song of the Open Road in his english class today, Dan admits that he was surprised. He never expected something like to come from him.

Dan takes out his cellphone, tapping the screen to reach the number that he put in earlier. Because Erin pulled him out before he could tell Phil his own digits, he is forced to be the one to text first. He types a quick message, and hits send. Better now than later.

from dan, to phil:

hey it’s dan. meeting in the library after school tmrw sound good?

He doesn’t expect a reply, but for some reason it’s like he’s waiting for one. When he thinks about it, Phil seems like someone he would want to get to know better. He seems interesting.

This project may actually be kinda fun.

A reply comes a minute or two later, and it’s like Dan has something caught in his throat when he rushes to see the message.

from phil, to dan:

Okkie dokes! :D

Aw. Dan can’t help but smile to himself. Heh, how cute.

<<>>

Phil ends up arriving first. In his defense, he spends most of the time in the library anyway, and extra time gives him the chance to pick the perfect spot: one with a lot of sunlight, and where not a lot of people are studying. And besides, there’s nothing wrong with wanting for today to go well, right?

Dan arrives about ten minutes following the school’s ending bell, and Phil doesn’t even notice him walking through the door. He’s got his head in his notebook, as usual.

“Bye, see you later,” bids Dan, giving Erin a quick kiss on the cheek. Although he begins to head off, he remains facing her, walking backwards, giving a little farewell salute and a quick wink to match.

Erin calls after him. “Goodbye baby, have fun with the project!” She accompanies it with a chippery wave back, and blows him a kiss right before orients his body forward so that he could see where he is going.

Phil looks up from his work, disturbed by the noise. Dan has spotted him, eyes lighting up in recognition, and he is starting to make his way to the table. When he gets there, it is a moment when first impressions are made.

For Phil, it’s like an up close confirmation of everything he has admired from afar. Everything is so lovely, and the way the sun hits Dan is so nice. His eyes aren’t just brown, they fit every descriptor that Phil has wrote with— caramel, golden, earthy, warm. Choosing this spot was the right choice.

As for Dan, he is taken aback by the scribbles of sentence fragments and various adjectives and lines that cover the pages of Phil’s notebook and Phil’s hands. They’re like stories that others want to read, but won’t understand, because Phil is the only one that can tell them.

He doesn’t know it yet, but he is one of the few willing to listen.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Dan grimaces, feeling guilty that he was the second to show despite being the one to set up the meeting in the first place. When he grabs the seat next to Phil to sit down, he misses the edge of the chair and the sound of his bum hitting the hardwood floor echoes through the library, making Phil laugh and Phil’s heart swell.

Embarrassing. Still grinning, Phil holds a hand out, helping him up. Dan lets out a laugh as well, Phil’s attitude spreading to him.

“Don’t worry about it Dan, I was willing to wait for you.”

<<>>

His car purrs as it rolls into the driveway upon his arrival home, having just come from hanging out with friends after school. Dan loves going out with them, but to be frank, it gets exhausting sometimes.

Right now, he kinda wants to take a nap.

A chirp comes from the car as he hits the buttons on his keys to lock up the thing, and the moment he unintentionally shoots a glance at the house next door happens to be the same moment that Phil looks up from his spot on the porch.

Phil looks down at his feet right when their gazes meet, before choosing to raise his head once more and give Dan a little wave. “Hey,” he mouths.

A moment of hesitance, then Dan smiles and takes a step forward. As if it’s an invitation, Dan walks over and sits next to Phil, joining him. The last time they had talked had been over text a day or two ago, and they have only met up once more since their initial meeting at the library. The steps creak a bit at their weight and their legs nearly touch, but not quite.

Slowly but surely, they are warming up to one another.

“So what are you working on? Are you working on our project?” Dan leans a little into Phil’s side to get a better look at Phil’s notebook, while remaining careful as to not be too invasive of his space. A writer’s notebook is like an artist’s sketchbook: a secluded place for the expression of thought. The cover is worn and the pages are messy, Phil’s writing ranging from neat print to rushed scrawls. Anyone could tell that that little notebook was the receiver of a lot of love. Dan’s heart skips a little at that thought; it always makes him happy when a creator is passionate about their own work.

“Yeah actually,” Phil replies, not looking up. He keeps writing as he completes his thought. “Just brainstorming about various ideas.”

“Is it okay if I stay here?”

Phil nods. “Yeah, I don’t mind.”

A few minutes pass of comfortable silence, and Dan even took out his own sketchbook from his backpack. He keeps making a few strokes then erasing, feeling the urge to do something as Phil is sitting beside him seemingly within an endless river of creative flow. He breaks the silence as he wonders in a whisper out loud, “You know, people always see you writing in that thing.” Dan then pauses, attempting to formulate his question before he voices it. “How do you… How do you constantly have something to write about?”

Phil is quiet, thinking before he comes up with a response. “It’s about being honest I think.”

“Honest?”

“Yep, honest.” Phil affirms. His pen stops writing for a second, and he makes a motion towards his body, looking forward rather than directly addressing Dan. “Let whatever is in you tell the story you know? They don’t have to be complete ideas, you just need to let them exist. Like how our tattoos appear on their own, but still tell our story to others, in a way.”

As Phil rambles on, without realising, Dan is sketching Phil’s profile. Glancing up to look at him while he speaks to give an occasional sign that he’s still listening, his wrists make little flicks and strokes across the page, while his hands are especially careful with shading. Dan spends quite a bit of time on Phil’s cheekbones, for he can’t seem to get it right.

He grins softly. Phil seems to be all angles and sharp edges, and it’s kind of enticing.

“...And most of all, with honesty, you know what is real.”

<<>>

“You know Phil, this is a bit clingy.”

“Clingy? May I remind that you were the one calling me at two in the morning for the past week and a half.”

“Pbbbt, but you said you didn’t mind!”

“Yeah, you’re right—”

“Damn straight I am.”

“But anyways, you didn’t call me tonight, and I was still awake, and now here we are.”

“I don’t need your excuses, Lester. So what do you wanna talk about? Because we’ve got all night.”

<<>>

According to Dan, working at a Starbucks coffee shop is ‘too corporate,’ and that is why they are at a local cafe now.

Chris and PJ are here as well. They’re doing a cute little “study group” thing, but instead of studying they are discussing their projects. It’s always good to have someone to bounce ideas off of, and brainstorming is better when one is able to hear feedback from other people.

They’re all casually chatting, as friends of friends all together.

What’s strange though, is this: Chris is being particularly touchy towards PJ. It was playful touches at first, to his arms and to his sides, but then all of a sudden he put his arm around PJ’s shoulders. PJ didn’t acknowledge it at all, but the expression on his face was one of someone who was definitely flustered.

Dan raises an eyebrow at Chris upon seeing this, the other only responding with an eyebrow raise back as if in a challenge of, what? Something wrong?

And as for Phil, his tongue sticks out of the corner of his mouth as he has a shit-eating grin, simply amused.

It becomes a source of small unacknowledged tension, but no one brings it up and they all continue their relaxed chatter. Each of them grab several pastries and a coffee each, scones and croissants and the like, “brain food” being the excuse for all of the sugar in their purchases. They then head towards a table by one of the cafe’s huge windows that overlook the London street.

PJ speaks up about their projects first. “So, what’s your guys’ idea?”

“We’re going for a kinda… like… nature-y? Is that the right word?” Phil looks at Dan, who just kinda shrugs. “Theme. Something with the forest, or the ocean… We don’t know for sure yet.”

Chris nods, and looks at Dan. “Colors?”

“Earth tones, I would guess,” Dan replies, taking a bite from his scone.

Chris hums in approval. “Some cooler undertones would work nicely with that, I think.”

“How about you guys?” asks Dan.

“Something with a whole lot of bold color. That’s kinda all we got.” PJ shrugs.

“We’re just rolling with it,” Chris barely manages to add, mouth full.

Phil points his question towards PJ. “And how’s the writing?”

“Well I haven't had too much time to really develop it, I've been working on stuff for the poetry slam…” PJ says sheepishly, momentarily preferring to watch himself stir his coffee over looking up.

“Spontaneity is the best kind of creativity!” Chris exclaims defensively, yet mostly excitedly, He lists descriptors as he counts them off on his fingers, voice all sass and eagerness, making everyone laugh. “It's gonna have a lot of color, it's gonna be bright, and it's gonna be cool as heck!”

“Poetry slam?” Dan inquires. “Our school has that, PJ?”

“Yep! It's open to all the students but mostly english students enter, I’ve been bothering Phil to join for ages—” When PJ moves his hand to point at Phil, the porcelain of his coffee mug hits the table and his drink  becomes a brown puddle of a mess out of nowhere. It had narrowly missed his crotch, and thank goodness, not a drop fell upon the notes of his that were scattered on the table in front of him.

Chris’ eyes widen, and he reacts quicker than all of them. “I’ve got this,” he assures PJ, immediately rushing off to grab napkins, but not before leaving PJ with a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine!”

When Chris is out of earshot, Phil immediately gives PJ a look.

PJ’s face only gets redder, and he folds his hands in his lap. “Shut up he didn't mean anything by it…”  

But Phil is relentless, and he’s not buying PJ’s denial at all. He doesn’t stop giving his old friend that look that is all smiles and muffled laughs. Eventually, PJ breaks and bursts out with, “Okay, I admit it, he might’ve maybe asked me out yesterday…!” Phil smirks, and finally lets out the laugh he was holding in. “But to be honest I haven’t given him an answer yet.”

Throughout the past few moments of Phil and PJ’s exchange, Dan had remained silent, gaze bouncing between Phil’s knowing grin and PJ’s not-at-all-subtle blush. It is for that reason that when he makes a comment it catches them both off guard, even though it was more of an observation to himself, if anything. With his chin in his palm and his elbow resting on the table edge, Dan murmurs, “Huh, that's why Chris looks so happy. He's probably the happiest I've ever seen him.”

“Yeah,” says PJ after hesitating a little, addressing Dan’s words. He bites his lip, the corners of his mouth hinting at turning up as he admits the truth. “He makes me really happy too.”

“Happy enough to write about?” asks Phil with a smile, referring to their conversation from way back when. Dan sits, listening still.

PJ doesn’t look at Phil directly, but his hand unconsciously reaches up to his face to briefly touch where Chris has left a quick kiss earlier. If you looked closely, a little tattoo of a planet was beginning to fade into view.

“We’ll see.”

Chris finally returns, a wad of napkins in his grasp. Carefully he begins dabbing at the mess, nudging PJ’s papers aside so that they would be out of the way, all while PJ has a look that is entirely of affection all over him, as Chris pays no mind.

Very casually, PJ throws a question into the air. “So, what time and place?”

Chris crumples up the napkins, the coffee mess finally cleaned up, and heads towards the nearest bin. “For what?” he calls, throwing the trash away.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about our date already.”

Standing in place a couple feet away, Chris is frozen and his jaw goes slack, and PJ can’t help but giggle. Chris is simply beaming now. He rushes to the table to directly talk to Dan and Phil, words rushed and excited. “Sorry to cut it short lads, but we’ve got a date to plan,” Chris says matter-of-factly, adorned with an adorable little salute. After that his hands move to help PJ pack up his things, and in a matter of seconds everything is put away.

When they head towards the cafe door, PJ flashes a sheepish expression to Dan and Phil and mouths a “Sorry about this,” followed by a sincere, “Thank you.” Before they disappear, Chris then grabs PJ’s hand in his— holding it up to his lips to place a quick kiss on the back of PJ’s hand.

Cute.

As for the left-behind-two, an hour and a half more passes before they make any real effort to go. The company is lovely even if they aren’t talking. They are simply working in silence, both lost in their own creative worlds, and it is only when a worker comes up to them and asks if they would like to order anything more (to which they politely declined) do they begin to clean up their space.

“They’re cute together,” says Phil, a comment that breaks the stillness between them.

“Yeah,” Dan replies nonchalantly. He closes his bag after putting away his sketchbook and pencils bag, and slides the strap on his shoulder as they both head towards the door. To no one in particular he adds, “They’re really happy together, aren’t they?”

The edges of words seemed to be tinged with a bit of longing, if you listened hard enough.

When they step out of the cafe, Phil immediately rubs his arms, his breath forming a small cloud with each exhale from the oxygen in his lungs and the brisk air. “Heh, I didn’t expect it to be this cold today…”

Almost hesitantly, Dan places his own jacket upon Phil’s shoulders. The gesture isn’t acknowledged at all, and he just keeps walking, ignoring the fact that the chill was now getting to him. He refrains from rubbing his own arms, and just shoves his hands into his pockets. He only did as any friend would do.

In the meantime, Phil just stands there, not knowing how to react.

Steps ahead now, Dan merely waves his hand before quickly putting it back into the pocket of his jeans, beckoning Phil to walk a little faster.  “C’mon Phil, let’s go home.”

<<>>

phil: <IMG_0981 is attached. View image?> phil: LOOK AT THESE DOGS!!!!! phil: IT’S A DOG WHO HAS A GUIDE DOG

dan: asagAFGAAJHLHFW dan: THAT’S THE CUTEST THING I’VE EVER S E E N

<<>>

philip michael lester. flashback; age eleven.

He stood outside, garden hose in hand. His mother had told him to water the plants around the front porch, and that is exactly what he did. Although the job required focus, it did nothing to prevent him from becoming lost in thought.

The age of him and his peers was one where crushes were all too common. Girls were talking about cute boys; boys were talking about cute girls. However, no one really made Phil feel the way that other people claimed they felt— Samantha from maths lent him a pencil once? That was kind of her. But he would only want to become friends with her and nothing more, he was sure.

A yelp of surprise escaped from him when he suddenly realised that the water had begun to pool around his feet amidst his musings, which formed a damp patch of grass that was well on its way to becoming a muddy puddle. Quickly, he ran to the side of the house to turn off the hose, and started to make his way back inside.

Before he crossed his driveway to head towards the small path that led to his front door, out of the corner of his eye he noticed something roll across the road.

  It was a piece of white chalk. The neighbor’s, to be more precise, who appeared to be outside as well. A rare occurrence it was: Phil had only seen them a handful of times before.

Tentatively, he took the chalk piece into his hand. Heading towards who was kneeled in the driveway next to his own, in front of a house with freshly trimmed grass and no garden, but did have a single weeping willow. As his steps drew him closer, more details about his neighbor, a somebody about his age, came into view.

And honestly? Phil couldn't help but be left dumbfounded.

The pretty boy in front of him had equally pretty hands. With those hands of slightly tanned skin he was creating art out of seemingly nowhere; slender fingers fabricated gentle strokes, images of flowers and stars, along with daisies and planets and angels amongst them stole Phil’s breath to allow for only awe to remain.

Phil was almost nervous to disturb him. If he did, it would be like catching a doe in a forest clearing— one moment peaceful, until a slight sound frightens them away. So because of that, he made sure to be careful.

His voice of “Um, this yours?” was a whisper full of gentleness that seemed mindful of the delicate flowers that the boy in front of him seemed to be growing out of the pavement.

Immediately, the boy looked up, revealing brown eyes that perfectly matched his brown curls. “Yes, thank you,” the boy replied quietly, carefully taking the chalk piece from his extended reach. His fingertips lightly grazed against Phil’s, which left Phil’s hands tingling.

In the three days that followed, Phil had fireworks tattooed upon his fingertips (and more often than not, from then on, one could catch him writing poetry on the front porch in an effort to catch a glimpse of the boy again).

<<>>

Dan throws a bag of McDonald’s on the library table, the sound of its impact resounding through the quiet studying of students. And if that’s not enough, he follows up with a loud, “Eat up babes, let's get to work!”

Laughing, Phil does an exaggerated fake gasp. “Dan! Watch your volume!” Reaching over the the table, he grabs the bag off the table, still noticeably hot. When he opens it, a little whiff of steam comes up, caressing his face. “Besides, why'd you buy this anyway?”

Dan shrugs, taking a chicken nugget and shoving it into his mouth. While he’s chewing he responds, “I’ve been noticing that you never have food when we work on school days, and we usually work during lunch. It's always just a drink and like, a bag of chips.”

Phil shrugs back, head tilting as his words trail off. “I just find eating to be a waste of time…”

Dan holds up his hand, cutting his words short as his voice trails off. “Don’t even give me that bullshit Phil, it’s because you’re always writing and you think you have no time for eating, so just eat a little bit or so help me.” He nudges the bag closer to Phil so that it hits Phil’s chest. Dan’s eyes shift to the side a little, and his voice becomes a bit demure. “Just… Take a break from that carpal tunnel catalyst, and dig in, alright?”

Phil opens the bag reluctantly and sighs, taking a bite of a french fry. His lips are pursed into a pout, for what Dan said was pretty much on the nose. He doesn’t mean to avoid eating, honest, it just… happens that way.

He smiles. The fact that Dan noticed and bought him food is such a sweet gesture, and the more Phil chews, the more Dan looks satisfied. Dan claps his hands together right as Phil swallows.

“Cool, now let’s get started.”

Today is final drafts day.

In order to proceed with the final production of their project they have to refine their drafts, and that is what today is dedicated to. For their work to not go to waste, everything has to be absolutely perfect (but to be fair, a poor outcome resulting from the two of them is actually quite doubtful).

“I’ve got these so far,” indicates Phil, pulling out various disheveled papers. They’ve got red ink that make it look like his writing went through a bloodbath, with elegantly chaotic black scrawls to match. He holds them out to Dan and is a bit sheepish about it, kinda embarrassed by how messy it is. “You can look through them right now if you want, but they’re not that great…”

Dan shakes his head, automatically dismissing Phil’s putdown of himself. “I doubt that, Phil. I absolutely doubt that.” He accepts Phil’s writing from Phil’s outstretched hand, and exchanges it with a few ripped out sheets of his own from his sketchbook, graphite smeared and all. “And here’s mine, they’re really sketchy and not as refined as they could be, but you should get the idea.”

When they’re looking over each other’s rough pieces, Phil’s fingers linger over the calculated strokes of Dan’s drawings, all while Dan is floored by Phil’s words.

Dan has never gotten the opportunity to see Phil’s work like this before. He’s taking in everything, soaking every word and descriptor in, and he makes sure he does not miss a single stanza. He never was someone with a way with words, that’s why he stuck with visual arts. But he is thankful that he was given the opportunity to read rawness such as this.

Then suddenly he notices a little something. A little bit that doesn’t seem to quite fit in with the rest catches his eye, a little snippet of a thing that was barely legible and had the last word cut off.

‘n ‘ol brunette has got that teasing grin skipping class and hands that have likely committed sin that ugly little shit messing with my h

When he reads it he snickers, and when he points to it and holds it up to Phil, he can’t keep his laughter in and he justs bursts into a giggling fit. “Aw, Phil,” his tone entirely both sing-songy and teasing, “Guess now I know that you think that I’m an ‘ugly little shit.’” Dan does a little pout. “Do you not think I’m cute?”

“Pfff! Please,” Phil sputters, realising what exactly Dan was pointing to. “Who says that’s about you?”

“I mean we could just address the ‘hands that have likely committed sin’ part…”

At the sound of that, Phil interjects quickly. “Fine, you’re adorable!” Barely processing the thought, Dan thinks, “Pbbt, so are you,” and Phil suddenly puts his index finger in front of Dan’s lips in a shhhing motion.

“What’s going on—”

“No no no, shush!” Phil holds a finger up, as if motioning “Hold on,” and Dan takes the hint and complies. Phil’s eyebrows are scrunched, clearly thinking.

“What?” Dan asks, after a few moments pass.

Phil takes both sets of their work from their respective spots and lays it upon the space in front of them, spread out but distinctly separate. He purses his lip, unsure at first then proceeding to rearranging a few. “Why don’t we… write about...” Phil picks up a sketch from Dan’s side and a page or two from his own. He hands the chosen ones to Dan, who takes it with a raised eyebrow. “This?”

Dan slowly nods, shifting through the papers and ultimately agreeing with the choices. He turns his body, his eyes looking up to meet Phil’s. “So that’s it? That’s our theme?”

Phil answers his question with an affirming hum, and when he starts explaining it just to clarify they find that they were on the same page all along. “It’ll be about humanity in its rawest form—”

“With earthy elements and other aspects of nature—”

“How we all have stories—”

“...and what makes a human human is emotion.”

Phil’s grin reaches from ear to ear. “Perfect.”

“Fuck yeah!” yells Dan, pounding a fist on the table. He holds up his palm for a high five, which Phil happily reciprocates.

When he hears a loud SHHH! come from behind him, Phil’s eyes widen, for it is most likely the librarian telling them to politely shut the hell up. He looks at Dan and silently scolds him, mouthing “Language!” to which Dan merely giggles, his laughs muffled as he tries to keep quiet.

“Fuck you,” Dan mouths back.

Phil rolls his eyes and smirks. His reply comes with a chuckle: “You wish.”

<<>>

Forget about Monopoly being end-all be-all relationship ruiner. With the way the game was currently going, Mario Kart should be the holder of that title.

“EAT MY ASS,” yells Dan. With every turn, he turns as well, because he insists it ‘helps me play better!’. His body rams into Phil’s side as he mimics the motion of the kart on the screen.

A breath leaves Phil’s lungs with an oof as Dan nearly knocks him to the floor. He automatically bursts into a laughing fit, pressing into the buttons of his controller even harder. “NEVER!!”

At this point they’re practically sitting on top of each other, and seem to have ignored the whole concept of sitting on the bed rather than the floor. Legs crossed, his knee touching his knee, the room is filled with giggles and playful banter as they keep jabbing each other in the side as they play.

When one shouts, and the other pouts— the game is officially over.

Dan crosses his arms, and presses his lips into a thin line. He withholds himself from bitterly throwing the control to the ground, but he does cross his arms. “Good game,” he mutters.

Shaking his head, Phil rolls his eyes at Dan’s dramatics. He gives Dan a pitiful pat on the back, and gives his reply all-too-knowingly. “Oh just let it out, we both know you’re a sore loser.”

A sharp inhale through the nose, and a slow exhale through the mouth.

Followed by a swift headbutt by Dan to Phil’s shoulder.

“OW!”

Dan jokingly starts to lightly punch Phil in the back, sides, and shoulders, shouting,  “YOU WERE THE ONE THAT HIT ME WITH A FUCKING SHELL AT THE END I THOUGHT WE WERE PLAYING RELATIVELY NICE!!” He pushes him down, Phil chuckling at Dan’s sad attempt to push him over (noodle arms are not that effective, Dan has learned). “I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS!”

They land on the ground, the punching turning into tickling. Phil rolls around in an effort to avoid Dan’s attacks, but each attempt is futile, and instead his stomach hurts from the laughter and his face aches from the grin on his face that reaches from ear to ear. “See,” Phil laughs in between breaths, “What an incredibly sore loser you are.”

Dan finally sits back up, smug at Phil’s ‘defeat.’ “Yeah, no shit Sherlock.” He holds a hand out to Phil, and they pull each other up so that they are both standing. “I still totally should have won though.”

At a suggestion to take a snack break, the two head downstairs towards Phil’s kitchen. They continue to chat, and as Phil moves towards the pantry, he makes a gesture for Dan to take a seat at the dining table.

When Phil turns around, he not only has various food in his hand, he has a smile on his face. He walks over to the table and sets a plate of cookies in front of Dan, making Dan look up from his phone and eagerly move to grab a cookie of his own.

“You know, where you're sitting right now, is where my mum told me about what tattoos were.”

With a mouth full, Dan manages a, “Really?” Phil nods, and Dan swallows the last bits down his throat. “Was it like, a serious talk?”

Phil is at the counter now, he has decidedly chosen to make hot chocolate for the both of them. He mulls over Dan’s question as he gets the hot chocolate mix out. “Hm, no? Not really. I was like five or something. How about you? When did your parents tell you?”

“Oh, uh…” Dan grimaces, suddenly feeling awkward. “They— they never really told me? I kind of just found out on my own. From classmates, and the internet, and stuff. They never brought it up, and I never really asked…”

“Oh.” For a moment, Phil stops moving. “So they didn’t even tell you where they come from?”

“What do you mean? No one knows where they come from. Isn’t there still no confirmation from scientists about their origins or whatever?”

“Yeah, but my mum told me.”

Phil hesitates a little, the tiniest bit embarrassed.

“She told me they came from love.”

Dan sputters, laughing, nearly choking on his food. Phil doesn’t say a word and continues to prepare the drinks. “No offense Phil,” Dan chuckles. “But really?”

“I know, I know. But at the same time, there’s no harm in believing in things like that, don’t you think?” Phil hands a mug to Dan, who takes it gratefully. They clink their mugs together and drink a bit at the same time. Phil laughs when Dan makes a face at how hot it is, and Dan rapidly starts blowing on the drink to decrease its intense heat.

“Love though? Quite doubtful.”

“Are you not a believer in love? How about you and Erin?” Phil takes another sip from his hot chocolate. When a little residue is left on his upper lip, his tongue easily leaves and licks it away in a moment. “How are you guys doing?”

Dan’s eyes don’t quite meet his, sounding distracted. “Oh we’re great.” When he looks back up at Phil, Phil’s expression is expectant, waiting. Dan quickly rushes to elaborate on his previous sentiment. “She’s lovely, and so sweet!  Every date I’ve been on with her has been amazing. She’s incredible. I like her a lot.”

Phil nods. “I’m glad.”

After that, he says nothing more.

He takes Dan’s now-empty mug from his hand, and washes it after his own. Dan’s eyebrows are scrunched in thought, he’s staring at his phone again, but he’s not really processing what’s on the screen at all.  

Phil finishes up rinsing their cups in the sink, and puts their mugs into the dishwasher. He dries off his hands with a hand towel. Once he’s all done, he asks Dan, “You wanna go back upstairs and keep playing?”

Dan’s phone vibrates.

from erin, to dan:

Hey babe! I’ll be finishing up work soon, you wanna come over?

Rather than unlocking his phone, he reads the message as it is on his lockscreen. He ignores it, and shoves the phone back into his pocket.

Dan smiles up at Phil. “Yeah. Let's go.”

Phil grins back, and as he leads them back to his bedroom, he has his hand on Dan’s back. The atmosphere is nice and easy. Uncomplicated.

He makes a comment about how Dan is ‘totally going down’ again, but to be honest, Dan isn’t really listening.

Later at night, in his own room, Dan takes off his shirt before he goes to bed. He always sleeps shirtless (that is nothing new), but it’s different this time: for if he had looked in the reflection in the mirror behind him, he would have noticed that there were dandelions on his back exactly where Phil had touched before.

By the morning though, they are gone.

<<>>

phil: I remember you saying you had a test today, good luck! phil: The universe may test ya like this but I believe in ya

dan: oh shush go pay attention in class dan: but ty that’s v nice dan: u’re too good for me

<<>>

“Aw, they’re so cute together!”

These are the words that seem to be just about everywhere: in the comment section of various social media, in the giggles of the hallways, in the not-so-subtle gestures and points of the cafeteria crowd. They can't seem to go anywhere without encountering what seems to be a fan club around the two of them.

But don't get him wrong. Because there is nothing wrong in the first place.

Erin is a lovely girl, and they have been together for a while, three weeks almost four weeks now. And that is far longer than any previous girl of Dan’s. With a wild head of curls and an even wilder personality, she is a whole lot of fun, and he loves to admire the beautiful ink upon her arms. She has these beautiful gradients of rising suns around her arms along with clouds that often change in hue.

Each and every time she goes on her tiptoes and she wraps her arms around his neck to place a kiss on his lips, he can’t help but be reminded of the idea of them, both in regards to the tattoos themselves and of him and Erin as a couple. Of all things though, he is reminded of Chris’ party especially.

Additionally, as if that isn’t enough, there are whispers of new ink starting to bud on her hands. Rumors that the new ink matches his own spread like wildflowers, even though so few have seen the hidden marigold to the extent that there are doubts of its existence. The possibility of Erin’s budding flowers being identical to his still makes his own blossom burn at the thought.

Because even though he did say that there was nothing wrong, there is an issue. And that issue is that nothing has happened to his own skin.

Besides the common flare ups of ink that happens to most people including himself, the only thing constant that he has is the single flower on the spot behind his ear, and that has been been on his skin for years.

Maybe he could— No. He couldn’t.

Could he?

It wouldn’t hurt —it couldn’t hurt— if nobody found out.

Besides, it couldn’t hurt to fake tattoos for a while, right?

He ignores the prickling of stars appearing on his ribcage, and takes some skin-safe ink to his own arms to mimic what Erin has on her own body. When the prickling starts going around his abdomen and begins to reach his shoulder blades, he still pays no heed to it.

He just continues on.

With each mark and movement of his nimble fingers, his stomach turns once more, even more so as he recalls the words that Phil mentioned before. What he said about honesty, about truth. This thing, what Dan is doing right now, he knows is the exact opposite of that.

He shakes his head in an attempt to shake the words off his mind. Phil has nothing to do with this. Phil has nothing to do with the state of Dan’s feelings for Erin. Why is he thinking of him at a time like this? For that matter, why is Dan doing it in the first place?

To be brief, he does not want to be rude. It’s not like Erin isn’t a nice girl anyway, so it’ll be fine. It will only be for a little while until those typical boy-girl feelings become stronger, because that’s how it works. That’s how it should work. And it will. There’s no reason to not reciprocate what Erin evidently feels for him. Naturally, it will all work out.

Yet if he were to take Phil’s words to heart right now and be honest, in reality, Dan was actually pushing certain feelings away.

Dan touches up the final details of clouds on his forearm, and presses his lips into a straight line, shoving the spiraling feelings that were welling up in his chest far deep into the ground below his feet.

If he were to be honest, he was actually just pushing certain feelings away… And with regards to other things, he was simply burying them further.

And covering them up.

<<>>

daniel james howell. flashback; age thirteen.

“...NOW AS A RESULT THE ENGLISH GOVERNMENT IS CURRENTLY HOLDING DISCUSSIONS IN REGARDS TO THE POSSIBLE LEGALIZATION OF HOMOSEXUAL MARRIAGE. THERE IS NO FURTHER INFORMATION AT THE MOMENT, BUT RADICAL ADVOCATES FOR THE LGBT COMMUNITY ARE CURRENTLY LINED UP IN FRONT OF THE GOVERNMENT HALL—”

A harsh, snarky tch came from Dan’s father, his blatant irritation had jarringly interrupted the newscast that came from kitchen radio. In his hands the steak knife threatened to start shaking with his tight grip, his knuckles whitening to nearly match the teeth he was gritting in anger. “Those homosexuals,” he spat, while he slammed the table with his fist at the same time, “Those homosexuals need to get the fuck out of our country, or better yet off our planet, or I will BEAT THEIR ASSES!!”

His mother simply took a napkin to her lips and daintily dabbed at her mouth, taking a breath before she added input of her own. “Now honey, some of them may be nice,” her tone calm and even. With a voice tinged with what seemed like genuine concern she continued, “I just don’t understand, they can’t have children, so why even bother if they can simply choose a lovely lady or a strong man?” She reached across the table to squeeze her husband’s tense fist. “If anything dear, I think it’s just a trend.”

The entire “discussion” only progressed from there, all while Dan remained silent. His shoulders hunched in as if he was going to fall into himself, he ate his food with minimal noise whether it be chewing or cutting into it for a bite, merely taking everything, every comment— “It’ll blow over, for this it just sounds ridiculous”, retort— “Ridiculousness has wrongfully made it’s way to the law of the land!”, and remark— “To put it simply, the gays need to know their place”, in.

Eventually he asked if he could be excused (he was given permission by a grunt of acknowledgement from his father and a nod from his mother).

Dan’s room was his sanctuary. Constantly he would go there for escape, or to remain in solitude with his thoughts, and this was one of those times. From the back of his closet he revealed his unfinished painting, taking it from its resting spot and placing it upon the floor so that he could resume his work. The canvas was one that he left alone but kept coming back to—maybe he would finish it one day. A year or two had passed since his work on it began.

His paints were in his lower bedside drawer, and he took those out as well. Every movement was routine, a relaxing habit, and essentially his mind was a step ahead of his actions. But perhaps the ease of not thinking only gave way for other, bad thoughts to come.

The harsh tongue of his father as he spat out the words “those homosexuals” could not leave his ears and only further buried itself in his mind. The comment made his hair stand on end, even though he didn’t know precisely why. Dan knew that he couldn’t like boys. Liking boys was wrong. Boys like girls, and girls like boys. Nothing else. And why would Dan care about liking boys anyway? Dan liked girls.

why would he care why would he care why would he care—

His chest was heaving. He only snapped out of his train of thought when he realised his breathing had become erratic, his chest heaved and his hands were shaking and his heartbeat was far too rapid for it to be normal. At an attempt to relax he tried to breathe, he inhaled and exhaled in time as he closed his eyes.

Darkness came.

Darkness came, and colors followed. Shades of blue, green, and yellow. His painting was actually composed of only that particular color palette, a set of hues that seemed to be set in not only his subconscious but also within the motions of his brush. They reminded him of someone’s eyes, but no one he knew. They reminded him of the ocean, of waves he wasn’t used to.

They were always comforting. Those colors never failed to ease him.

Through his open window, he heard the neighbors’ garage open, and he opened his eyes. The sounds of their laughs made their way into his room, which made him smile a little. Those laughs eased him too. The family next door must have arrived home.

Within his own house, dinner had presumably ended. He could hear his parents’ footsteps in the hallway outside his bedroom door, their bickering anything but quiet. “I don’t want him drawing, I don’t want any of that sissy shit.”

That was his father.

“He is super talented and we should be supporting our son!”

And that was his mother.

He put on headphones to drown out it all, and dipped his brush into his paints. This time, he focused on blue. As his strokes hit the paper, shivers went up his spine as a tattoo of tree branches spread out across his back, and as its roots went down to his hips; the only signs of life that the tree’s branches held was the idea that it used to be budding once.

<<>>

In basic english, the poetry unit is coming to a close. For the past couple of days, the students have been presenting their favorite poetry pieces to the class, an assignment that the teacher thought would be a fit way to wrap up the unit.

“Dan, you’re up,” calls Mr. Lamansi.

Finally, now he can get this done. He is the last student that needs to present.

Although he isn’t nervous, his heart is pounding incessantly in his chest. He definitely has jitters, a finite flow of energy that is coursing through his veins and he can’t seem to calm it down, and everyone can definitely tell. Who couldn’t? His hands are trembling so much.

The amount of anxiousness in his body makes this whole ordeal feel like confessional.

Before he actually starts, he awkwardly coughs to clear his throat. “Um, I picked a part from that poem we read a long time ago? Walt Whitman’s Song of the Open Road?” Mr. Lamansi then nods and jots the title down, and makes a motion for Dan to begin.

When he makes an attempt at a taking a deep breath, he hears a whisper. Turning his head slightly he sees Erin, who makes a silly face at him, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing a little. Instead, he opts for a simple smile.

And then he (he couldn’t help himself) casts a glance at Phil, who's beaming at him, all warmth and encouragement and support. Dan’s small smile widens just the littlest bit more. What did Dan ever do to deserve a friend like him?

With that, his shoulders relax, and he breathes.

Swallowing his worry, Dan feels ready now.

“I will recruit for myself and you as I go; I will scatter myself among men and women as I go; I will toss the new gladness and roughness among them; Whoever denies me, it shall not trouble me; Whoever accepts me, he or she shall be blessed, and shall bless me.

Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear, it would not amaze me; Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear’d, it would not astonish me. Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons, It is to grow in the open air, and to eat and sleep with the earth.”

When he finishes, he does everything in his power to not completely rush back to his seat. He tries to keep it cool, but he can feel his face burning, and if anyone looked hard enough they could see little leaves and thorns popping up along his collarbone.

A couple seats away, Phil’s heart is swelling. For some reason he feels like this poem has an underlying importance to Dan, and if he were to reread the lines to himself perhaps he would even realise what its significance even was. For now though, that was something that Dan could keep all to himself. Phil is proud of him for standing in front of the whole class like that (Lord knows that Phil’s confidence in his own public speaking is quite mediocre at best).

Small moments like these only fuel Phil’s admiration for this boy, and this time he can't help but feel pride and a sense of wonder all at once.

In Dan’s pocket, Dan’s phone vibrates. Before sliding it out, Dan quickly glances at the teacher to check whether the coast is clear, and upon ensuring so, he reads the notification under his desk.

to dan, from phil:

You did so great!

The small gesture is so sweet, and although it isn't much, it makes Dan undeniably happy. He has this expression of light, a grin reaching from ear to ear. While he can't see it himself, he swears the marigold behind his ear is tingling for the bud of another golden flower.

As they are leaving class, Dan comes up to Phil’s side and puts a hand on his shoulder to catch Phil’s attention before Phil has the chance to head off in the other direction.

“So, see you later?”

Cheeks red, Phil replies shyly, “Yeah, see you.”

<<>>

Soft taps are hitting metal, and Phil knows that Dan doesn’t even need to look to see who it is. He already knows it’s Phil. When Dan shuts his locker and he pokes his head out, saying “Heyy!” with a huge grin and the cutest dimple, Phil can’t help but to match with a smile that’s equally as big.

If someone told Phil that he and Dan would be friends one day, he would doubt them. But right now, he’s chatting with his crush, they’re face to face, laughing and shining with ease and happiness. Phil is on top of the world.

But Dan reaching up to close his locker door placed Dan’s arm at Phil’s eye level, and for a moment, Phil saw Dan’s tattoos up close. When his hand eventually falls back to his side, Phil’s eyes linger over them for a moment more. He has forgotten something important, something more prominent than the dimple in Dan’s soft cheek that Phil adores. The tattoos are a reminder: Dan isn’t his.

The wings on any of the butterflies Phil has in his stomach rapidly frumple, suddenly shy and abashed, and his smile can’t help but falter a little.

<<>>

Even though they don’t have an audience or anything because everyone has already headed to class, when Erin is kissing him, he’s not really kissing back. At all. The hallways are pretty much empty and the only sounds that remain are her lips on him. But even then, he can’t focus on her. If anything he is much more interested in absentmindedly playing with her hair.

Erin pulls away from him, noticing his lack of enthusiasm. She places a kiss on the marigold behind his ear, a tender thing, but to him it just burns. “Love, what’s wrong?”

Dan only brushes the question off, the ringing of the first tardy warning bell easily makes it so he doesn’t have to answer much. “Nothing, I promise.”

The expression in Erin’s face shows that she doesn’t buy it. “Oh Dan,” her voice sympathetic, one hand rubbing the space on his back between his shoulder blades.“Let’s just ditch class and go to my house? I can make you feel better and get you out of this funk.” She ends that last sentence with a wink.

As gently as he can, he pushes Erin off of him, politely giving her a cordial smile. “Uh, maybe next time?” His eyes not-so-subtly look away from her, and he just scratches the back of his neck, with his shoulders hunched stiffly. He starts to open his mouth to say something, but abruptly, the second late bell rings this time. “Let’s just head to class, alright? We’re gonna be late.” From there, he attempts to make his leave.

Erin hastily grabs his arm before he can make it too far. Her grip is firm.

“What has been with you lately?”

Despite sounding tender, she definitely comes off as confrontational. All the little things she has been noticing about him for the past few weeks begins to spill out of her one by one, in the form of pent up evidence supporting a suppressed argument.

“We’ve barely hung out, you rarely approach me first, and don’t think that I haven’t noticed that you hardly ever text me back anymore,” her voice cracks, just the slightest bit, but it is not vulnerability, it is only irritation. When she looks at him, she makes perfect, dead on eye contact, as if daring him to look away.

She starts getting louder. Her face is getting more red and more frustrated, the emotion further emphasised in her tone. “I thought I had it. I really did! I thought I was in one of the most important relationships of my life— here I thought I was different, and that I changed the ‘unattainable Dan Howell’…!” In a flash, it all shifts and she suddenly becomes a bit reserved. A bit meeker, wishful. Regretting and inhibited. Her voice is quieter. “…And that I found a really, really sweet guy.” She smiles the smallest bit, but her eyes are dull.

Her fingers start fiddling with the ends of her hair, and she looks down at her feet. “Instead, you just seem disinterested.”

“Look Erin, it’s not you it’s me—”

At that, her glare rises up once more, red lines suddenly appearing in wings at the ends of her eyes, further emphasizing her vexation. “Stop.” Her index finger threateningly pokes his chest with nearly every word that she says. “Don’t you even dare give me that load of bull. shit. I had to have done something.”

“You didn’t do anything, I promise,” Dan tries to reassure her, but he can tell that in the same way she didn’t believe him when he said was fine earlier, she absolutely does not believe him right now.

“Dan, don’t lie to me,” Erin huffs. She then furrows her eyebrows and kinda tilts her head and frowns, but it’s not directed at him, not really, and Dan knows that it means she’s thinking. When the corners of her mouth turn up a little and she shakes her head and laughs to herself, that is when he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to react. And he certainly does not anticipate the words that would then exit from her lips.

“I bet it’s that boy. It’s that boy, isn’t it?”

Dan bites his lip, his words are caught in his throat, and for some reason he can’t make himself reply.

A moment passes. One that lasts a beat too long for it to be salvaged.

“Oh.” Her voice and face suddenly falls and softens. It’s evident that she did not expect her ‘revelation’ to actually ring true. “Oh, Dan. I’m right aren’t I?”

Dan’s brows raise and his eyes widen, his hands waving frantically in an effort to convince her of the truth. “No!! No no, no way. We’re just friends, plus, I think that you’ve forgotten that I’m straight.”

Erin sighs. “But straight boys don’t look at other boys —well, just a single boy in your case— like you have, Dan. It makes sense now that I think about it, and honestly why didn’t I see it before, and I don’t care about the whole ‘gay thing’ if that’s what you’re worried about.”

She turns away and opens her locker, packing a few things into her bag, then slides one strap on her shoulder. “Love is love, and who am I to deny that?” Instead of then moving her body to face him, she bites her cheek. Her head tilts to the side a bit as she looks down. “I just hate that I had to find out like this.”

“Erin, I’m telling you!! We’re just friends!!”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say,” she waves, brushing him off. She doesn’t move, hand still on the locker door. She only turns her head so that he can look at her when she makes her point. “But baby, it’s obvious. And if you still can’t see it, then maybe you should stop and take a good look at what you’re missing.”

“You’ve got it all wrong—”

“Look…” Erin lets out a low exhale and lets her eyelids fall over her eyes, slamming the locker hard enough to both make the sound echo off the walls of the now empty halls. To her relief, it also  effectively shuts Dan up. She sounds tired. “I’m gonna head home alright? I don’t really feel like being here anymore. You can go back to class.”

After beginning to walk off, she stops after only taking a few steps.

Her back remains as the only thing facing towards him.

“Dan?”

He hesitates before responding. “Yeah?”

Before she speaks, she takes a second to articulate what exactly she wants to say. Even though it’s not a goodbye, it sure as hell feels like one.

It’s like a final admission.

“You… You were a good time. Even if you ignore me after this, since we’ll just be classmates, say hi once in awhile, yeah? And consider who’s important to you. Really, really consider it,” she then angles her body a bit to look over her shoulder, so that their eyes may meet one last time. Her lips tilt upwards a little bit at the corners, but even that is twinged with a hint of sadness. “That Phil boy… He really does make you smile.”

<<>>

They’re walking home, and the warm tones of the sky perfectly complement the warmth of the caramel macchiatos in their hands. Phil had treated them to the delicious drinks once school was over, despite Dan’s protests, and the late afternoon sun showed that they definitely ended up spending a little bit more time at the coffee shop than originally expected.

Oh well. Becoming lost in a sea of conversation of topics they could no longer remember gave them a much needed break from thinking about anything —or anyone— at all.

When they reach Dan’s house, Dan fumbles for the key and unlocks the door. Noticing that is Phil hesitating at the welcome mat still, Dan laughs. “C’mon,” he invites Phil in warmly, as he starts removing his shoes and places it next to the front door after closing it. Dan motions for Phil to do the same. “Let’s get started.”

Tonight is the night they finish their project. With only visuals remaining, and their use of a different type of surface for their piece, they only have the next several hours to complete it.

Dan grabs blankets for them to sit on and he tells Phil where to find the paints they need, and together they make their way towards the backyard. With perfect weather accompanied by a lovely sky, it is no wonder as to why it is their work space of choice this evening.

Outside, the air is quiet. The only noises come from the soft hum of suburbia and the chirping of crickets. “I work here often,” Dan says, his voice casual and not as loud as it normally would be.

Phil nods. “I understand why. It’s peaceful out here.”

They start setting up, picking a clear spot in the grass. Dan tosses the blankets to the ground and they both slide their backpacks off their shoulders, and Dan leans down to take the supplies they need out of his bag. As he is getting situated, Phil asks if he should get ready now. Although Dan just passively gives him a “Yeah, yeah,” he can’t seem to resist looking up when Phil turns around to slip off his shirt.

Phil isn’t the most fit person in the world, but he is certainly a bit toned, and the movement of his shoulder blades and back do something to the heart beating in Dan’s chest. The first thing he notices even before that though, are the daisies that seem to go all across Phil’s shoulders. They are admittedly quite hard to miss. That too, gives Dan this tingling feeling that starts in his chest and spreads through his arms. He can’t put a name to it, but it’s just that the flowers seem so endearing. Because oh, how lovely is that?

When Phil turns and faces Dan again, he catches Dan looking at him. Quickly, Dan looks away, but by then it’s too late, and Phil is standing there flustered, hints of pink coming off like paint splatters and freckles on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose.

Suddenly self-conscious, Phil shifts the moment’s attention to something else when he quickly moves to pick up one of the many blankets that Dan brought outside. When he hands one end of the blanket to Dan, Dan takes it with a sheepish smile.

For a split second, their fingers graze each other’s, before parting so that they may set the blanket down upon the grass together. After they put the blanket on the ground, Phil rubs his fingers together. A reaction, he can’t help it: last time there were fireworks, after all.

And even though his hands show no ink this time when he checks, by God does it feel like the moment was electrically charged.

“So, where do you want me?” asks Phil, the question effectively gently breaking the comfortable silence.

Dan laugh cuts through the thick air between them. “Pff, Phil,” He teases, “You know that anywhere is fine as long as we’re together.”

Phil shoves him playfully in response, making Dan grin, and the pink in Phil’s cheeks becomes just the tiniest bit redder. “Oh, shut up!”

“Lie down on your stomach here,” Dan gestures to a certain spot right by Phil’s feet, “Just relax okay?”

Phil follows Dan’s orders, and underneath him, he can feel the rustling of the grass. He rests his head on his arms, closing his eyes, his voice muffled by his mouth being covered. “Don't worry about me. I trust you.”

Dan chuckles. “I would hope so.”

The scenery around them seems unreal. The setting sun’s light gently lays a golden cast upon everything in the backyard, as if graced by Midas’ touch. Flowers and plants of every color grow here: a personal rainbow, a trove of jewels. Even the grass is a true to life representation of ‘the grass is greener on the side,’ for Phil knows that the grass on his side of the fence is wild and unkempt.

The atmosphere of it all is airy and seraphic.

Dan awkwardly squats down while muttering an apology, for in order to begin the actual painting process, he doesn’t really have any other option besides straddling Phil’s back. Of course he could just sit down next to Phil…  But then he would have to work sideways, and that would simply not be optimal.

He shifts in an attempt to make himself as comfortable as he can, and he makes sure that Phil is okay too.

Next to Dan lies the sketches of what he wants to achieve for the piece. Their idea is to demonstrate and illustrate what the definition of humanity, with an emphasis on the relationship between man and earth. The execution of Dan’s vision involves painting upon Phil’s back, sort of as a way to mimic the concept of tattoos and tell the story of man.

It is now time to work.

Underneath him, Phil’s skin is clear, pale, and soft. Like a blank canvas would, it invites him to have his way with it, a call to let his hands take over his mind. When Dan does any kind of art, he doesn’t like thinking at all due to its hinderance on creative flow. He takes a deep inhale, counting the seconds that pass as oxygen comes in, and lets a deep exhale pass his lips.

His fingers lightly trace the flowers upon Phil’s back, taking in the detail of each and every one of them. The intricacy of it all is so pretty, and almost delicate.

Finally, Dan starts.

The coldness of the paint makes Phil shiver.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Phil laughs awkwardly, “It’s cold, that’s all.”

Dan can’t help but laugh a little too. “Yeah, sorry ‘bout that. I’m gonna need a steady surface though so…”

“What should I do?”

“Hmm…” Dan starts, trying to think. He makes a long, broad stroke with his brush. “Maybe you can like, I don’t know. This might sound dumb. But maybe you could recite some poetry to me?” Dan dips his brush into the water, cleaning it off so that he could change colors. “It’ll distract you from the cold. It can be from the project, your own stuff, whatever. Tell me anything on your mind.”

Phil thinks it over, taking about a minute to contemplate over what he wants to share.

While he thinks, the sun finally finishes setting, and the moon eagerly moves to replace it. No longer is the sky burning ablaze with oranges, vermillions, and magentas; instead it’s all dark. Only a star or two glimmers. Everything is void except for the light of the moon that only seems to shine on them two alone.

“Yeah okay,” he agrees. “Alright.”

Another breath. “This is one of mine,” Phil adds.

Then a beginning.

“in a field of forget-me-nots, he’d try to forget them a lot the one who made his heart bloom from freckles that were like seeds, and smiles like sunshowers: pulling handfuls of grass out of the ground beneath him and picking petals of any flower he touched, choruses of ‘like me’ and ‘like me not’ in a golden air

there was something about them, who with hands made soul out of oxygen of every color and texture and medium who made his knees shake and his cheeks redder

Dan’s breath hitches. Phil continues, seemingly not noticing, and Dan shakes his head to shake the ridiculous thoughts out of his mind.

So what if the story seems to tell of a boy in love with an artist? It doesn’t mean anything.

“for although they was a mere windowpane away, their red threads seemed to be nothing more than fishing lines leading them to a separate sea and him to an empty shore

The brush in Dan’s hand has completely stopped moving. His arms have goosebumps, and although he can see that Phil has goosebumps across his skin too, Dan is sure that his own are not from the brisk air.

He bites the inside of his cheek. Perhaps he’s reading too much into it. Maybe it’s not even about him.

But is it too strange to say that Dan doesn’t seem to mind at all?

Before, Dan wished that Phil could see what he’s making while he was making it, but he is very thankful that Phil can’t see him right now. His free hand reaches to cup the side of his face, and under his palm he can feel the heat radiating off his skin. Although he can’t see it on himself, his suspicions are basically confirmed, and he has a good guess as to what is there.

Because at this moment, only visible by the moonlight, Dan has a fierce blush— a coalescence of roses and carnations on his neck that reach and bloom upon the apples of his cheeks (along with a few freckled stars).

More stars that could be seen in the night sky, to be precise. Side-by-side a whole garden that rivals the one that is blossoming around them.

“so from the coastline, he would admire them —this caramel boy— and he would watch the boy pull in the many fish of the sea as for he, he would merely sit writing words in the stand with a tidal wave heart that consumed him and stole the air from his lungs”

The chill of the night is starting to set in, but he feels like he’s on fire.

<<>>

They finish incredibly late. The idea of time is lost to them, and honestly they can’t tell the difference between the the evening’s final hours and the earliest hours of the next day.

Phil fell asleep towards the end, and Dan finds it endearing. The rise and fall of Phil’s back, along with the faint sounds of his breathing, are the only things keeping Dan company in this standstill of a night.

“Wake up,” Dan murmurs. He nudges Phil gently. “Get up, Phil.”

Begrudgingly, Phil sits up. He yawns and ruffles his hair, and as Dan begins packing up the supplies, Dan makes sure to keep a watchful eye on Phil to make sure that he doesn’t ruin the painting. Ultimately, he tells Phil to sit on his hands to ensure that no excessive movement leads to crackling in the piece.

Once Dan has returned everything inside, he comes back out to see that Phil is still sitting there, and the sight makes Dan chuckle a little. Phil has his eyes closed, clearly he dozed off despite sitting up; how he managed to do it, Dan doesn’t know.

He first lifts up Phil’s right thigh, then Phil’s left, sliding his hands out from under his legs. He keeps his hold on Phil’s palms and pulls Phil up so that he can stand, then picks up the last blanket that is left on the ground so that he can sling it over his shoulder.

With Phil’s hand in his, Dan carefully guides him inside, to a seat right beside a window.

“Dan…” Phil is still incredibly sleepy, his voice groggy. “Dan, what… What are we doing…?”

“It’s okay, I’ll handle it. You’re alright,” He assures him. “I’ve got you.”

Dan proceeds to sit Phil up in a chair. He makes sure to be gentle. Phil’s eyes keep going back and forth between either being open or closed, his eyelids eventually settling for the middle ground of being drowsily half-open; his body is simply too sluggish for him to stay completely awake. He is doing his best, though.

While Dan does have a soft yellow light lit up so that he can properly operate the camera, he had picked this spot next to the window so that the light of the moon could hit the piece just right.

What a good choice that is.

He snaps a couple photos. He takes some shots that are up close, in addition to others that showcase the big picture. The ones that are closer show all the detail; they show every single one of the strokes and the way the colors seamlessly blend into one another. Those are his favorite, for they caught what the eye wouldn’t normally catch.

The paint doesn’t completely hide the imperfections of the skin and Dan loves it. Humans aren’t perfect, and it only further emphasizes their project’s theme, but it also makes the piece uniquely Phil as much as it is uniquely Dan’s.

Click. And that one’s nice too.

This photo frames everything perfectly, it is one of the far-away shots: showing how Dan’s depiction of a skeleton matches exactly where Phil’s own bones would be. Amongst the rungs of Phil’s ribcage, Dan weaved an entire garden of flowers, blossoms come in azure, olive, and honey, and all of the other related shades.

Where the veins would run through, instead of being where the blood would run its course, it is red thread intertwined with vines, and it even leads all the way through Phil’s arms and hands. Where there is empty space, Dan filled it with a mix of daisies and stars, along with the colors of a midnight sky, the sky’s colors are a contrast almost as striking as Phil’s hair to his pale skin.

It isn’t a physical manifestation of the poem Phil recited to him, no. But if Dan said that he didn’t think about doing that, he would be lying. Dan ended up completely disregarding his original drafts and ended up giving into what his hands and mind seemed to want to do, and this was it, a portrayal that was a likeness to the relationship between nature and man, with a subtle hint at man’s idea of a red thread fate (perhaps Phil’s poem had more of an impact than he originally thought). And it turned into something lovely, he thinks. He hopes.

It almost resembles how Phil makes him feel inside.

How Phil seems to make everything bloom in color.

Softly, he taps Phil on the shoulder. “C’mon, wake up, Philly,” Dan whispers. “You did great.”

Phil rubs his eyes. They’re fully open now. “Oh hi Dan…” he replies, “I know I’ve been awake, but I think I can actually think… Coherently now.”

Dan smiles. “Don’t worry about it.” He holds a hand out to Phil, to which Phil accepts, and he pulls Phil up so he can stand. “I handled it. It all turned out fantastically.”

Phil stretches, and yawns. Then his eyes widen, face suddenly full of worry. “Wait, what time is it?? I never told my mom what time we’d finish—”

“Why don’t you just stay here?” Dan suggests. Phil looks at him and tilts his head, thinking it over. “It’s so late anyway, and my parents won’t mind, they’re out on a business trip anyway.”

Phil nods, “Okay. Alright, I’ll just let my mom know.”

Then they go to the bathroom upstairs, and Phil follows. While they are walking, Phil sends a quick message to his mom: I’m still at Dan’s, just right next door. Staying the night. I would’ve told you sooner but I fell asleep. Love you ❤❤

Upon reaching the bathroom, Dan gets a hand towel from the closet, and runs the towel under the sink. Out of nowhere, Phil laughs, and Dan turns to look at him, eyebrow raised, perplexed and wanting an explanation.

When all Phil says is, “Heh, Howell with a towel,” Dan smacks Phil in the shoulder playfully and can’t help but laugh too.

Dan then adds a bit of soap so that it will wash better. Before he starts to clean the painting off, Phil sees the piece in the mirror and loves it. “You’re so talented,” he whispers, and Dan’s ears flush with pink, he’s positively bashful. “It really is a shame that we have to wash it off.”

“Yeah,” is all Dan can reply. “It is.”

He finally starts washing Phil’s back, watching the colors smear together into something incomprehensible. Abruptly, Dan hesitates, really taking in the situation. “This isn’t weird, right?” he asks.

Phil doesn’t miss a beat. “No, you’re just helping me. I wouldn’t be able to do it properly myself.”

Dan can’t seem to argue with that, and so he finishes. When he’s done, he tells Phil to wait a moment. About a minute or two passes by, and Phil is humming to pass the time, and when Dan returns, he tosses Phil the clothes of his that he grabbed. Then he shows Phil how to use the shower.

“So those clothes are just some of mine that you can borrow,” Dan finishes. “My room is just across the hall when you’re done.”

Dan’s hand is on the door handle already when Phil stops him. “Oh wait, hold on! Before you go…” Phil pulls him back to the counter, and takes a new towel from where he saw Dan take one from earlier.

He does just as Dan did, and runs the towelette under water with a bit of soap, and he cups Dan’s cheek with his hand. He dabs at Dan’s cheek gently, cleaning up paint that had somehow made it’s way to Dan’s chin and other miscellaneous parts of his face.

“I didn’t know you had freckles,” Phil whispers, continuing to tenderly clean Dan up. “I love them.”

The comment automatically makes Dan flustered. His cheeks threaten to flare up, as they usually do at words like that, but he wills every atom to his body to refrain from doing so in that moment. He can only hope that it works out like that, though.

He barely manages to utter the two words. “Th-thank you.”

Eventually Phil finishes, and Dan subsequently leaves and retreats to his room. He uploads the photos from the camera to his laptop while he waits for Phil to shower. Once they are uploaded, he is pleased to see that they did indeed turn out as great as he thought. He starts editing, retouching them a bit here and there, just overall playing with the exposure and sharpness of them.

Fifteen minutes go by, and he’s still editing. That’s when Phil comes in, having lightly knocked on the door before entering, with his hair damp and Dan’s t-shirt and pajama pants on. In response to the opening of the door, Dan spins in his chair to watch as Phil comes in.

And there is just something about Phil in Dan’s clothes that makes him look so incredibly cute, that Dan has no other option but to smile.

Phil walks over to look at the photos that Dan has pulled up on his laptop. He asks if he can see the others, and Dan turns back to the screen to watch Phil scroll through the rest of them.

“Oh, Dan…” Stunned by the photographs, Phil is breathless. The lighting is spectacular, and the attention to detail is amazing, and none of it goes unnoticed.  “These are beautiful.”

He says some more things, but to be honest, Dan stopped listening. He’s just looking at Phil instead. That is, until Phil turns his face too.

Their faces are so near.

And their lips are so, so close.

Phil pulls away though, and Dan feels strangely empty. But why does he feel like that? he asks himself. He instantly shakes off the thought, getting up from his seat and heading to the closet to grab some pajamas. “You can just sleep on the bed Phil,” he states simply, “I’ll just take a quick shower.”

In the shower however, the thought of Phil can’t seem to escape him. Yet again, he pushes it away.

Nothing happened, and besides, it’s just Phil, he thinks, but it’s like he’s reassuring himself.

Nothing more.

When Dan is done, he heads back to the room, in far comfier clothes. As he opens the bedroom door, Phil cracks an eye half-open at the sound. Dan walks over to the bed, leaning down so he is looking at Phil at eye level.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Phil yawns, and pulls the covers up a little. His eyebrows scrunch up, and his eyes squint a little, questioning. “You have curly hair?”

Dan grimaces, a bit embarrassed. “Mmm, yeah. I always straighten it though.”

Phil reaches over, taking a curl in between his two fingers. “It’s like a little pig tail,” he giggles, “Why do you keep getting more and more damn adorable, whenever I learn more about you?”

This time, Dan doesn’t even acknowledge the comment, except for the playful hint of the corners of his lips turning up. He then stands up straight, and heads towards his desk. “I’m gonna edit a little more before I hit the sack. Good night you little shit.”

“Goodnight,” Phil calls.

Dan is editing for another twenty minutes more before he decides that it is time for him to finally sleep. He makes his way over to the bed, and he would lie down, but Phil is in the middle, looking cozily wrapped up in the black-and-white duvet.

Dan smiles softly. As he adjusts the covers so that it covers Phil’s feet, followed by tucking him in a little more, he mutters and laughs under his breath, “And I am the one that looks more and more adorable? Has he even seen himself?”

When he’s all done, he takes one of the extra pillows on the bed and tosses it to the ground. He then goes out and grabs one of the last clean blankets, and tosses that to the ground as well.

He doesn’t mind sleeping on the floor tonight.

<<>>

phil: We definitely did great on that project! :D

dan: hECK yeah i hope they grade us soon

phil: alhfdlhls What if I told you that they did already??

dan: W H A T dan: but they usually take ages??

phil: It’s been a couple days materino phil: Plus like, my teacher told me that she graded ours first sooo,, phil: In THEORy it should be up by now! ;P

dan: omgomgomg i just checked and it’s uP

phil: And??

dan: WE GOT AN A

phil: YAY!! All thanks to your amazing art!!

dan: pbbbt your writing is the loveliest thing ever don’t even come for me dan: like shakespeare who?? i don’t know her

phil: Oh shush asdfgjjhg phil: That’s so sweet I hate you

dan: nooooo don’t hate me

phil: Don’t worry Danny boy phil: I don’t think I ever could.

<<>>

The rain outside is dreadfully heavy, and Dan is late. Usually, that wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary, but he had been doing so well with being on time these past few weeks. Since there is no point to alarms if they don’t even work as they should, alarm clocks are dead to Dan now.

When he runs in, he looks so scattered. Sleeves are three-fourths rolled up, creating a look that lies somewhere between rushed and on purpose, and to add to that his hair is frizzy, he has mismatching socks (well, one is black and the other is dark grey, but still). A white umbrella that has baby pink ribbons all over it completes the whole ensemble.

Honestly? A fashion icon.

Phil sees him on the way to his second period class, and he has to cover his mouth to keep from giggling at the sight of Dan looking completely frazzled from the rain. One little laugh does escape him though, but he can’t help it: what is likely Dan’s little sister’s umbrella makes Dan look cute as heck.

Yet when Phil begins to lightly run towards him to give a quick hi, something doesn’t seem right.

Dan’s tattoos seem… Blurry?

At first glance, the ink seems to be what Phil expects it to be. That being, what Phil knows to be on Erin’s own arms: grey, stormy clouds. Yet at the same time— it seems to have changed?

Phil is just standing in place now, stopped in his tracks, a fair distance away from him still. He isn’t looking up close, the exposed skin on Dan’s forearms show it all. The texture is off and that the colors are melding together in an unnatural way, and overall it is just wrong.

Phil continues to stand by and watch.

Dan rolls up his sleeves more, revealing his whole arm. When he reaches into his locker, he takes out a variety of art supplies, of various mediums and hues and purposes, and begins to mess around a bit with the tattoos. As if he’s touching up.

Why would he need to…? Oh.

They’re fake. The tattoos are fake. And scratch what Phil said earlier— they are not blurry. They are smeared.

Dan finishes his work relatively quickly, and by that time, Phil has already begun heading to class, asking himself whether or not the scene he just watched unfold in front of him was real. Whether the sight of Dan amending the ink on his skin was true, or if it was a sleep-deprived induced dream. Yet no matter what he tells himself, he can’t deny what he saw.

Eventually Dan looks up and sees Phil’s distant figure. When he lets out an, “Oh hey! Phil!”, a moment passes that seems like a reluctance to greet Dan back. But Phil turns around, because that’s the kind of person he is, and he waves. Dan swears that it seems a bit stiff, though.

After that, Phil doesn’t acknowledge anything else.

He simply bites his bottom lip and keeps walking.

<<>>

(2) missed calls from Danny Boy.

<<>>

“Hey Phil! Let’s head to the library for lunch?”

Phil forces a smile. “Maybe another time, Dan? I have to… uh, go to a teacher.”

<<>>

You missed (5) Skype Video Calls from Daniel Howell.

<<>>

dan: hey why rnt you replying to me? dan: phil, did i do something?          ✓ read 9:22 PM

<<>>

Rumors are spreading all across campus. The hallways are littered with whispers and gossip of the school’s proclaimed ‘It Couple,’ and even teachers are chatting about it in the teachers’ lounge. Everyone seems to be aware that Dan and Erin had a falling out, but to be fair, it wasn’t necessarily hard to guess. No one needed to hear it from the source.

It is evident from how they no longer walk together, sit together, or talk to one another. Even more apparent, Erin’s arms no longer displayed the sunrises that everyone believed (she, included) to represent new beginnings and the birth of something new. Instead, it is now rain. It is stormy clouds on a setting horizon, the sunset for the sunrise, to match the end to the beginning.

Even the flowers she had, the precious flowers that convinced even the doubters of her and Dan’s love (if you could call it that), are wilting.

There are claims being made; there are those who are attesting to seeing Dan leave parties early with people on his arm while he has his hand on their waist, as he leads them out the door and to his car. Some said it was Dan whose neck and chest was splattered with purple from what the night had entailed, others said it was his company who adorned the marks. People told of the moans that would come from bathrooms, bedrooms, and even in one instance, a closet, where sounds of ecstasy made passerbys envious and left his partner of the night a pleasured mess.

Amongst all of Dan’s hookups, there is one thing they all have in common: they are all boys.

And that common fact makes Phil’s heart go from skipping a beat at even the mention of Dan’s name to sinking six feet below the floor.

Girls? That he can handle. He can handle it because he is used to it, he has been used to it for years. But Dan being with boys puts Phil on an even playing field— Phil isn't different from any of those boys. He has gone from watching on the sidelines to being an average player on the losing team.

When it comes down to it, these are the truths: he is in love with someone who, until the project, hadn't spared him a glance for years. He is in love with someone who —he was sure of it— had tattoos that were ingenuine and painted on. He is in love with someone who is known for playing the game, for having issues with commitment, for being someone who picked up people then dropped them like flies.

He is in love with someone who lies.

And so now Phil sits on his front porch, writing, restraining himself from going beyond the brink of tears. For someone who treasures honesty, the truth hurts. No matter how much he tries to hold himself back, two or three droplets still manage to escape, smudging some of the words that were written out of a mix of anger, disappointment, and emptiness.

They were words written by a heart who lost the game, a game rigged by a player of the most gut-wrenching emotion.

<<>>

skin of freckled honey and a body of clouds, sweet and soft— in the same way that only thoughts could fabricate the idea of how your lips taste. fabrication does not compare to the reality of it all though and no one ever warned me, for although tattoos of roses don't have thorns blood pours from the prick in my fingertips because i picked you - p.l.

<<>>

Everything is white noise. His surroundings are a blur and his head is pulsing intensely from the conglomeration of far too much alcohol and far too loud music. He can barely feel himself existing within his own body. The bustle of people dancing around him, the sounds of the DJ and the people singing and screaming at the top of their lungs, and the scent of sweat and booze: it’s all much more than he wants in that moment.

But to be fair, he does not really know exactly what it is he wants.

Whoever he is kissing is much more into it than he is, for he isn’t into it at all. He’s barely there, just a shell of a kiss upon the person’s lips. A disappointment for anyone sober to be honest.

Yet the other one couldn’t care less.

“S-so do you wanna, like,” the boy, probably two years younger than him, stammers as they separate for a breath, “Take this somewhere else?”

Numbly, Dan nods. No harm in going along with it, right? “Y-yeah. Yeah, okay.”

On the drive to Dan’s house, the boy (Justin? Jake? Josh? Oh forget it, just calling him J will be easier) is texting rapidly. The entire drive is silent except for those keyboard clicks and the nervous tapping of J’s foot, and from the light of J’s phone screen, Dan can see that J is sporting a huge grin on his face. Dan doesn’t even have to see the texts to know what they are about.

If he were to guess, it would be J bragging to his friends about how he is getting to sleep with The Great Dan Howell™ and how “OMG HE CAN’T BELIEVE IT.” Or you know, another statement that is equally as dumb.

It makes Dan feel sick.

When they actually arrive, things escalate from Dan leading J into his home with his hand on the small of J’s back, to rapidly making out on the couch. The way J kisses him is incredibly zealous. Dan tries his best to match his passion, but his efforts fall short. It’s just different, for Dan’s kisses are intense in a different manner; his lips press against J’s lips and skin in a way that is almost forceful, as if trying to forget about something.

But regardless of how fervent they both currently are, it all stops the moment the boy reaches to unbutton Dan’s jeans.

Immediately, Dan breaks away.

The boy, Jared, Jace, whatever his name is, looks confused. He leans in in an attempt to just restart where they left off, but Dan only shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says quietly, pushing him off. “I can’t do this. I’m so sorry.”

He gets up, and the younger one awkwardly follows, the way the boy carries himself shows that he is definitely disappointed. When they reach the front door, the boy takes a second to send a quick message, letting his friend know that he needs a ride, knowing what Dan will say next.

“Go home,” Dan tells him, his voice gentle as he opens the door. “You’re sweet, but go home. Please.” A nod from the other passes as a silent “Alright then, goodbye,” and Dan knows that he’ll never see the boy again. When Dan shuts the door and locks it, he runs his hand through his fringe, letting out a groan that comes from deep within his chest.

He makes his way upstairs eventually. When he gets there, he sits upon the edge of the foot of his bed, elbows resting on his knees and his head in his hands, pulling at his hair. His knuckles are white when he forms a fist, fiercely punching the bed once. And that’s the point where he just yells.

Dan yells so loud that it genuinely scratches his throat, it is of such volume that it bounces off the walls of the empty house.

Next, he just allows himself to fall onto the bed. His body sprawls out in the center, amongst all of his sheets that should seem familiar, yet somehow don’t smell like home at all. His eyes are squeezed shut. One hand reaches up to rub his one eye, the other arm rests in place and remains outstretched.

After some time, breaking the quiet, a soft gravelly whisper finally leaves his lips. “Dang, she might’ve been right all along…”

<<>>

chris: i heard from pj that u + phil aren’t on the best of terms right now chris: you okay mate?

<<>>

daniel james howell. flashback; age sixteen.

from chris, to dan (and 63 others):

party tonight. my house (u should know the address, lmk if you need it tho) until whenever u wanna leave ! gon be lit be there or be square lads

He only had a little bit of time before Vanessa —well, because she insists he actually calls her Van— arrived. Chris Kendall was having the party of the summer to celebrate the end of the school year and the beginning of vacation because his parents were out of town, and he and Van agreed that they would go together.

As a casual thing of course, nothing serious.

The party started in about half an hour. Black skinny jeans that were ripped at the knees and a shirt he knew he looked good in was the look of choice for the night. He nearly chose to leave his hair in waves, but after he ran his fingers through his fringe he ultimately decided against it. His hair looked stupid if it was anything but straight.

Right when he was straightening the last curl, the doorbell rang. How perfectly timed, and even their arrival at the party was perfect too: not too early and not too late. As soon as they got there, they were greeted by the mob of people who were bumping along to the music. While they gave quick greetings to their friends, they quickly made their way into the center, amongst all those who were dancing like it was the night of their lives.

Van had her hands on his chest, her moves sensual and easy. She’s dancing with him, and Dan doesn’t hate it, because any onlooker could tell that she was very attractive. She’s pretty, and admittedly they have had fun together before, but Dan had realised for a while that he hadn’t been actively interested in her for quite some time.

But who was he to decline her company when they should be having fun?

“Let’s go grab some drinks,” Van commented, as she took his hand to drag them both out of the cluster of partying bodies. Even before she reached the drinks table, people started to hand her drinks as if they knew exactly what she wanted. She grabbed two, nudged Dan with her elbow, then held out the one cup out to him. “Drink some, Dan!”

Dan made a face, unsure. “I dunno, I don’t usually drink much…”

She gave an ‘ol pbbbt and a playful eyeroll that clearly meant that she didn’t want no for an answer. Van gestured towards the cup in her hand once more, and with her eyebrows raised up at him, she follows up with a plead. “C’mon! Take a fuckin’ sip babe.”

Giving in, he took the drink from her, downing it all in a matter of gulps. Van laughs, and they went right back into partying.

However, whether he realised it or not, one sip had quickly turned into multiple sips. And sips turned into finishing the cup, and one finished cup turned until multiple finished cups, and then he completely lost count. He’s completely, he thought as he hiccuped, he’s completely —as his friends would say— tabled.

If he’s honest, he had no idea how much time had passed. He just knew that he was currently all over the place, dancing one moment, chatting the next, then suddenly beer pong or something after that. When the music got softer, that’s when his drunk high started to diminish too, and that’s when he started to get tired.

He terribly needed a bed.

It was at this time that he started to head towards the stairs (anything after that however, he couldn’t recall for the life of him).

<<>>

Why is Phil doing this?

Dan knows he’s not imagining it. Dan can feel Phil distancing himself away from him more and more with each passing day, and he just wants to know why. It’s not just ignored texts, Phil won’t even glance at him. And that’s what really hurts about it all.

At lunch, he goes to “their” spot in the library, but Phil isn’t there. He brings food and everything, but even if he waits, Phil never shows. As a matter of fact, he isn’t in the library at all. To add more salt to the wound, when Dan goes to the cafeteria to check out the lunch table where PJ, Chris, and Louise sit at, Phil isn’t with them either.

Even when it is time for class, Dan is determined. He shows up first rather than last in an effort to try and sit by him. Dan will get him this time he’s sure, because he knows that Phil likes having time to himself in the beginning of class. Dan knows Phil. Dan is positive that he is right in this notion —there is no way he wouldn’t be— and when Phil walks in through that door, Dan will just talk to him and everything will be normal again.

But as if he’s aware of Dan’s plan, Phil ends up arriving last. Every time.

<<>>

“Please Chris!” his tone is embarrassingly pleading, but Dan doesn’t care. Anyone could be listening in on their conversation as they’re strolling the halls, but Dan doesn’t care about that either, he just grabs Chris’ arm and begins shaking it violently as he keeps begging (these are clearly some great persuasive tactics he’s using, perhaps he should consider becoming a lawyer).

“Pleaaaseee!! Talk to your cute boyfriend for me!”

Chris stops in his tracks, nearly making Dan stumble. He stares at Dan dead in the eyes. “Okay first of all, only I can call him cute, back off. And second,” he says the last parts slowly as he takes a couple tentative steps forward. “I don’t think it would be smart. If anything, you can talk to my cute boyfriend yourself.”

Dan lets go of Chris’ arm, letting out a small reluctant exhale. “Okay. Fine.”

It takes a while. Dan has to wait until the afternoon finally comes to an end in order to talk to PJ, and even then, it takes a good chunk of time to convince him. Dan’s proposition is for PJ to somehow provide Dan with an opportunity to talk to Phil.

At first, PJ declines. Right away.

But then he manages to go from “Oh, I don’t know Dan…” to “Alright, okay,” after a little over an hour of persuading. After Dan explained the circumstances, and with a bit of begging, PJ changed his mind. He makes it clear that he’s not the most supportive of Dan right now due to Phil’s current state, but that he is appreciative of the fact that he did make Phil so happy before.

And above all, there is one thing that PJ can’t deny, and that is that Phil deserves closure. If anything.

PJ looks away from Dan, not able to directly meet his eyes. He scratches the back of his neck, before turning to face him once more, voice firm. “He’ll meet you in room 109, alright? Tomorrow, fifteen minutes after school ends. I’ll tell them there’s a meeting for a club he’s in or something. But if you miss it… That’s on you. This is the only chance you’re getting.”

<<>>

The clock on the classroom wall shows that seven minutes have passed since their supposed meet-up time. Not that he was counting or anything. Understandably, Dan can’t help but to feel on edge, for what if PJ changed his mind?

What if Phil never comes?

Out of nowhere, words start coming from the other side of the door. “Yeah, this is the room. Text me when you’re done, and I’ll give you a ride home.”

“Thanks for letting me know about this meeting Peej.” That one is Phil. That’s definitely him. “You’re a great friend.”

The door then opens with a flourish. Phil closes it behind him.

Dan coughs, making Phil turn around. He does a small wave and says meekly, “Hey, Phil.”

Phil’s eyes widen and the color drains from his face. “Oh no. Oh no no no…”

“Phil, please listen to me—”

“But I don’t even want to talk to you…” Phil’s firmly points out. He is looking all around the classroom, at every place and every thing except for Dan. Annoyed, he mutters, “I knew that something was up when PJ said there was a meeting for a new writing program. It just seemed sudden, and I never heard anyone talking about it or anything…”

“Phil, please talk to me?”

“And why should I?”

“Please.”

Instead of responding right away, Phil walks over to Dan, and gets all up his face. He nearly spits at him, and to be honest, he kind of wants to. Inked images of flames are flickering from his bottom of his neck, threatening to reach his chin. He entire demeanor is radiating with bitterness. “Don’t you get it? Can’t you take a hint?” He crosses his arms. “You’re with her, and I’m a total idiot, and you can just live your happy lie. Ignorance is bliss, right?”

“What are you even saying, I don’t understand…” Dan’s voice trails off, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Brashly, Phil grabs Dan’s arm, hastily rolling up the sleeves. His lips are pressed into a straight line as he takes out his water bottle from in his backpack. Proceeding to pour a bit of water onto Dan’s forearm, he then takes his hand and rubs across Dan’s skin.

The ink smears, as Phil expected.

A sharp intake of breath comes from Dan. His eyes widen, and suddenly it’s like something has lodged itself in his lungs. Frantically, he waves his hands, crying, “Phil, whatever you’re thinking right now, don’t believe it! There’s more to the story, I promise you…” Phil doesn’t respond, he simply twists the bottle cap closed and slips the water bottle back into his bag. “Can we just talk? We need to talk, Phil!”

Phil’s voice is hard and stilted. He doesn’t acknowledge what Dan is saying, not really, but his words speak directly to him. “Dan, if anything, you have to understand this: the project is done, so there is no logical reason for us to talk anymore—”

This is where Dan attempts to shut Phil up. Hurriedly, he had leaned in to close the space between them, with the aim for a chaste kiss on the lips. Just so Phil would stop talking and calm down. That kind of thing works in the movies, right?

But Dan misses.

He misses because Phil turned his face, so that instead of his lips, Dan would hit his cheek instead. A futile attempt overall. When they return to simple eye contact, Phil is anything but pleased. Dan grimaces. He’s worried now.

“Art students,” begins Phil bitterly, “are the worst.” He moves his head so his fringe is out of his face, and all of his focus is on Dan. He shakes his head, a forced chuckle almost escaping his lips.

“Just so you know,” Phil’s eyes are like steel. Unbearing, unyielding, a disclosure with resolve. His words are steady. “I was pretty damn close to falling in love with you.”

Dan’s expression has become a mess of emotion, his voice laced with a desperate want for Phil to stay. Yet Phil is already for the door. “Well I’m pretty damn sure—”

Phil cuts him off one last time, his fingers lingering on the door handle. His face turns so that Dan can see his profile, but can’t see his expression. To be fair, he doesn’t need to, for the impenetrable accusing, disappointed tone of his voice is undeniable.

“Do you tell that to everyone you sleep with?”

<<>>

philip michael lester. flashback; age fifteen.

Apparently this party was supposed to be a big one. More so than usual anyway, and that was why James had forced him to go— and that was why he was here. People seemed to be filling up the house to its brim, and the scent of sweat and alcohol blended into what Phil guessed to be whatever Nirvana imagined teen spirit would smell like. When Phil and James arrived, they were greeted with the same chorus of “heyyy!”s that all the other houseguests probably had to endure.

They had only stepped through the entrance moments ago when James had nudged him in the side with his elbow. “I’m just gonna go and mingle, yeah?”

Phil just passively nodded him off in reply, and turned around to head towards the living room. Before he makes his leave, James patted him on the back with a brief, “‘Kay mate, I’ll be back in a minute.” Phil rolls his eyes, because he highly doubts that. Yeah, yeah. That’s what he said every time.

An hour and a half passed on by. To elaborate, an hour and a half was how long it took for Phil to finally look up from his phone, get up from his spot on the couch, and go to the kitchen for a change of pace, and maybe a drink perhaps. His journey to the kitchen was mildly ruined however, when he realised James had been preoccupied —and was still preoccupied— with making out with someone in the hallway.

Phil simply pursed his lips, blatantly ignored it, and headed towards the drinks. Despite being close, the two were never actually close. As evidenced, that guy was never really a good friend anyway.

Life sucks sometimes, you know? Phil grabbed the nearest drinkable-looking liquid. but before he could pour himself anything, he was stopped. Someone else was offering a red solo cup to him.

“Are you looking for something harsh, or you just want to let loose?” The person says.

“Let loose,” Phil affirmed, with a shrug. “I just want to have less of a crappy time to be honest.”

“Well then here you go mate,” he replied, as he handed him the drink. “I’m PJ by the way.”

The conversation took off from there. Introductions were made, and so were jokes and banter; overall they were having fun getting to know one another. PJ was a film-video major, and was studying directing, writing, and special effects. It turned out that they both attended the nearby arts academy, and that they were in the same lunch period. Numbers were exchanged, and agreements to hang out were arranged.

It seemed like a friendship was to start. One already far better than the one with James.

“It’s been great talking to you Phil,” PJ grinned as the conversation came to a close, patting Phil on the shoulder. “I gotta make my way out though! The party host is a past friend of mine, and I just wanna see if I can give a cheeky hello.” With that, he turned and headed off with a little salute.

“See you!”

And with that, the night went on. The party dwindled down, and as early morning approached, people transitioned from either quietly chatting or leaving, to being completely knocked out or sleeping. The sleeping ones included Phil amongst them, who had succumbed to that heavy-eyed feeling on the stairs. It was one of the only places left that was free: his peers littered the couches, the floors, and the hallways. Along with all of these people, there were cups, half-eaten pizzas, and a whole lot of other trash that were haphazardly left upon every surface and within every possible nook and cranny of the house.

The music that had previously been blasting loud enough to vibrate the whole block had now been turned down to a lower volume, presumably by someone who did so out of the courtesy of others. A simple light pulse could be felt through the floor, and it stood as the only sound left to resonate through the house.

Well, except for the footsteps of one person. A person who, in their completely hammered state, had decided that he wanted to sleep in the comfort of a bed, and was thus attempting to trudge their way to a bedroom. That was before they tripped on Phil.  

Who was on the stairs.

Blocking his way.

Phil’s eyes kinda squinted and fluttered open, eyebrows furrowed as he half-woke up from the sound of whoever fell near him. Once he realised that someone was helplessly lying face down upon the steps, he made the effort to help them up. Even though he himself did stumble a couple of times.

He placed an arm around the person’s shoulder, and the other did the same back at him. In their matching hazy, sleepy states, they made their way to the bedroom together, nearly tripping on more than one occasion as they attempted to hold each other up on the way up the staircase.

A couple fumbles, and they were finally at the top.

“Are we nearly there?” The guy asked, sounding out of breath.

“Yeah,” Phil replied quietly, as he pushed open the first door he came across. “Yeah, nearly.”

When he opened the door, it was easy to tell that it was probably the master bedroom, for it had a bed fit for kings. The duvet looked silky to the touch, and the pillows looked fluffed to homey perfection. It just seemed so, so inviting.

The music from downstairs could still be fairly heard from where they were. The boy Phil was holding onto sorta hummed along and tried to spin them around the room in a dazed dance.

A laughably graceful spin, an uncoordinated dip. “Mmmm, mmm mm mmm…”

It all quickly went downhill though. Expectedly, rather than dancing, they instead clumsily fell onto the bed, the covers being as soft as they looked. Phil giggled as they fell down.

One person on one side, and the other person next to them. They laid down together, back to back, not touching and ready to fall asleep. Phil’s eyes began to close once more. Both of their breathing patterns were becoming slow and even.

Rustling all of a sudden came from the other side of the bed, the shifting of sheets were followed by a genuine, dazed slur of question. The guy spoke at a volume that hardly goes above a hummingbird’s whisper. “Hey, doyouthinkit’sstrangethat… I don’t know. That society is simply made, made up of concepts that are in… inherently real and. And not real?”

Reluctantly, Phil turned on his side to face him so he could reply. He yawned, and shrugged. His voice is gravelly. “I don’t know. Maybe. Some people see marriage as just being a piece of paper.”

The stranger nodded, seemingly accepting his answer. “That’s, that’s true...” He paused for a moment, taking a second to think before he voiced his next thought. “Hmmmm, next question: why are we here?” His voice was more stable now, despite all the alcohol in his system. Probably because he was more awake due to holding a conversation.

“If this is an existential question, that’s too much thinking.” Phil’s face scrunched up as he attempted once more at a better response, but inevitably gave up. A mostly-tired tipsy brain is only capable of so much at two am. “It’s too early for that, mate. Sorry. But if you’re asking for why I’m at this party? Then it’s because,” Phil moved his body so he could be more comfortable, resting his head on his arm. “Well, my friend forced me to come.”

The other one’s body mirrored Phil’s, moving in the bed as he did in order to better situate himself. He replied with a nonchalant shake of his head. “I did mean it as existentia-whatever, but eh, you’re right. Too much thinking. I’m here because of a friend too.”

Somehow, they began to talk about everything. And by everything, it meant just that: worries, fears, existential thoughts, random animal facts. They became so relaxed yet so awake, because if they closed their eyes they would miss these fleeting moments of an almost trance-like unreality. There were no holds barred. Everything left was raw.

After a while, there was a lull. It’s either that or they have fallen into a comfortable silence, Phil truly didn’t know. They were both still lying face to face —but also not really looking at each other— in an absentminded stupor. The stillness was broken when the guy reached over, almost as if he wanted to play with Phil’s hair. He hummed and muttered, “You kinda look like my neighbor, you know?” Phil’s eyebrows only raise slightly in response, like a silent question of “Oh really?”

Dan pursed his lips with an mmhm, decidedly rubbing the black locks in between his fingers and brushing Phil’s fringe out of his face. “You are the prettiest boy I have ever seen, you know...”

After hearing those words, Phil took the other’s hand into his, away from playing with his hair. He brought their hands down to rest in between the both of them, fingers interlocked. Chrysanthemums quickly bloomed on the boy’s face in a blush, which then faded as fast as they appeared. “And that is you, to I,” said Phil.

The boy laughed, the flowers reappeared on his cheeks for several moments fiercer and brighter than before, right before they faded again once more, slowly this time. A soft rosy patch of red on the apples of his cheeks was all that was left behind upon his flushed face. “What are you, a poet?” he jokes.

“Maybe,” Phil smiled.

Whoever made the first move after that moment wasn’t relevant. It was just that at one point they were no longer at an arms’ length away from each other, but yet they somehow had moved closer to one another. Close enough for Phil to see that this pretty boy had the prettiest eyelashes and the softest brunette hair, and for the other to see his three favorite colors within Phil’s eyes. They were simply lying down amongst shared bedsheets face-to-face, alcohol on their breath; two boys with no care in the world.

Phil moved forward just the slightest bit more, letting go of the guy’s hand to move and kiss him behind the ear first, where a tattoo of a marigold immediately began to bloom. Then Phil continued and left soft kisses down the male’s neck.

In response the boy sighed with the quietest ah, nearly moaning from the slightest touch. With the utmost tenderness, he ran his hands across Phil’s shoulders and down Phil’s arms, letting one hand rest on Phil’s waist before he leaned in and gave him a peck of a kiss, making the both of them smile.

“Your touch is so gentle,” Phil says to him. Echoing the other’s words from earlier, Phil continued in a teasing tone, “What are you, an artist?”

The boy only winked, with a hint of a knowing smirk. “Maybe.”

That portion of humanity’s daily twenty-four hours in which the ongoing evening merged with the early day, and when the stars met the morning sunrise, was not only comprised of only the physical world that night, but also of the whispers of yes between strangers and the unspoken confessions between two people who had somehow already met. Perhaps through a past life, or unknowingly, a connection even closer than that.

Because even acquaintances can be something more.

In the morning, it’s skin against skin, amid silken bedsheets and marks from the night before. Their legs were entangled with one another— leaving daisies around Phil’s ankles, while the boy’s arms around him left daisies upon Phil’s shoulders.

When Phil awoke, sunlight had only begun to trickle in. Reluctantly he moved to break away from the guy’s hold, careful to not wake him up, and groggily, Phil grabbed for his phone that was on top of the nightstand.

Four missed calls. Seven texts. His mother must be worried sick.

from mom, to phil:

Where are you Philip???!!!! I’ve called you so many times!! I trust you to be alright, but please contact me to ease your old mother’s heart. Come home as soon as you can, dear. Call me.

Phil sat up on the edge of the bed. Cellphone in hand, he immediately dialed for his mother. As it rang, he began to shuffle around the room to pick up his clothes off of the floor. Pants here, shirt there. Boxers somewhere. The phone rang five times, to which afterwards it then went to voicemail, accompanied by the traditional “Please leave your name after the beep!”. While he struggled to put his jeans on, Phil pinned the phone in the nook between his shoulder and ear.

“Yeah, mom? Sorry I didn’t answer or come home right away, I fell asleep at the party from last night. I’ll be heading there now. Don’t worry, I’ll take a taxi or uber or something.” A quick message and then he hung up, it was just a sign to let her know he was okay. Finally, he slipped his shirt on over his head.

Before he left, he took one last glance at the boy in the bed. It was only at this point does he realise exactly what happened last night. He wasn’t a stranger at all, in fact Phil knew him, he knew him much more than he would like to admit.

The boy was Dan. Dan, the one Phil admired from afar, the one he wrote about in secret.

Phil bit his lip, feeling a twinge of something twist his insides. It’s a mix of guilt and some other emotion. His stomach did not contain butterflies, oh no; right now his ribcage swelled with bumblebees. Stabbing the inside of his chest, filling his lungs so he couldn’t breathe.

But perhaps that was only fitting. Because that couldn’t stop him from confessing the fact that this sight of Dan left Phil a bit breathless.

A state that left Dan looking so vulnerable, while at the same time, looking so damn gorgeous.

Leaning down, Phil’s fingers grazed Dan’s forehead so that he may push those adorable curls aside, and his lips left a light kiss on Dan’s forehead, just above the space between his eyebrows. A farewell that would have to suffice, for after that Phil went back home.

When Dan awoke, he woke up to strewn sheets and duvet, and a slight tingling of where someone had left their mark— literally. There was a small red heart where Phil unknowingly kissed him, along with even smaller ones splattered along his hairline. When he touched them, they gave him a pleasant feeling, but at the same time he was just confused.

On Monday, when he went back for the last day of school, he hid the hearts under his fringe. If anyone were to catch a glance at them, he’d say they were freckles.

The matching redness of his cheeks and his glance towards the floor alluded to otherwise, though. And the way he picked at his shirt collar that hid a hickey or two showed that he was a bit unsure as to where exactly they came from.

<<>>

It has been almost three weeks since he first started avoiding Dan. At first it wasn’t on purpose at all, it was simply a reaction. He felt like he couldn’t help it— he just didn’t want to be around Dan for a while. Being around Dan felt like a confrontation.

But now, Phil is well aware that he has been purposefully distancing himself from him. From ignoring Dan’s texts and calls, taking a different route to classes, and turning the other cheek when Dan attempts to catch his attention. He has been doing it all.

And each and every time he does it, it hurts him. The feeling of contrition makes his insides wrench.

A new tattoo appeared on his thigh a while ago. It’s a clock. Every time he avoids Dan’s persistence, another crack appears on the clockface.

Needless to say, the clock is very close to being completely shattered.

People say that time heals all wounds, and at this point, Phil is praying that the saying rings true. The very idea of disingenuity tears him apart, because if something is built on falsehoods, does it even have any true worth? The answer is no, it doesn’t.

If he were to consider the amount of time he has spent on Dan, Phil has worn his heart on his sleeves for years. Dan was never his, but yet Phil feels like he lost him.

So much of himself, more than he’ll ever want to admit, has gone into this boy. It’s too much. Putting more of himself into someone who does not seem to value him to nearly the same extent is exhausting, and ultimately emotionally draining. Letting it continue on isn’t right.

This is the right choice. Phil is making the right decision, for he is considering every element of the bigger picture. So what if he didn’t hear Dan out back then? That he didn’t listen to what Dan had to say? He’s sure that Dan will just try to cover up his tracks, and move on. He’s sure that Dan’s just that kind of guy, the one who sees everything as temporary, ultimately forgetting about Phil in a matter of months. Dan will just be dishonest because it benefits him somehow. Phil is positive about that.

Because more than anything, Phil doesn’t want to be in love with a liar. And that’s what Dan is.

He needs to put everything behind him.

Phil needs to end it all tonight.

<<>>

pj: Are u sure

phil: I’m sure.

pj: Alright. I let her know. She says you can be the last performer so you should be ready by then

At the last moment, Phil took into consideration what PJ told him about the slam poetry night, and he asked PJ to let the teacher know that he wanted to participate in the school-run event taking place at the local cafe.

Phil decides to do it because such a great number of his poems are about this boy. PJ was right about Dan being his muse; Phil would write stanzas upon stanzas based on him in messy scrawls in the margins of his school notes and frantic jots on his hand.

If he mentioned eyes, the color would always be brown. If he wanted to create a particular atmosphere, it would almost always be one of warmth. And if they were about love…  Phil wrote from experience, because that was an emotion he was all too familiar with.

That is why this performance tonight needs to happen. He needs to get all of this pent up emotion out of his heart and into the world, rather than keeping his feelings restrained to the confines of himself, wishful thinking, and paper.

Phil glances at where the current poet is standing. Whoever is at the microphone right now is doing great, and it is only making him more anxious. The audience is clearly affixed to their words, eating it all up, and clearly enjoying the show.

Remember, tonight is not about the actual performance, Phil whispers to himself.

His palms are laying flat against the table in front of him; an abundance of the poems he has written are scattered all over the surface. There are scribbles in various pen colors and the worn papers are even ripped in some places. Any onlooker could see that these pieces were nothing but the tangible forms of pure amour.

After tonight, the burn he feels in his chest at the thought of him will stop, and the ashes of discarded literature will be its only remains.

Itwillstopitwillstopitwillallstop.

A vibration sends a tremor through the table when his phone screen lights up.

from dan, to phil:

where are you?

Phil picks up his device and shuts it off. Although it could be said that this night was about Dan, it is mostly about Phil, it is about Phil’s feelings, it is about Phil putting it all behind himself. He needs this.

Because it’s justified, right?

Two taps are hitting on his shoulder. It’s PJ, who actually ended up becoming a spur-of-the-moment volunteer to manage the behind-the-scenes for tonight. He leans in to whisper to Phil. “You’re on in a minute or two.” And almost as if he could sense Phil’s worrying, he continues and reassures him with, “You’ve got this, you’ll be great. I believe in you.” PJ clasps his hand on Phil’s shoulder, and gives it a squeeze. At that, he corners of Phil’s lips turn up slightly. He really is grateful for having a friend like him.

“Thank you.”

The supposed minute or two passes by quickly, and soon enough they are introducing Phil’s name. “The final poet of the night,” is what they say. Phil takes a deep breath and goes under the spotlight, the cool metal of the microphone in his hand is doing its best to calm him. He holds onto it tightly. With the spotlight in his eyes, and the cafe lights dimmed, he can’t see the audience at all.

Perhaps that’s for the best. For more reasons than one.

Because right when Phil opens his mouth to begin, someone quietly enters into the cafe. Despite the fact that the slight little twinkling of bells signaled his entrance, no one pays any heed to him.

He chooses to sit in the back.

And Phil notices nothing at all.

“brown is all sorts of golden, in the sense it gives as much warmth as a gentle sun…”

After a few poems, some cafe patrons swear that they see a shadow move from the back of the cafe to the front, as if to listen to the poet better.

“...for although tattoos of roses don't have thorns, blood pours from the prick in my fingertips because i picked you”

With every line, with every poem, with every eloquent sentence having their origins rooted in enclosed secrets, each word that leaves his lungs also lifts a small weight off of his shoulders and manages to carry it over to listening ears. Everything is on the line tonight. Every emotion is on Phil’s sleeve, not just his heart, and every person in the room is hanging on to each otherworldly wordy confession that falls from his lips. And speaking of confessions, Phil’s biggest one is coming up. He wrote it last night, so it’s fairly new.

His final poem. About everything.

Including the night from two years ago.

“young days are of bubbles and bubble gum little girls are so kind, they are so soft that little boys can’t help but fall for them with their small smiles and neat handwriting from tentative hands for a crush and descend

however, i never took the plunge for i saw a boy who was softer: with a subtle cotton candy blush who grew daisies from concrete and carnations on flushed cheeks

a mirage, admiration from afar became inkstained fingertips and etched scrawls on every surface imaginable

(he had freckles that were far more than just constellations, they were made of stardust)

adolescent times; time stopped for one drunken night when only the moonlight was sober, an evening full of whispers and kisses and care that faded when faced with the sun

artists are known to create somethings out of nothings with elements derived from the earth, they turn strokes into paintings clay into sculptures a-and unspoken promises—”

He coughs, his voice caught up in his throat.

“and unspoken promises into h-hope”

Phil’s voice is wavering. His eyes aren’t on the audience anymore. Instead, he’s staring at the floor.

Hands shaking.

“poets are known to write about tragedies and this is no exception there is red on those hands: is it from the words of my pen, your paint on my skin? or perhaps from the thorns from the flowers that bloomed, with your smile that could make the heart grow fonder

perhaps he truly loved her but his smile could tempt a lover

and my dear, even the lawfully good fall into temptation.”

He’s out of breath now. By the end, he was just rushing to get the last few words out, and he was straining his throat. His eyelashes are wet, he can feel them, and he knows that he’s probably on the brink of crying.

Phil bites the inside of his cheek. If he doesn’t, he doesn’t know what will come next. He stays standing there for a moment more, doing a small nod and awkward bow. Barely registering the trickling of applause, his shoulders curl in and he crosses his arms, one hand reaching to rub the place where the all too familiar daisies bloomed.

Would they still be there?

When Phil steps out of the light, it is an unexpected sight. Dan is there, right in front of him: one of Dan’s hands is all tremors while the other is reaching up to his face, desperately wiping away his salty tears. Dan’s hair, in those beautiful curls Phil loves, are in disarray; Dan’s lip trembles; Dan’s eyes are red and looking up at him through wet eyelashes that match his own. It is a state of vulnerability that only God should see. And seeing that? That is the breaking point.

A truth revealed. Barely louder than a bumblebee’s hum, that Phil almost misses it, but good thing that he happened to be great at reading lips.

“I love you,” Dan whispers.

Now that is true the breaking point. At that moment, Phil breaks into sobs, and they both reach out to one another to each other into a bone-crushing hug. “A conversation between us is long overdue,” one of them mumbles into the other’s neck, and the other one just nods, unable to respond with words.

They’re in tears.

<<>>

“I wrote poems about you, you know. Mostly on my front porch. I would never see you, but I always hoped that I would catch a glimpse of you.”

“I would paint in my backyard, among all the plants. I loved painting roses in watercolor, they were my favorite, but so many paintings of mine were made with three particular hues: blue, green, and yellow. My favorite colors. And they just so happen to be the colors of your eyes.”

<<>>

Out on a sidewalk curb, two boys sit with a cup of local coffee. “It’s good to support local businesses,” one says, “and Starbucks is overrated.”

“Yeah I know, you’ve told me,” the other replies. “I remember everything you tell me.”

He puts his head on the other boy’s shoulder. The other boy lifts his hand to gently wipe away the tear stains on the boy’s cheek with his thumb, while the boy softly places a kiss on the other one’s  neck.

<<>>

You have (1) voice mail from Philly-delphia.

“I’m sorry for distancing myself from you. Call me back? Let’s meetup and talk. Bye bye.”  

<<>>

“I’m sorry for not telling you the whole truth. But please know that I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t even being honest to myself. I don’t think I have been honest to myself for a long time now.”

“Dan, it was immature for me to assume. To be frank? Out of line. It was stupid for me to be upset over what you were doing with your own life. What you do isn’t my choice, and I shouldn’t have been so personally affected by it.”

“We’re our own people, of course. I know you know that. And besides, I get where you were coming from.”

“What do you mea—”

“If I lost you, I probably wouldn’t be thinking rationally either.”

A pause.

“...I shouldn’t have acted like you were mine, when you weren’t mine to own.”

“A fair point. And you’re completely right. But I think you’ve had me since the beginning, Phil Lester. I feel like I’ve finally found something that I’ve been looking for my whole life.”

<<>>

dan: let’s take it slow?

phil: That sounds perfect.

<<>>

For centuries, humanity has held art to the highest of esteems. Early neanderthals began it all with their coarse hands, withdrawing dirt from the earth below their feet to leave marks upon rugged stone walls that conveyed the beginnings of history. In the millenniums that followed, a sort of elitism has formed around the most talented ones who have managed to make a name for themselves. The names of these creators are commonplace in many households amongst the nations; buildings are erected with the mere purpose of showcasing such artistic creation.

Perhaps it is for that reason that the phenomenon in which ink would envelop one’s skin was thus regarded as a wonder, rather than as an alarming fright.

Despite seeming harmless, precaution took place of course: scientists all over the globe have dedicated themselves to research the peculiar tattoos. Theories ranging from genetic mutations related to the brain’s creative processes to shifts in the earth’s overall physical environment resulting in a strange seismic change have arisen, but nothing about their origins have been confirmed as of yet. For that matter, nothing has been confirmed as to how exactly they appear either.

There are two people though, who have it all figured out. No matter how many times you ask them, they will always give the same answer: if anything, they appear out of love, they’ll tell you that.

They have graduated now. They are at a graduation party right now actually, and their time at their high school art academy has finally come to an end. Blood, sweat, and tears have been spilled all over the canvases and films and publications and music at that institution, and now every student can only rely on hope that their work does not go to waste as they move on to pursue the rest of their future.

But for now, that kind of worrying does not exist.

There are no drinks this time around. Okay, maybe one or two, and perhaps they are a little tipsy as well, but they are definitely not drunk. They are, however, definitely on a bed again.

Dan and Phil are lying together on a bed again.

Phil throws a question into the air between them. “You know, this is how we met?” Although the words come out in a way that sounds like a rhetorical question, Dan nods.

“I wish I remembered more,” admits Dan. Phil squeezes his hand, and this time, it’s Dan’s turn to ask a question. “Do you regret it?”

Phil thinks for a moment. “I regret how it happened. So in that way, I do, a bit. Maybe even a little more than a bit. Even though I remember that night, the details of it all are hazy, and we weren’t really in the best state of mind.” Dan curls into Phil’s chest, looking up at him as he listens to him speak. Phil affectionately looks back at him. “But then again? I don’t regret that it took place. In some ways, I feel like that night was our starting point.”

With Phil’s arm wrapped around his waist, they are only a breath apart from one another. “And now we’re here,” whispers Dan. His lips pepper a few soft kisses upon Phil’s skin.

Phil echoes Dan’s words with a fond smile, placing a kiss on top of Dan’s head. He absentmindedly runs a hand through the brunette’s waves, Dan finally confident enough to adorn the curls after all those years.

“Yeah, and now we’re here.”

When Dan then comments on how far they’ve come and Phil marvels at how much they’ve grown, it is to be noted that their growth is not just a growth of spirit, or of themselves as people. It’s also evidenced, it’s also proven that is, by their skin.

The single marigold behind Dan’s ear is now a small gathering of flowers. Its stem winds down his neck, its petals and leaves falling to meet the leaves of the tree that grows on his back. The tree on his back is grand, absolutely lovely and absolutely bountiful. Its signs of life are held within every branch, and where the roots end on his hips, are a freckling of small hearts. According to Phil, it is because it thrives off love (“that’s so cheesy,” dan always says. laughing, phil always replies, “it’s supposed to be cheesy!”).

In the meantime, Phil has a whole garden on his shoulders, with flowers of every hue and type. If he ever took the time to search up the meanings, they would not only mean love, but forever, and admiration, and warmth, and together. Upon his ankles are the cutest little succulents and cacti, pretty little plants that are hard to kill. They remind him to remain grounded, and who it is that helps him do so, a representation of how hard it would be to forget the one who is such a big part of his life.

They are kissing slowly now, every touch between them is an embodiment of care and devotion that would put the bond between the moon and tides to shame. Nothing else exists around them. The future is unknown, but as said before, worries don’t exist here.

Because if they are being honest, they are ready for anything.

<<>>

“Mon enfant! I give you my hand! I give you my love, more precious than money, I give you myself, before preaching or law; Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me? Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?” - Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road

(and also, those would happen to be the same lines that dan would propose to phil with a couple of years later.)