#Easter finery

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Some well-dressed young ladies at the Easter Parade, 1950s.

Photo: Michael W. Gorth Collection/Lost Colour Library/Daily Mail

[thepastisalreadywritten]

By Allison Pearson

23 March 2024

OH, NO. No. A sense that something was not right, that our wonderful Princess was perhaps in more trouble than we’d been told, was confirmed at 6pm on Friday with an unprecedented TV address that dealt a blow to the nation’s solar plexus.

Some will simply have been stunned by the news, hardly able to comprehend it (what, cancer twice in the Royal family within two months? But she’s so young).

Others will have been in tears, as I was, watching our Princess of Wales, parchment-pale, clearly fragile yet valiantly composing herself to record a message in that crystal-clear voice, reassuring us that, although it had been “an incredibly tough couple of months for our entire family,” she would be OK, given enough time, space and privacy.

One friend who heard it on the car radio pulled over to the side of the road and sobbed. “I am just so upset,” she texted.

Another confessed she was relieved that the Waleses hadn’t separated – one of the wilder rumours that had been flying around since the Princess of Wales was pictured in that photoshopped, too-smiley Mother’s Day picture without her wedding rings.

“For the backbone of Britain, we need those two to be together and happily married,” said my friend. So true.

William ’n’ Kate, Kate ’n’ William, a couple for almost the whole of their adult lives, one unimaginable without the other.

Our monarchy is assured as long as there is them (the Waleses will celebrate their thirteenth wedding anniversary on 29th April, six days after little Louis turns six).

Suddenly, with this announcement, we are reminded that they are only human too, vulnerable at times, and Britain is badly shaken.

As she finished her statement, the ramifications started to sink in. Prince William has to deal with a father and a wife with cancer at the same time.

There are haunting echoes of Diana, too, another beloved princess whose personal challenges played out so publicly.

Poor William must feel like there are snipers in the garden taking aim at his family.

You could tell the children were uppermost in her mind, just as they are for any parent who is told they have cancer.

George, Charlotte and Louis, she spoke their names aloud, her darlings. You know, I think they were the real reason she steeled herself to do it.

To sit there on that wooden bench with spring bursting out behind her. Daffodils on a grassy bank, trees in blossom – a cruelly lovely backdrop for such sad tidings.

How simply dressed she was in a matelot jumper and jeans, stripped of finery and clothed, instead, in a becoming humility, her beauty thrown into sharp relief by the strain on her face.

A 42-year-old who is uniquely privileged yet now confronts every woman’s frightening brush with mortality.

Her statement was carefully timed to coincide with the start of the school Easter holidays so the children could be safe at home and wouldn’t have to endure whispers in class about Mummy’s illness.

(Sparing them the agonies of embarrassment young William and Harry suffered at boarding school when Charles and Diana were getting divorced.)

It’s not easy to protect your children when their grandfather is the King and their father his heir.

The Prince and Princess of Wales have always been concerned to make things as normal, as Middleton, as possible, for their young family; this is their toughest test yet.

Was there more than a hint of rebuke in the Princess’s carefully measured words for a media that really has shown neither patience nor “understanding” since she disappeared from public view to have abdominal surgery?

She could be forgiven for being furious. (Believe me, many of us are furious on her behalf.)

“William and I have been doing everything we can to process and manage this privately for the sake of our young family,” she said pointedly.

“As you can imagine, this has taken time. It has taken me time to recover from major surgery in order to start my treatment.

But, most importantly, it has taken us time to explain everything to George, Charlotte and Louis in a way that is appropriate for them, and to reassure them that I am going to be OK.”

“Back off,” she was saying in the politest possible way, “leave me and my kids alone.”

Of course, she needed time to come to terms with the shattering blow of having a life-threatening illness and three children under 10. Every mother’s nightmare.

But time is one thing the vultures and conspiracy theorists were not prepared to give her.

In the vacuum Kensington Palace foolishly allowed to develop, the vilest rumours flourished.

Had she undergone cosmetic surgery? Wasn’t she just slacking? Why wasn’t William taking up more duties to relieve his sick father?

Had Catherine left William? Was it a lookalike pictured with William at a Windsor farm shop?

The gossip went global, causing universal hysteria.

Imagine feeling as sick and scared as the Princess must have done, yet being under pressure to show yourself in order to disprove the lies and appease the baying online mob. It’s barbaric.

I hope those who made such disgusting comments are burning with shame today now that we know the reason she hid away.

It wasn’t only ghouls with a conscience bypass who were trying to fill the gaps in the story.

Theories also came from people who adore the Royal family and were deeply worried for the absent Princess. We love and respect her so much.

Incredibly, in a poll earlier this month, the recuperating Princess still managed to emerge as the most popular royal, narrowly ahead of her husband.

Despite the slurry of accusations – not least the appalling claim in an early draft of a book by Omid Scobie (media snitch), that she was one of the two alleged “royal racists” who speculated on the baby’s likely skin colour – their figures are broadly unchanged since a previous poll in 2023.

Never Put a Foot Wrong is said so often it’s practically the definition of her.

Turns out there may be stresses and strains to appearing always in control, to aiming for perfection, that can eat away at a sensitive person not born to be royal.

Catherine says her job brings her joy; it must also have caused worry (such remorseless spotlight scrutiny).

We should reflect on that, I think. On what it’s reasonable to expect from one human being who expects so much of herself.

How the Princess came to win such a large place in British people’s hearts is better than any fairy tale.

Bullied at school, the quiet, sporty brunette was famous for her record-breaking high jump and tenacious character.

She had blossomed by the time she met William in their first term at St Andrew’s.

At 29, when they finally exchanged vows in Westminster Abbey, she was the first royal bride to have a university degree; the first to have lived with her husband before marriage; the first to be raised in a house that had a street number instead of a fancy name and a moat with swans.

As second in line to the throne, William was expected to pick his princess from a select group of well-bred young fillies.

Hot favourites included Davina Duckworth-Chad and one Isabella Amaryllis Charlotte Anstruther-Gough-Calthorpe.

Enough hyphens to make plain Catherine Middleton of Bucklebury, Berkshire, feel a little inadequate, you might think.

Except that, when a friend at university told Catherine how lucky she was to be going out with Prince William, a smiling Catherine replied: “He’s lucky to have me.”

The years have proved her right, haven’t they?

The death of Diana left William a damaged, stubborn and angry young man, acutely aware he was a prisoner of fate and railing at the media who pursued his mother.

Catherine has calmed him, rebuilding trust while providing the regular family life he had never known.

She has grown brilliantly into the role and the Waleses are a formidable team, lighting up any event they enter.

Now, it is his turn to soothe and calm her, although he must be deeply worried.

“Having William by my side is a great source of comfort and reassurance too, as is the love, support and kindness that has been shown by so many of you. It means so much to us both,” she said.

The King was right to salute his daughter-in-law for her courage. Imagine what it takes to first tell your small children you have cancer and then tell the whole world.

She did it so naturally, so sweetly, with such great empathy for others with that cruel disease that no one could possibly guess what it cost her. But it cost her.

She has told George, Charlotte and Louis that Mummy is well, and getting better, but the only way she will make a full recovery is if she’s left alone as she completes her treatment.

Will the vultures listen? Will they give her the time she needs or go back pecking for more?

Millions of us are praying for the return to health of our wonderful Princess of Wales. She has all our support and love.

A Britain without her is unthinkable, unbearable. Take your time, Princess, take your time.

💙🌹💙

[helpingthingsgrow]

Easter finery. 1968

[theluckywizard]

WIP Whenever

Thank you for the tag @greypetrel

Well I just finished up my spicy art of Hawke and Rose for an upcoming chapter so I suppose that doesn't count! But here's a bit of Rose Trevelyan being nosy around the Hawke Estate while the man she's just been introduced to, Garrett Hawke is out having a street fight (LOL! Weird!) with some dwarf associate!? I love working on this scene because it's a great opportunity for easter eggs and just generally a great character reveal for both Rose and Hawke in my Kiss Me Moonstruck AU (matchmakingmoms!au).

Snippet below the cut 👇

In a closet beyond is an extra set of mail and an assortment of gambesons and maintenance tools and equipment. Awls and oil. Garrett’s finery from earlier hangs on a hook. Feeling venturesome and more than a little nosy, Rose leans in to get a whiff of this man she’s meant to like enough to marry.

Peppermint, obviously. Camphor. And buried underneath are hints of herbs she can’t quite distinguish. Elfroot probably. Rashvine and spindleweed perhaps. She startles at a sudden contact between her thighs, stumbling back from her insolent task to discover Garrett Hawke’s mabari has an equally insolent interest in her.

She shoves him back gingerly and with placating tones, unsure if a war dog would be friendly toward an interloper like herself. He’s three times the size and heft of any of her hunting hounds, and his undocked tail lashes and whips with enthusiasm when she scratches tentatively behind his ears.

“Well aren’t you persistent,” she mutters, attending to the short fur of his broad white chest. She carefully avoids the precarious string of slobber that dangles from his maw and returns to the foyer hoping the creature will settle down by the fire again. He doesn’t. Enthralled by the attention, he stays at her heels, following her over to an apparent writing desk.

It’s been recently tidied she notes, a pile of mail sits to one side with all the edges lined up, and there's a cup of distinctive looking quills, pencils and a rustic looking pen knife and a fresh supply of fine paper. In spite of the paper there’s a stack of half crumpled notes in another corner that someone did their best to organize.

Rose picks up a rumpled note written in a lively hand over the top of a torn out piece of broadsheet.

Emeric. Thursday, 8 o’clock. Follow up with Aveline. 

The wall above it is unceremoniously papered over with various letters, missives and documents and a sloppily carved slab of wood reads Wall of Fame.

Rose first reads a desperate sounding letter written in a primitive but decidedly feminine hand to Carver— his younger brother, she presumes— by an individual named Peaches. There’s a printed document with a flaming fist stamped in the corner about mage rights and the Maker. A badly drawn caricature of a man armored in absurdly pointy plate asking what she presumes to be a darkspawn for directions. And a well designed advert clipped from the news:

BARNABUS BIRD Purveyor of Fine Blades ══════════════════ Kitchen Knives ✧ Utility Knives ✧ Murder Knives ══════════════════  Slice Fereldan cheese paper thin! ✦ Cut unexpected bindings on your hands and feet! ✦ Clean the blood from your fingernails!

The address listed belongs to this very home.

LOL this last thing is one of Varric's many pranks on Hawke (they are trapped in a forever prank war). It's also an easter egg for my long fic.

Tagging @crackinglamb, @bluewren, @samseabxrn, @nirikeehan, @leggywillow, @exalted-dawn-drabbles, @ammoniteflesh, @skyeventide and YOU. Whatcha working on?

[mightyflamethrower]

A Canadian church is demonstrating how much they hate Jesus and his word, incorporating a drag show as part of their Easter Sunday service to show “solidarity with the LGBTQ+ community” and serve as a “sacred act of protest.”

Calgary Unitarian ‘Church,’ led by the excretable Samaya Oakley, is putting on the ‘Drag Me to Church’ event to honor and celebrate International Transgender Day of Visibility, which overlaps with Easter Sunday.

Alberta recently passed a law that prohibits child castration before the age of 18, and this den of wolves and goatlings is enraged by it, using a service typically reserved for celebrating the resurrection of Jesus into a celebration of sexual perversity and confusion. They explain on their Facebook page:

Come join us for an Easter Sunday you’ll never forget! This will be a a thought-provoking service and sacred act of protest as we support our Trans Siblings during this current political climate. We’ll exploring the concept of TRANSformation in today’s society with DRAG Queen performances and story time, singing, dancing, and thought provoking speakers. We’re also going to pass the collection plate and 100% of the proceeds will go to Skipping Stone – a non-profit that supports Trans folx and are mobilizing to bring legal action to protect our communities. All are welcome and this inclusive and affirming space. Don’t forget to wear your Easter finery and dancin’ shoes!

We can no longer pretend this isn't a slippery slope now. The only question left unanswered is how far will ve slide.

[ashtrayfloors]

There is so much, so much to say. So much, these days. And I’m sleep-deprived so this entry will be a haphazard list rather than a well-thought-out piece of prose, but I need to get some of this down because there’s just going to keep being more and more and more.

—The last day of March I dressed up in a very queer-punk getup to attend the Queer Youth Assemble rally in Kenosha. I put my harness on along with my other undergarments, and over that I wore tall black boots and a loose, long black dress and my leather jacket that has studs and appliqué roses on it (the one I always describe as cowpunk-meets-Kathy Acker). I did elaborate eye makeup and darkened my wispy lil’ mustache with mascara, and went to the rally. And a bunch of my cishet ally friends were there, and a bunch of my queer and trans friends were there, including my crush Shelley. (Shelley is a pseudonym and yes, I did christen them that in an homage to both Mary and Percy Byshe, because they are goth and a poet.) All of us were in our Most Gender finery, complimenting each other, and Shelley looked super hot in their leopard coat and cat’s-eye glasses. After the rally ended due to rain, Shelley and a few other folks and I went out for beers and nachos and I can’t tell you how good it felt to be Out and Queer. In fact, our waiter (gender neutral) said they had wanted to be at the rally but couldn’t make it due to work and they thanked us for going and said we all looked ‘hot as fuck.’

—It got warmer as the day went on, rained more, then the fog rolled in, then thunderstorms, then back to just rain, and it was warm enough I was able to leave the window open overnight for the first time this year, and I could hear the rain and the trains.

—April first it got cold again, and the wind returned, and it was not my lover, this was brutal bitter asshole wind. I ran some errands, including meeting up with K. to pick up the Joe Strummer piece I commissioned him to do for Ali’s birthday. And then I had a bit of the sads, because the kids were cranky and I was PMSing. And because I was thinking about M., how it’s now been 18 years since he died, and how it still hurts that I can never tell him how much he meant to me. But I wrote some poems and took some selfies and then I drank a little too much wine and listened to W/IFS, like I do when I’m in my feelings.

—And the two days after that were kind of crappy, I was still sad and cranky from PMS, and stressed about the upcoming election. But I did some voter outreach stuff and wrote more poems and did some painting and ate dark chocolate and drank tea.

—Then election day, and despite the storms (including hail!) Wisconsin turned the fuck out, and the election turned out the way I had hoped, and I am so relieved that my state overwhelmingly voted against the right-wing extremist judge and that my town voted against the MAGA freak mayoral candidate. And P. and I had amazing sex that night.

—And the next couple days were mostly about packing for a trip to Door County, and more poems, and more sex. And there was more rain, more storms, but also warmth, and bits of sun and butterflies, and the greening grass.

—Two days before Easter, we headed north. Everything was muddy and brown and we saw e a lot of birds—hawks and herons and wild turkeys. There were road snacks and road silliness. We saw a truck that said Lubenow on it, and we figured out later it had to be someone’s last name (like Luben-ow), but it was like “got it, looks like Lube Now.” And at the rest area we usually stop at there’s this big Wisconsin tourism sign that’s supposed to look like a license plate, and it says LUV R AG (as in Love Our Agriculture), but again, because of the kerning and design, it looks like Luv Rag. So P. and I were making jokes about how Luv Rag sounds like the name of a band of sleazy middle-aged dudes trying to cling to their ‘80s hair metal days, and I said: “Thank you! We are Luv Rag, and this is our new single, ‘Lube Now!’”

—We were up there for five nights, 4.5 days. It was less stressful than staying with my parents usually is, and except for the first half of our first full day there, the weather was great. I ate a ton of good food and stayed up late writing most nights; found out about a sonnet contest I’m going to enter. P. and I got to go out, just the two of us, several times. We went out for drinks a few times; got to sit out by the fire pit at Door County Brewing Co. and listen to a great folk musician who goes by the name of Hunter Gatherer. (I already liked him cuz when we first arrived, he was playing a cover of Bob Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right,” and then a bit later he was introducing one of his originals and said: “This song’s about running from the cops.” And I liked him even more.) Other times we just drove around the peninsula, or went hiking in Peninsula State Park and exploring our favorite tiny old cemetery. Our last full day there, we took the kids swimming (in a pool, not the lake—it’s still way too cold for that!), and I hadn’t been swimming in years and I had forgotten how much I love it, how at home I feel in the water, like that’s where I belong, like that’s where my body works the way it should.

—We arrived home to the daffodils and violets in bloom and everything even greener, buds on the trees, more warm weather, and there were days of childlike joys and nights of adult pleasures. Days of playing hopscotch with C. and reading endless books, of iced coffee and shooting hoops and watching the backyard birds and squirrels. One evening, we even got to grill for the first time this year, and make s’mores for dessert. Nights of drinking a bit, and hot sex, and staying up late writing.

—Then it got cold again, and it rained, then snowed. Yesterday I felt really bad for the first half of the day. Partly cuz of the weather; gray and cold and gloomy and it was hard being cooped up inside again after that week of warmth and sunshine. Partly cuz I was sleep-deprived (the kids have been waking up hella early lately.) Partly cuz fucking everything was making me cry. I dunno, I was having weird-bad gender feels, and also feeling uninspired/unmotivated writing-wise, like ‘oh, I made it through the first half of NaPoWriMo, but I think I’m tapped out now.’ And maybe a bit of that ol’ pre-Mercury Rx shadow period creeping in there, bringing up old issues and feelings—I was missing my good old bad old scumbag days. The days of freight hoppin’ and basement shows and circus freakery, and dumpster diving and busking and long bike rides across cities, of wheat paste and graffiti and stick n’ pokes and sleeping out, under the stars, giving myself over to scary thoughts, & omens, & excess. The days when most everyone I knew had a clown act and a copy of the Crew Change Guide. I made a cup of tea and lay in bed watching Netflix for a while. First I watched the “Beyond the Binary” episode of Getting Curious with Jonathan Van Ness, and then I watched Mae Martin’s new comedy special, Sap. And of course both of those have to do with gender stuff (at least in part), and both of them talked about growing up queer/GNC and having such a hard time and turning to drug abuse and other self-destructive behaviors, even though they were white, middle-class kids who were not kicked out by their parents. And I was like, oh hey, me too. And both shows made me cry, and it was good cathartic crying, but I still felt like shit afterwards. So then I started thinking about some ways to bring back some of the less-destructive aspects of my scumbag days back into my life, and I was still feeling sad, and then I decided to check in on the contest results of the WB Yeats Poetry Prize and the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Prize.

Both of them said they’d announce the contest winners on their websites sometime in or after March. The Yeats Prize said it would also contact the winners directly; the Ginsberg Prize said no such thing, but I assumed they would. Starting in mid-March, I was checking both sites every few days or so, and obsessively checking my email/snail mail. And nothing, nothing, nothing. The last time I’d checked the sites was April 3, and yesterday I was like: “Well, it’s been two weeks, there must be some news by now,” and I was assuming I would go on and see the list of winners and my name would not be there and maybe it was a bad idea because I was already feeling so crappy, but then I was also kinda like, well, I might as well get all the bad feelings out of the way at once. But still, on both websites, the most recent winner’s list was from 2022. And then, I shit you not, like eight minutes later, P. brought the mail in and handed me an envelope. Return address: The Poetry Center At Passaic County Community College, One College Blvd., Paterson, NJ. Location of the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Prize. My hands shook as I opened it. And…I fucking won! Not first, second, or third place, but I don’t even care because one of the poems I sent them (the one that is probably, in my opinion, among the best poems I’ve ever written, but also one of the riskiest) received an Editor’s Choice Award! And it’s gonna be published in the Spring 2024 issue of the Paterson Literary Review, and I’ve been invited to participate in the awards ceremony/reading there, next February.

I don’t even know how to express how much this means to me. Professionally, but also personally. Like, first of all, New Jersey is such a huge part of my personal mythology. I was conceived in New Jersey! So many of the people who have meant the most to me, personally/artistically, have New Jersey roots! Like Allen Ginsberg! And Jack Terricloth! And Bruce Springsteen! And my witchwife, Penny! And also just, well, I mean god, Allen Ginsberg. For better or worse, the Beat Generation and punk rock have been the most enduring influences on me/my writing, starting at a very young age, and Allen Ginsberg is definitely towards the very top of that “beat + punk influence list.” I just. Can’t. Fucking. Get Over It. Can’t quite believe it! I keep touching the letter they sent me to remind myself it’s real. (It’s on the Poetry Center’s official stationery, which is on beautiful, thick, creamy paper.) I keep blowing kisses at my framed photo of Ginsberg, one where he’s sitting at his typewriter, writing a poem.

—So yesterday evening, P. and I dropped the kids off at my folks’ house for a bit. We went to pick up takeout dinner for everyone, but also got to have a celebratory whiskey while we waited. And I stayed up late last night. First, I wrote a poem—guess I wasn’t totally tapped out, after all. Then I was just awake scheming and planning (and wishing and hoping). About immediate future stuff, like this year’s vegetable garden, and going through my books to find some to donate to the library’s book sale. As well as the positive scumbaggery I can reincorporate into my life—I remembered that I bought myself that stick n’ poke kit last year, so soon I’m gonna give myself a new tattoo; and I started thinking up ideas for a poetry wheatpaste project. And then—travel. I still wanna travel a bit this year, but I think I’m gonna keep it mostly midwest. Then, next year, I’m gonna head out east again finally, after all these years, for the awards ceremony, but I’m gonna try to book a mini-tour around it, and there will be old friends and new friends and old haunts and…yeah. I am so fucking ready.

—And today I’m sleep deprived, again—I was up late, and the kiddos once again got up stupid early. But I don’t even mind. I got some writing done and listened to some podcasts and oh, tomorrow I get to go see Bikini Kill. I’ve been waiting for this concert for over three years (from when I first bought the tickets in December 2019, before it got postponed many many times due to CoViD), but I’ve also been waiting for this concert since I was twelve—from when I first heard Bikini Kill, and wanted to go see them, but then they broke up before I got the chance. (And yeah, I saw Le Tigre a couple times, and that was fun, but not the same.) And there’s a lot of stuff going on right now that teen me and early-to-mid twenties me would be super stoked about—like the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Prize, like seeing Bikini Kill, like stick n’ pokes and wheatpaste and travel plans. And that feels kinda great; showing my younger self that I am still rocking that shit at my advanced (haha) age. And just overall, things are so good lately. There is so much joy, even in the mundane. Even the bad shit doesn’t seem as bad as it did for a while, because in these past four months I have proven to myself that my life isn’t over, that I can still do rad shit, that I can still experience beauty and joy.

[mischa-auer]

Hollywood Magazine, April 1940: How To Be An Easter Egg by Kay Proctor

Women’s dresses are influenced by the movies. Mischa Auer thinks it is a crime and a shame that his clothes can’t be influenced, too.

Transcript of article:

“Are we men or are we sheep?” Mischa Auer roared in violent anger. “That’s what I want to know!”

“Bah, bah black sheep, have you any wool? Yessir, yessir, three bags full.” said Master Tony, aged five.

“Sheep, dear,” said Norma, his wife, in the placating tone frequently heard in our best asylums. “I thought we had settled that.”

“Da!” he spat out. Da, I gathered, is Russian for yes, okay, or you’re damned tootin’. “Sheep! Bah!”

“Tony, dear, I think you had better run upstairs and play with your nice new toys,” Norma interrupted the recitation. “Your father is in no mood for poetry today.” Tony took one look at father glaring at the brightly burning logs in the fireplace and beat a retreat.

“Sheep!” Father hissed again after a moody silence. “Da, sheep!”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude on anything personal, of course,” I said pleasantly, “but what’s this all about?”

“Men’s fashions,” Norma said, as if that made everything entirely clear. “In a way, I suppose, you might say the whole thing started yesterday when I brought my new Easter outfit home. It’s a lamb of a creation in teal blue and dusty pink with a lot of Scarlett O’Hara touches. You know, the Gone With the Wind influence which is so good this spring.”

“Perhaps,” he said darkly. “Who knows? A man must do his duty as he sees it.”

I know there are times when I’m slow on the up-take but for the life of me I couldn’t see what that had to do with men’s fashions and Mischa’s bitter denunciation of his fellow men as sheep. However, I rarely hesitate to ask about things I don’t understand, so I asked for a diagram. Norma hummed and hawed for a few moments.

“Why beat around the bush?” Mischa demanded. “The plain truth is, I’m jealous! I, too, want to strut in Easter finery. I, too, want to be influenced by the movies! But alas, like other men, I have sold my soul sartorial slavery. Bond Street speaks, and, like dogs under a whip, we cower and submit to its dictates. But mark you this: a revolution is coming. Some day we shall be free!”

Perhaps, I suggested, he would be the enlightened Moses who would lead men to new tailored glory?

In case he is called to head the crusade, Mischa has his slogan on file in the Copyright Bureau. Three little words, he said, tell the whole story. Nature Knows Best! 

“Modern manhood has been flying in the face of it,” he contended. “Which birds have the more brilliant plumage? The males. Which animals wear the brightest coats? The males. Which fish have the finest scales? The males. Why, then, should the genus homo accept less? The answer is tyranny. From the day he is pinned into his first diaper until finally somebody wraps him up in a shroud, man wears exactly what somebody tells him to wear, no more, no less. Who tells him? First his mother, then his father, and then his tailor. Who tells the tailor? More tailors!”

Take the matter of color, for instance. Day after day a man uncomplainingly permits his very soul to be smothered in dull browns, drab grays, dark blues and depressing black, Mischa said, when every instinct in him cries out for good strong stuff like purple or red. Why? Because he’s a sheep, that’s why. Because the tailor rolls out a few bolts of brown, gray, blue or black and says “What’ll it be?” Because he knows darned well they’d lock him up in a booby hatch if he showed up home in a nifty double-breasted number in lipstick red.

“Comes the revolution and all that will be changed,” Mischa promised. “Man for the first time will be allowed to express the beautiful things within him. Man will be an individual, not a carbon copy of every other dope on the street.”

He has given color considerable thought, Mischa said, even going so far as to work out a color chart as a guide to moods and emotions. Mauve, for example, is an excellent stimulant when you feel a binge coming on. Red is suggested for the jealous mood; green when you feel a touch of the dastard in your heart; yellow when you’re chipper; blue when the world looks sour; purple when a mother-in-law is due; dubonnet when you’re set for a quiet evening at home; ashes of roses when the outlook is pensive; and spotless white when the world’s your oyster.

“Black has its place in my scheme,” he went on. “I advise it for breakfast wear, since the breakfast hour is a horrible one at best. Shell pink, I think, does a lot for you when you are christening your children. And for the ballet, nothing can approach the oomph lift of a silver lame! Personally, I favor it made up in a Prince Albert model; you can use so much more of it!”

Comes the revolution and the ungainly and uncomfortable lines of men’s fashions will be changed, too, Mischa vowed. There will be no more of this carrying two pounds of padding on each shoulder in emulation of football giants. Stiff collars designed to choke and chafe will be outlawed entirely. The 18-pocket-in-a-suit routine, which turns a man into a gibbering beast every time he tries to find a theatre ticket or a parking check, will be a thing of the past. Ditto for tight fitting pants which must be pressed every time they get comfortable, matching vests which can never be found, and coats which look like the devil when they are not buttoned and feel like the devil when they are. Amen, brother!

As a matter of fact, Mischa already has done some advance work on the campaign. All his trousers have but two pockets instead of the conventional five. His tailor has ten fits every time he whips up a new Auer suit, and mutters naughty things behind the Auer back; but, by the great hornspoon, he leaves off the watch and two back pockets!

“It was a great fight!” Mischa chortled, “I wore him down with sheer logic. As I pointed out, why should I have a watch pocket when I wear a wrist watch? Why should I have back pockets when I never carry a wallet and use my breast pocket handkerchief as a blower as well as a show-er?”

With the dawning of the Auer Age in men’s fashions you’ll see some nifty innovations along the fabric line, Mischa promised. And high time! Too long, he said, have men been slaves to the deadly monotony of wool which scratches, is too hot, and stinks when it burns or gets wet; and to linen which gets messy when you take forty winks on a handy couch. Soon, he hopes, you’ll find them strutting in silk, satin, velvet and brocaded glory as befits their tender sensibilities. Soon, too, they’ll shatter the monopoly women have been exercising in use of fur and will boast topcoats, sport jackets, and evening capes in silver fox, beaver, mink, sable and ermine according to the good or bad news of the balance on the hand at the bank.

What men’s fashions today lack most seriously, however, are the gay touches known as the movie influence, Mischa said. That is what he really covets and that is the ultimate goal of the revolutionary 24-Auer-Plan for the modern male and his clothes.

“Imagine the pure joy and lofty inspiration a gent could get each day by trailing to the shower in a bathrobe of Alice blue velvet lined with virgin ermine!” he glowed. “Imagine the infinite delight one could achieve by sending his agent a military cape made up in skunk!”

Da, I had to admit, he had something there.

“Women got their wimples from Robin Hood and their snoods from The Old Maid,” he pointed out. “They got their full-skirted evening dresses from the Ginger Rogers dancing epics and their Letty Lynton frocks from the Joan Crawford picture of the same name. They got their boas from The Blue Angel and their bustles from Alexander Graham Bell. They got their toga capes from Cafe Metropole  and their visor hats from Beau Geste. Garbo was responsible  for the pillbox hat in The Painted Veil and the basque bodice came from Little Women.”

Why, then, shouldn’t men filch a sartorial tip or two from the movies? he asked. Turn-about always has been considered cricket. Even forgetting the fashion slant on the thing, the practical side of it commands respect, he insisted. 

“Take pants, for example.” he suggested cheerily, “there is magnificent opportunity for movie influence in that most essential of male garments. Since Gone With The Wind currently is high fashion in pictures, the first trouser trend might be taken from the Gable pantaloons. A distinct advantage would accrue from an adaption of the narrow band which slipped under the instep and held the trouser legs snugly over the ankles. In the first place, it would eliminate the use of garters, thus cutting down on wardrobe expense. In the second place, one could wear mismatched sox in perfect confidence that the social faux pas would go entirely undetected. Bing Crosby, for one, would find this a tremendous boon. And finally, it discourages the vulgar habit of removing the shoes in public since the pants, perforce, must come off first. Most men, you will admit, would be reluctant to go that far.”

Elizabeth and Essex gave him another idea along the pants line- the substitution of tights for trousers.

“Think of the savings it would mean in cleaning and pressing bills!” he enthused. “All the well-groomed gentlemen would have to do would be to rinse them out lightly every night and hang them to dry alongside of his wife’s silk hose in the bathroom. That’s a cosy, home-y touch in itself.

“Think of the advantages tights would have on the golf course! Supposing your ball lands in a tree? If you were wearing a snappy form-fit number you could shinny up the branches, retrieve the spheroid, and slide back to terra firm quicker than scat and with considerable grace and ease. Supposing you found yourself in the rough? If you were wearing the latest in knits you could blend yourself with the landscape and thus get away nicely with the furtive little lick which would give your ball a much better lie. And think how your opponent could be thrown off his game if you happened to have knobby knees or bow-legs! But magnificently!”

Finally, Mischa said, it really would mean something when someone spoke of you as a “fine figure of a man.”

“Too long have the weak brothers among us been permitted to cloak their inadequate shanks beneath a few miserable yards of worsted,” he complained. “Tights would put an end to that! Tights would establish a man beyond any doubt as Grade A, fair to middlin’ or just plain counterfeit.”

Although he admits a few hidebound males might consider it a bit on the flashy side, Mischa said he had figured out the perfect costume for hot weather wear, particularly in non-airconditioned offices. In a way it is his masterpiece because it combines four separate and distinct movie influences. First comes the pith helmet (The Sun Never Sets); next the loose-sleeved, open-throat silk blouse (Anthony Adverse); after that a cotton loin cloth (Tarzan); and finally, open-toed grass sandals (Gunga Din).

Male headgear especially needs the revitalizing touch of the movie influence, Mischa continued. The way things are now, a man’s hat has about as much individuality as a guinea pig in a research laboratory. In proof, watch a man pick up his hat in a restaurant or any other public place. He has to look in the band for his initials before he’s sure it belongs to him! If he breaks away from the conventional block of felt with a dented crown, he’s courting trouble. Berets brand him a sissy, caps make him look silly, and silk hats always fall off when he’s getting out of a cab, completely ruining whatever poise or dignity he may have.

“I’d like to see something done with turbans,” he said. “Glamour boys could copy the snazzy numbers Ty Power wore in The Rains Came while less exalted gents could get along with the simpler models from Suez. Aside from providing a handy cache for nimble shoplifters, turbans would prove a godsend to those rugged individualists who resent the custom of removing hats in elevators or tipping them to ladies on the street.”

By far the greatest advantage turbans offer, exclusive, of course, of the dazzling fashion opportunities in color, materials, and jewels, is the abolition of the checking menace and a resultant saving of some $1000 per turban. Mathematics, Mischa claims, prove it. To illustrate: the average man checks the average hat three times a day to the tune of $.75. (Checking. $.10; tip, $.15) Multiply 75 by 365 days per year and you have $273.75. Multiply that by 3 years (the average life of a hat) and you get $821.25. Add the normal expectancy in the way of cleaning, blocking and new ribbons and there you are- a neat $1000. Since turbans never are removed except at bedtime and in the bath, all the checking expenses automatically are eliminated.

The postillion influence  from Swiss Family Robinson undoubtedly would prove popular with fashion-conscious gentlemen under 6ft., Mischa continued, since postillion bonnets create the illusion of height. Gay plumes from Flash Gordon would add excitement to the chapeaux for gala occasions and also would prove useful for dusting off the car after a rain. 

He also saw great possibilities for an adaption of the iron topper from The Tower of London, he added. Such a hat never would require cleaning or blocking. Its color could be changed to harmonize with different outfits by the simple expedient of painting it with finger nail polish. And finally, its value upon returning home late on a lodge night is too clear to need further explanation.

“Ah, yes,” he sighed, “some day men will cast off their haberdashery shackles and be free! Some day their fashions, too, will be influenced by the movies! I can hear the radio announcer describing the Easter parade of tomorrow. There’s Clark Gable in a Marie Antoinette creation in champagne flat crepe with sophisticated highlights of gold thread. Here comes Errol Flynn in a crushed raspberry duvetyn piped Capistrano blue; with it he is wearing an Intermezzo tam with a Baby Sandy safety pin in rhine- stones and rubies. There’s Bob Taylor in a chic Algiers cardigan in the new golden green with a daffodil blouse in pin-tucked batiste. And here’s everybody’s favorite, Mischa Auer, with his wife Norma. She’s wearing a Gone With The Wind in teal blue and he is the essence of high fashion in a House of Seven Gables casual in infra-red.”

I said that I, for one, could hardly wait! All this and heaven too when comes the revolution?

“Da!” he said happily.

[thejoyofviolentmovement]

Photography: Easter Parade and Easter Bonnet Festival 3/31/24 Famously immortalized by Irving Berlin, with some help from Judy Garland and Fred Astaire, the Easter Parade and Easter Bonnet Festival is a tradition that stretches back to the 1870s: Each year on Easter Sunday, celebrants don festive finery and show off their very best and most creative bonnets. Starting around 10:00am on Easter Sunday, the parade marches north on Fifth Avenue from 49th Street to 57th Street. But arguably the best place to watch and take photos is around St. Patrick’s Cathedral, roughly from about 50th Street to about 53rd Street. While clearly not as delightfully crass as the Coney Island Mermaid Parade, the Easter Parade and Easter Bonnet Festival sees New Yorkers displaying their creativity, their panache and their wild fashion sense — often simultaneously. I had never photographed the event before — until this past Easter. And admittedly, it was a lot of fun. I will do this again. Photos are below.

[mr-divabetic]

GLAM MORE FEAR LESS: The happy healthcare host, Mr. Divabetic rolls out the Red Tomato Carpet at the Easter Parade on Fifth Avenue in New York City, NY. The New York City Easter Parade has been an annual tradition since Civil War days and features marchers in elaborate Easter finery, including some of the fanciest Easter bonnets imaginable. Get inspired to 'Glam More, Fear Less' about living with diabetes. Tune in to Divabetic's free monthly podcasts, hosted by Mr. Divabetic on blog talk radio, iTunes, and Spotify, featuring healthcare professionals, beauty, image/style, and fitness experts, entertainment industry leaders, and VIPs: women and men living with, at risk of, or affected by diabetes. Join Divabetic's Facebook page, follow Mr. Divabetic and Divabetic on Twitter, and learn more about sponsorship opportunities and event details. Visit: www.divabetic.org Original music by Douglas Clay: www.douglasclaymusic.com

[ameritt]

Afternoon Easter Parade, French Quarter The 1pm parade was a riot of color, with all candy, eggs, feather boas and of course beads being thrown from the floats. Everyone on the floats and on the streets was wearing Easter finery, with men wearing Easter hats almost as much as the women. One tradition that is a bit dangerous is the throwing of real carrots. I saw the carrot kind of like a Christmas bag of coal, but a little boy really wanted one so I gave him the one I caught. They were huge organic carrots- more like weapons than vegetables.

[aquarian-sunchild]

Easter finery

[guest-walter]

New TIMERY is FINERY EP coming out on September 1st as a special anniversary EP for the show's 1st anniversary.

Here are the track titles (includes 2 bonus tracks this time):

1 - Strawberries Everywhere!

2 - On the Phone

(BONUS) 3 and 4 - Påskchip (Easter Egg) (Grand Piano and Funky Clav covers)

[not-wholly-unheroic]

Alright so I considered making this into a nice, long essay-style post but my thoughts aren’t really that organized so I’m just gonna do a sort of bullet point list on some of the little things about Spielberg’s Hook that I absolutely love.

Hook’s Costume & Cabin

Spielberg heard that Hook canonically resembles Charles II and went all out with it! Hoffman’s Hook, more than any other, looks like a gentleman straight out of the 1700s—the glorious red and gold coat, the fancy buckled shoes, the long curled wig tied with with ribbons and bows. The detail that went into his costume is amazing and I love how beautiful it is.

Everything about this Hook is over the top. Like royalty, he refuses to step down from his “throne” above the crew without Smee literally rolling out the red carpet for him. It’s very clear this Hook revels in finery. I mean look at his cabin. The man has not only the standard trappings of any 18th century nobleman’s home but even a miniature model of the island and a dang fireplace!

Is this ridiculous opulence in any way practical for a pirate? Absolutely not. Is it 100% accurate for Hook’s aesthetic and personality? Heck yes!

Neverland Bleeding into Reality

In stories like Peter Pan where there is both a “real world” setting and a magical realm, it’s always fun to look for little Easter eggs tying the two together so the audience is never quite sure how much is real and how much is imaginary. Neverland seeps into life in London in several places in this film. For example, on the plane, the voice that comes over the PA system and announces, “This is your Captain speaking…” is actually Hook himself—Dustin Hoffman.

Then there are some shots like this one, where Tootles, hearing Nana bark in the yard, recognizes that Hook is back. You probably noticed the ship in the bottle which is a replica of the Jolly Roger but did you catch the teddy bear?

Presumably we are looking at John’s top hat and glasses and Michael’s teddy bear from the original trip to Neverland…but if that wasn’t already meta enough, this same teddy bear shows up again later in the burnt out remains of the home underground when Peter is remembering why decided to grow up.

And this one might be a stretch but…early on in the film when we are getting a look at the pirate ship, we see a broom head beside a bottle that Tink is hiding behind.

Later, near the end of the film when Peter wakes up in Kensington Gardens and hears what he believes is Tink’s jingling, we see it’s actually Mr. Smee (Or is it?!) sweeping up some glass bottles that are clinking together.

Play-Acting and the Metaverse

Speaking of meta…this film has so many nods to the original. There’s the opening play with Maggie in the role of young Wendy, the painting of Hook in the dinghy that graces the bedroom wall, the latch on the window in the shape of the iron claw, Granny Wendy reading from the novel, and the whole Great Ormond Street Hospital scene. It’s nuts. (And by that I mean I love the attention to detail.)

But more than that, the entire film is set up like a sort of play. For example, when Peter arrives on the island, he is wrapped up in the sheet/parachute and his first view of Neverland is revealed when he pokes a hole in the sheet with his finger and begins ripping it apart. He’s literally parting the curtain for the audience here.

And everybody in Neverland is playing at being someone they are not. Tink plays dress-up and is very briefly the woman of Peter’s dreams—the woman she wishes she was but knows she really isn’t. Rufio is playing at being a fierce warrior who doesn’t need any parental figure—until he lays dying in Peter’s arms and admits that he wishes he had a father like Pan. And when the wig comes off, Hook—who in his usual attire comes off as an intimidating and dashing pirate captain—is reduced to little more than a pitiful old man who is past his prime.

Even Neverland itself is set up like the background one might see during a set change in a play with a giant compass rose and map lines visible in a flyover shot.

Hook and Pan’s Role Reversal

Another really intriguing aspect of this film to me is the way it totally flips the original on its head. Peter, who in the original is the fun, mischievous boy who steals away the Darling children, has become the workaholic adult who has no time for childish nonsense. That much is rather obvious but what is a bit subtler is that Hook’s role is somewhat reversed too. In most versions of the original, Hook and Mr. Darling are played by the same actor—Hook being a sort of fictionalized counterpart to Wendy’s rather serious and sometimes hotheaded father. Here, Peter has taken on the role of Mr. Darling as the “boring” adult and Hook, after stealing the children, becomes the “fun” father figure—to Jack, at least.

Theme of Belief

Last but not least, there is the theme of “believe hard enough and it will come true.” Much like in the original, flight requires belief for it work and the Lost Boys’ imaginary food is only actually filling if you believe it’s there. But what’s interesting to me here is that it isn’t just positive things that one seems able to believe into existence in this Neverland. For a long time, I thought Hook’s death in this version of the story was a bit of a cop-out. It seemed like having the (long-dead) crocodile come back to end Hook’s life was simply a way for the writers to avoid having Peter get his hands dirty. But then it occurred to me…if belief could brink Tink back from the point of death, why couldn’t it bring back the crocodile? Fear is an incredibly strong emotion that can often make the most rational among us have very strong irrational beliefs… I have now come to the conclusion that, in the moment when Hook heard all the clocks going off, his fear level was so amped up that he actually believed he was going to die the way he always thought he would—gobbled up by the giant ticking crocodile—and in a land of make-believe where anything is possible, that belief was strong enough to bring the crocodile back from the dead just long enough for it to do exactly what the captain expected it to. Ironically—and perhaps sadly—if this is the case, Hoffman’s Hook sealed his own fate.

So…I guess all of that is to say that while Hook may have its flaws, I love the research that went into the film. It’s clear that a lot of love for the original and a lot of effort went into the filmmaking process and that definitely gets some major brownie points from me.

[damiano-mylove]

The members of Måneskin as vampires

GN!reader, blood mention (they vampires), lowkey depression on ethan, shitty writing *Masterlist*

Vic

Vic is the second oldest vampire of the group, which is why she is the second most free-spirited

She was turned in the late 18th century

Before that, she came from a heavily religious family in rural Italy. She was a peasant, but one greatly sought after by any who laid eyes upon her

Given it was the age of enlightenment, she was able to enjoy finery and explore her new immortality more freely than she could've had she been turned a century earlier

Vic found Damiano in the mid-19th century

It was a waxing moon, and the air was especially crisp for Spring time - the two were out on the hunt for fresh blood

Vic had a taste for the beautiful, and was hunting at an Easter fete

She had spotted Damiano, and in thinking she had spotted the perfect meal of the night, she approached him

It soon became clear that he wasn't a meal, he was a companion

The two went on to hunt together, to travel the world together, and to live together, so to not raise suspicion

Until they grew tried of each other just before the turn of the century

Damiano and Vic went on a hunt, and found Ethan

It was Damiano who turned him, but Vic who showed him just what it was to be a vampire

The three roamed the Earth for decades before finding Thomas, who would become the glue of the group and one of the most beloved of the group

Onward, the four vampires only traveled together, hunted together, shopped together

It was a family - a family made of choice

Thomas

Thomas was turned in the 1970's

One evening, Thomas was at a Grateful Dead concert in Milan, where he met the three most gorgeous individuals he'd ever seen in his life

The blonde woman offered to take him back to their house (which was in fact a borderline mansion, with a conversation pit, extensive closets, faux fur rugs, fine crystal, oil paintings)

Thomas accepted, and that was his last night as a human

Ethan, Damiano and Vic gave him the choice of becoming a vampire, after revealing what they were themselves

At first, Thomas was hesitant, but it wasn't as if he'd be let go; so his choice was die painfully, or to live forever and ever, until he threw in the towel

It hurt, it hurt more than Thomas had ever expected

But he adjusted almost as well as Victoria had all those centuries ago

Thomas developed a taste for people who were already intoxicated

Vampires can't even get tipsy - but they could drink the blood of someone who was and feel the effects of it themselves

Thomas was perhaps the best at being a vampire

Good self-control (even in the beginning), subtle but not secluded, already mostly nocturnal

Ethan

Ethan took becoming a vampire the absolute hardest

He was hand selected by Damiano and Victoria in 1897 - on the night of his 20th birthday - to be the third in their duo of terror

Unlike Thomas, Ethan wasn't given a choice to be a vampire. He wasn't warned of the pain, that of his human body dying but his soul living on, nor of having to watch every single person he loved in his life die in their mortal deaths - knowing he'd never even get to join them in the afterlife once again

While the other three saw being turned as a gift, Ethan saw it as a curse

He refused to drink any human blood for years upon years

Ethan turned to draining the blood of rats, of birds, of anything but humans

In his first years, he fled from Damiano and Vic, only returning in the later years of the roaring 20's, telling them that if they were to ever turn another soul, to give them a choice

Damiano and Vic agreed, so long as their Ethan would return to them

Ethan hated being a vampire, but he made it his mission to accommodate Thomas and to give him the life and choices he wished he could've recieved

Damiano

The picture of the flamboyance of the 1700's

Damiano had a rich upbringing, an upbringing of opportunity, of happiness and family love

Before he was turned, Damiano had many friends and lovers, and was extremely well loved in the city of which his father owned the land of

But when he moved to Rome for university, for higher education, Damiano was turned to a vampire, and was never to return to his family, friends, nor lovers

It was rough in his first few years, but it opened a path for Damiano that he'd thought impossible and unthinkable

He hunted at parties and was the most insatiable vampire anyone had ever heard of, sometimes seducing and feeding on 3 people in one night

The night started with a pretty woman, who would feed his blood lust and give him the confidence needed for the rest of the night

Next, if there was to be, would be the third richest man in the room - his life was to forever be a competition with the first and second, so Damiano was really doing him a favour

And finally, again, if he felt a roll coming on, Damiano would feed on a middle aged person - he found that blood aged like wine, so long as they were clean in blood

His coffin was lined in lavish velvets and silks, and was made of thick oak

It was like Damiano was born to be a vampire

for @grizzbbearr you best like this <3

[astringofmadhousefloozies]

Halloween, Part 2

So I wrote about the new Halloween event.

I know it’s almost Easter, it’s fine.

There’s a Dance Party That Never Was in the realm of ghosts. Yuu may as well be in hell. Coarse language, dubious characterization, mentions of bodily functions, and self-indulgent as all shit. More in the Twisted Wonderland Fanfiction tag, and send me a message if you wanna tell me what you liked!

~*~*~*~

It's almost midnight. It has been almost midnight for hours; your chest aches, your feet are freezing, and you cannot sleep - Even if you could figure out how to undo this chafing corset, the horrid silence and stillness of this monochrome world where only the dead live is so deathly wrong that you cannot bring yourself to rest. You tried to tuck yourself away in a side room and sleep on the couch, only to find yourself shuddering at the stillness of the air and the soundlessness of the whole building. Even the soundest of buildings creak and breath, but nothing here needs to, so you were simply assailed with the thud of your pulse in your ears and your breath rasping in your chest until, after endless nonsense doorways with your body screaming that the silence meant something worse was coming, you tore your way back into the main hall.

The shift when you opened that door sent you reeling - from utter silence to a cacophony of relentless noise, as Malleus pulled you along with a smile, tail curling around you protectively. "She agreed it was a fine idea, and..."

Your schoolmates were there in costume, looking battered - what had they been up to in this endless place - and eventually, you realized that you should probably say something.

"Yeah, uh." You rubbed at one eye, smearing mascara and rose coloured mica onto silk gloves and down your face. "The new ghosts seemed really sad. And it's hard to say no to them," you said, guesturing to the obscenely proud Malleus and Lilia, the latter currently holding a Grim that was wired for sound.

"... So you weren't kidnapped by ghosts." Ace was not looking you in the face. Neither was anyone else, for that matter.

You rolled your eyes and pulled the front of your dress higher, which did not help the spillage issue. "Yeah, no... yeah, um. They just came to get me."

~*~*~*~

You gasped yourself awake, cold hands on you, looking up at a ceiling that was familiar, but notably not the one you fell asleep under. You kicked yourself to the floor, only to be pounced on by-

Grim, who was only saved from being throw across the room by you recognizing him. "We're having another party."

"No we're not, fuck off."

"But they asked really nicely." They, being a group of ghosts in Georgian finery, peering at you with sad eyes.

"We missed the party!" She had a wig as tall as you were wide and a voice that sounded like cracked ice. "We didn't make it in time and your kind friends said they could hold one for us!"

Said kind friends simply levitated you to your feet, coming into you. Mal looked disgustingly chipper, and Lilia wrapped his arms around your middle, resting his head on your chest and blinking up at you sweetly.

You looked at the ghosts, pleading, to Lilia, shameless, to Grim, smiling, and finally to Malleus, who's smile was starting to falter.

"Where's Idia?"

"Still asleep, I promise, he's getting an invitiation, everyone's getting an invitation." Mal's... strained, but not lying. He's meeting your eyes.

"I have a distinct feeling that this is happening whether or not I say yes, so sure, yeah, okay." You're too tired to really argue. You've gotten maybe ten hours sleep total in the past week. "I'm not putting my costume back on, though." Not just because your costume was still kicked into a corner of Idia's bathroom - you have no energy to paint your face into a skull again.

Mal perked up immediately. "I have an idea."

~*~*~*~

"You've been safe the whole time?"

"Yes, Ace. We were waiting for everyone to show up and now we're having a dance party with real human food." You hadn't figured out where Mal and Lilia had kept it all - a pity, you were lightheaded with hunger. "And it's going to be big fancy fun times woo woo."

"... You're such a chipper princess. I get first dance!" And with that he dragged you off into the maelstrom of noise, lights and bodies.

~*~*~*~

Apparently, getting Cinderella'd into a pretty dress means you're free game. There's boys you've never seen before beyond passing in the halls asking to twirl you around to grating electropop, and as an already endless night slouches on, it's all a blur of sweating, leering faces who were only now acknowledging you - as a fantastic pair of tits. A lanky Pomefiore boy with wet-looking dark hair and eyes to match was carefully rotating you with nothing more of a greeting than "I guess you're cool," only to find yourself getting scooped.

There's only one person in this school who scoops you.

"Hi Floyd." Your voice came out in a whine. 

"Hi, Yuu." He was already walking you off somewhere, probably to be his captive pet for the evening. "You should avoid that guy. He's craaazy~"

"And you're a great judge of that." The lights flickering across his face hurt to look at, so you simply closed your eyes.

You felt, more than heard the laugh he let out. "I only bite people when they ask real nice, he just... does. People think we know each other but he ain't even from the Coral Sea. I think he's from some river delta."

"Huh. Wonder what his tail looks li... Oh is he the blue guy that's in the fountains sometimes?" You hadn’t recognized him without a sullen glare. Or with clothes.

"That's him." He'd finally stopped moving, and you opened you eyes fast enough to actually see Floyd kiss (and lightly gnaw) your cheek before setting you down onto your feet. "You should find your shoes."

"I didn't have any." Mal didn't know how to make them wholecloth, so you've spent this whole time in stockinged feet. They might have saved your toes; they've been tramped on so many times that you're fairly certain they're bleeding from the abuse (though that might have been the blisters).

"That sucks." He nudged you ahead enough that you stumbled. "I think you've been looking for him." With that, Floyd walked away, leaving you with -

"Idia!"

~*~*~*~

You clung to him like you were drowning, leaving streaks of makeup on his breastplate. It occurred to you, dimly, that your legs weren't working right, and it wasn't fair for him to hold you up - and yet, here you are, being squeezed tight enough that you can feel your whalebone creak, and a hand in your hair.

"Don't ever," he said into the top of your head, "do that to me again."

You gave a brittle laugh. "I didn't even wake up until they had me back into my dorm. Nearly had a heart attack."

"You tell me." He was shaking. "I didn't even see any when I woke up. You weren't there." And that was enough to scare him, and leave him open to possession. "Not the genre I wanted today."

"I'd have preferred something R rated, myself."

"You're awful." In between actual words, he's mouthing at the top of your head, as if taking a hank of hair and pearls in his teeth would keep you in place. "You can barely stay upright and are still trying to embarrass me in front of everyone."

"Mm." You're both swaying. "But you're so cute when you're pink."

"You're pink." Which was true. The dress Mal had magicked your makeshift pyjamas into was a soft rosy pink that was ruffled and bowed and honestly annoyingly well suited to you, even if the only thing keeping you from flashing your nipples to the entire student population was a strategically large ribbon trim.

"Hello Yuu! Hello Brother!"

"Hi Ortho." You extended an arm and Ortho joined your hug. "You're very happy."

"I had a full update cycle, unlike either of you. You should go to bed."

"It is impossible to sleep here. It’s too goddamned fucking quiet anywhere but this room and it's too goddamned fucking noisy in here and I got lost and I'm never going to sleep again-"

"Nope nope nope not right now, it is not crying time Do not-" He's pulling you aside to a secluded couch, while Ortho's vanished to god knows where. "When did you eat last?"

You frowned at the blue glow that was Idia through teary eyes. "That's my line."

"Yeah, well, you're full of status effects from being several types of miserable and that's quickest to solve." The couches were ornate, tufted, and made more for beauty than true comfort, but felt so much better than before. "Why are your feet bleeding?"

"People keep stepping on them. And I've been on them nonstop for what feels like a year."

"It's been nearly thirteen hours, eighteen minutes and forty seven seconds since I first woke up," said Ortho as he shoved a plate of cheese cubes and a champagne flute full of orange juice into your hands. "You eat something at least every five hours on average, and start getting blood sugar lows around six." Ortho's already pushing a napkin into your face. "On your usual schedule, you'd only be awake right now if you'd had a nap in the afternoon after class, and you're showing significant signs of pain and stress."

"... Thank you, Ortho." You hand off the food to Idia and blow your nose before Ortho puts your eye out. "I didn't know you were my doctor."

"I keep medical information on every person I care about. For example, you'll begin menstruating in two days."

You pinched your nose. "Thank you, Ortho."

~*~*~*~

"I can feed myself."

"I know." Idia smiled at you, mischief twisting his face. "But this is fun."

"I'll bite you." You grabbed his wrist and plucked the cheese from his fingers. "You know I will."

"Of course you will, but you'll crack a tooth on the Worbla."

What a good boy you had, who held you snug in his lap and kissed your tears away as he soothed you back to a human being, instead of two hundred pounds of stress crying. He even had you smiling.

"Aren't you scared someone's going to come and see?"

His smile grew strained, yet he gripped you tighter. "Please don't remind me."

"You can go, you know. I should be good now."

He took a deep breath, and made no move to let you go. "The... the only thing scarier than the entire school coming around and laughing at me because you could do so much better, is being out there and not seeing where you are."

You blinked at him, before...

"Nonononoplease stop crying there's no napkins left-"

"That is," you gasped between sobs, "the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me, and you think you're not good enough?" You frowned at the blur that was the empty glass in your hands, before tossing it to the floor and grabbing his face, fingers lacing into his hair. "There's no one better." And before he could protest, you swallowed him into a hungry, open mouth kiss.

~*~*~*~

There's voices, and despite not reacting, they continue on.

"Of course she slept! She went into another room to do so."

"She did not! She said something about tigers trying to eat her and she couldn't sleep."

"... There are no tigers here."

"I don't really know, her mouth was full of cheese and she was crying." Idia squeezed you tighter to his chest. You must have finally gotten to sleep after tearful make outs. "She was exhausted when she went to bed last... night? I don't think either of us were asleep for long. This whole week was awful for her, and you insisted on another event she didn't have the stamina for."

"And why," said Mal in his coldest tones, "do you know just when she went to sleep when she should have been home in the first-"

Neither of your boys were expecting you to push off of Idia's chest and pull Mal towards you by the collar. "What the fuck is your damage, Mal?"

Fear - the true, deep knowledge he had fucked up and might not be able to fix it - was an interesting look on his face, as he gawped like a beached goldfish for his words. You didn't let him. "Did you really do all this because you're still in a snit because I'm with him? He asked me to stay over! I'd have stayed over with you if you'd asked first! I'd have stayed over with Ace and Deuce! You're supposed to be my friend! Stop being a fucking child!"

"I'M NOT IN A SNIT!" Mal grabbed the hand at his neck with both of his, so you couldn't draw away at his volume. "The ghosts came to me, and I thought you'd have a better time at this party than one where you'd had people bothering you the whole time. I wen to find you and all there was was Grim complaining that you'd rather spend time with him."

"You might be in a bit of a snit," said the aforementioned him, who didn't say more because the hand not currently on Mal was braced on his neck for support as he was crushed down into the couch.

"... perhaps a little." Mal sighed, and finally released your hand. "Yuu... you are easily my top priority-"

"You have a terrible way of showing it."

Mal glared down at Idia, who was for once not shrinking away. "I wasn't talking to you-"

"Did you ask her if she wanted to come? Did you ask anyone that was a student that wasn't Lilia?"

"She said yes!"

"Of course I said yes!" You threw your hands up into the air, finally giving Idia room to sit up. "What was the point of saying no? You still would have brought me along, the party would still have happened, and I'd just look like an asshole for not going along! It didn't matter what I said because I was... was maneuvered into a place where I couldn't really say no!" You pointed a finger at Mal. "You need to remember that people have different ideas than you and you can't just steamroller over them. Even if they love you and care about you. Especially if that."

Mal, sensing anything he said right now would only make things worse, simply nodded. He was probably already planning an apology letter that would be obnoxiously well written and feature so many pretty words that didn't amount to much without the actions to back them up.

"I'm... I'm really done right now. I'm going to go for a loop around the room, or something. I don't know. I need my brain to cool down." You finally got fully off of Idia, plastic armour creaking as the pressure was released. "I'd go outside but the air is no good and I might get lost again because the doors don't go the same place twice. I will be back." With that, you set off on your aching feet, narrowly missing the remains of a champagne flute.

~*~*~*~

You still have no sense of time, so beyond two checks from your self-appointed chaperone, you don't know how long you've been tucked in a side hallway, the door to the ballroom propped open with an enourmous (dead) potted plant, eyes shut, when a familiar presence settled by. Far enough away that you couldn't hit him, though not so far that you couldn't toss the empty plate by your feet at him in a fit of pique.

"Am I truly so hard to say no to?" Mal's voice came from across the hall, a little further down in, so that if you wanted to leave, you could simply go back into the party instead of having to pass him.

"Incredibly so." You smiled, despite yourself. "I don't think you'd ever get truly cross at me if I said no... but you don't seem to know what to do if anyone ever thought to. Did you ever have anyone tell you no as a child?" He was a prince, after all. If someone said no to him, they were probably whipped until the flesh peeled off their back in strips.

"All the time. May I go outside? May I play with other children? May I see my grandmother, or Lilia? No, no, no." He let out a sigh, and a soft scraping noise that you realized must be his horns against the wall. "After a while, you only ask what you know will be a yes, and pretend the nos do not exist; are not an option. It's easier that way."

It must be. "I do know you meant well, I'll give you that. But you need to think. What sort of king decides something without considering the greater good of the people?"

"... You've told me that that is what kings do, and that is why monarchies much be abolished and the rule turned to the people." A small huff of laughter. "You have very colourful examples of the best ways to do so, most of which involve regicide."

"And you told me that it's not feasible within your lifetime, though the foundation for self-rule could be laid. I'm trying to meet you in the middle, here. for explanatory metaphor."

"Mm." Amazing, how a smile can be heard in so little sound.

~*~*~*~

You said in companionable silence for... it had to be less than ten minutes, as your self-appointed chaperone showed up when he said he would.

"Are you feeling better yet, Yuu?" Ortho peered by you, towards Mal. "Did you make up?"

"More or less." You finally heaved yourself up from the floor, wincing at sore feet. "We need to have an actual talk about emotional needs. Speaking of which-"

"No, he has not torn his hair out, or worn a track in the floor. He's exactly where you both left him."

"He could have at least tried to dance with someone," Mal said, more to himself than to you or Ortho.

"I don't think Azul knows how to dance. And I've been here with beat up feet. Could you..." You stood on one leg to wiggle blood-crusted toes in Mal's direction.

In an instant, he was on his knees before you. "Of course."

~*~*~*~

"Yuu?" 

"Mm?"

"I think the party's over." Idia had long ago consigned himself to pillowhood.

"Oh thank god. I wanna go home." You did not so much as twitch. Neither did Idia, but it was entirely possible that his limbs were going necrotic from the pressure.

"So do I." He took a free hand and patted it on the small of your back. "You have to move. I have dailys to get."

"Ortho can get your daily clicks."

"There's class tomorrow."

"I'm going to take a sick day and you were going to telecommute anyways."

Idia let out a weary sigh more becoming of a dog. "Yuu, I have to go pee and there's no bathrooms in the palace because ghosts don't pee."

You finally shifted off of him. "Okay if we don't make it, there's a potted plant over-"

~*~*~*~

You're actually one of the last to come back into the real mirror, and the sensation of actual, tangible reality slapped you hard enough to stumble. "Miss Yuu," Professor Trein intoned, "If you would be so kind as to-"

"No. Tomorrow. I'll tell you tomorrow. I'll write it as an essay. I'm going home." 

And you brushed past him, not going home at all.

~*~*~*~

"What day is it."

"All Soul's." You pressed the tumbler of tea into his hands.

Idia squinted at you, eyes bloodshot.

"It's November 2nd. It just feels like you're sleeping for days."

A hangover would have been simpler. Instead, post Party That Never Was, nearly the whole school, one after the other, started with miserable coughing fits and fever shakes. Easy enough to tell the source - it was every student that had been possessed coming down with the cold. Class was suspended. So, you were here, with Idia, who'd had the incredible good taste to let you know he wasn’t feeling well by coughing into your mouth yesterday morning.

He would have flopped back into his pillows if he wasn't already lying down. "Status effects are terrible."

"Yes, yes, drink the damn tea. You promised your brother."

He pouted at you, mouth twitching at the corners, barely hiding a grin. "What if I don't want to?"

You leaned in to his flushed, sweating face. "I will feed you like a baby bird."

That got him laughing, coughing, laughing more, until he had to take a sip. "I'm supposed to be the freak, stop that."

"I can be so much worse."

He tilted his head, looking at you with half-closed eyes. "You want to. Right now." It's so annoying when he's right. "You haven't taken your eyes off me once."

"Keep teasing me like that and I'll-"

"Oh, nooo!" He dropped the tumbler onto the floor. "I'm refusing to be a good patient and take my medicine!" He threw his hands over his head, crossing his wrists on his headboard. "It's too bad that I'm too sick and weak to fight back. You'd be able to do whatever you want and I can't do a thing besides cough about it."

His eyes even shinier. His chest heaving. And a vicious little smile on top of it all. He had you read far too well.

You sighed, rolled your eyes, and wrapped a hand around his wrists as you shifted to straddle him. "You're an asshole."

[ellenya]

One day, one rhyme- Day 2279

Get your craft supplies and scissors

It’s high time we had a go

At completing Easter craftings

For family, friends or beau.

Cardboard hats and pasta wreaths and

Some dried flowers pressed in books,

Some felt ears and cotton wool tails

Might warrant some funny looks,

But as Easter’s indoors this year

And visitors aren’t allowed,

We can wear our silly finery

Paired with booming laughter loud!