#about Frank finding himself in this brave new world

[the-shining-river]

He checks the kitchen window a couple times before the white roses displayed there remind him of something. Then, he understands.

Karen must have seen the news about his escape, and put the roses in the window for him.

It’s a contract that’s older than the world. It’s older than his life that, for the past thirteen years, has been spent in prison. And he has no right to breach that contract.

Он несколько раз смотрит на окно кухни, где выставлены белые розы, прежде чем это напоминает ему о чем-то. И он понимает. Карен видела новости о том, что он сбежал, и выставила розы для него. Этот договор древнее мира, древнее той его жизни, которая длилась тринадцать лет в тюрьме. И он не имеет права его нарушить.

A Million Years / Миллион лет by fandom_Hells_Kitchen_2018 team on AO3 | (image credit here)

[sabbathbloodysabbeth]

So like I am not huge on prison aus, it’s not my personal cup of tea but I just watched Shawshank redemption (and idk if anyone else gets like this where they see a movie and idea fill your head but that’s what happened to me)

A scared, barely twenty year old Eddie Munsons life ends with the clack of the gavel. The eyes of the judge staring and judging down at him, a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes as the guards on either side of him move forward and take his left and right arm.

He’s in shock.

He didn’t do it.

Eddie Munsons world ends when he’s stripped naked, sprayed down, ass checked and tossed into a cell with his new identity in his hands. The hoots and hollers of other men echoing into his cell as he puts a brave face on.

His father didn’t raise a bitch, even though he barely raised him at all.

Eddie becomes what society wants him to be, after so many years of trying to prove them wrong he becomes the crook that everyone has seen since his birth. Not necessarily a monster but not necessarily an angel either.

The first two years in prison he finds himself in solitary confinement for numerous reasons. Looking at a guard wrong, making the wardens breakfast wrong, getting into a fight, caught fucking around, or his personal favorite talking too much.

The next two years he becomes pretty popular amongst fellow cellmates. Known to be able to entertain when things got boring. Not in a sexual way, as much as that sounded like an innuendo Eddie Munson actually made everyone laugh. With his story telling, jokes or charm. His talkative nature earning friends amongst the crowds.

Which was a good thing, he was living here for life.

Eddie’s twenty five when his world starts spinning again. His brown eyes landing on a newbie. A man whose name was currently blasted all over the radios.

Steve Harrington was a peculiar man. Walked around like he owned the place, something that most men around here didn’t appreciate. Whenever his eyes landed on Eddie, his stomach did flips. The guys joked about how he was pretty much drooling, twirling his hair and kicking his feet all at once when prissy boy was around.

It was no secret that Eddie had a thing for men, it was also no secret that Eddie never fucked around with anyone who didn’t give consent.

It must have been some sick joke from one of the guys, who must have pulled some strings to get the joke done. Eddie had a bunk mate already, one that slept above him and had ever since he got there. So when it was announced he was transferring out Eddie was suspicious.

His suspicions were answered when a certain brunette landed in his cell.

Neither of the say anything to each other the first three nights of sharing the cell. Eddie had taken over the top bunk, an unspoken rule that whoever was there first got it.

Steve slept on the bottom and didn’t put much fight to switching. It’s on the fourth night when the radio silence was broken. It was one of the guys from the cell next to them.

“Do you think they’re silently fucking in their frank?” Whoever had said it purposely made it come out louder so that both men could hear it.

“Nah, you know how loud Eddie gets his men. He’s been caught how many times by the guards?” Another voice returns, it’s further down the hall and Eddie can’t help but roll his eyes.

“Shut the fuck up frank! Or I’ll make sure the guards hear you choking on my fist!”

“Is that a promise pretty boy?!” Laughter goes through out the hall. Eddie’s rolling his eyes before he moves to glance down at the man below him. Who seemed a little red in the face and a bit scared, this was the first time Eddie’s ever seen him hold any obvious emotion to his face.

“Don’t worry sweetheart you’re not my type if I ain’t yours.” Eddie assures. Watching the others shoulders relax a bit.

Eddie’s hair is falling forward, hanging down as he grins a little. Moving his hand forward to the other. Careful not to fall as he holds his balance with the other. “Names Eddie.”

Steve hesitated before he moves forward and shakes his hand carefully. His hands smooth like he’s never worked a day of his life.

“Steve.”

“I know.” Eddie grins as he asks, “so how long you in for. Need to know how long I got before I get a new face coming in here.”

“Oh- uh two years.” Steve answers gently.

“Oh that’s a cake walk, you’ve got this princess.” He winks before he moves to lay back on his own bed.

“How long you have?”

“I’m here until I stop breathing Stevie,” Eddie chuckles as he messes with the guitar pick he had. Scratching at it gently as he listens below him carefully.

“Oh.” A pause, “what did you do?”

“They say I killed a cheerleader,” Eddie answers easily. No longer bothered by answering that question. There wasn’t any point in trying to fight anymore. He was stuck in here forever anyway.

“Did you?”

Eddie snorts gently, “Nope. But lesson number one darling, we’re all innocent in here. Never gonna know who’s guilty until you get to know them, and even then that’s difficult.”

Silence falls over them once more before Steve asks, “how long have you been in here?”

“Going on five years,” Eddie moves and hops down from his cell. Moving to the built in shelf they had and grabs one of his comics.

“That’s a long time,”

“That it is.”

After that conversation things went more smoothly between the two of them. Casual conversations here and there, neither of them bothered bringing up the jokes that other cell mates made about them.

They don’t start to really get close until a year later. When Steve starts to grow out of his own shell and not the manufactured one his father made him. Eddie can feel the slight movement of his life going again, moving a few centimeters every couple of months.

It’s not until eight months after that when he starts feeling alive again. The hidden kisses, the silent moans and gentle touches of Steve Harrington fuel every beat of his heart.

It’s close to six years since Eddie’s been in here, and now he can confidently say that his father didn’t raise no bitch, because he didn’t raise him at all. It’s Wayne Munson who didn’t raise a bitch, he raised a lover.

And boy does Eddie love Steve Harrington. Every time the others hand carefully slides into his pants he feels like he can explode in more ways then just the obvious one. The way he tilts his head back and lets his mouth fall open, he doesn’t let a sound leave his mouth. Not wanting this place to claim anything else from him.

Though it’s not the prison that ruins it, it’s time. Steve’s last night comes way faster than either of them had expected. Both of them lay in the bottom bunk, carefully holding each other. Stars started to dim in both of their eyes as they talk about everything they wished they could do together.

Neither man knows what to do with themselves.

Eddie’s world stops spinning again when Steve leaves, his life leaving with him as he walks out of the cell and doesn’t return. He comes to visit once or twice but it hurts both of them more than it does any good.

Two years pass and it’s Eddie’s eighth anniversary of being in this cell. Cellmates coming and going.

It’s when a man comes to meet him when things start to change. Claiming to work for the innocence project who has gotten evidence (from another case similar to his) that proves Eddie didn’t do it. Eddie doesn’t know all the basics but he does end up walking out the door of that prison two years later. After a lengthy legal battle.

It’s been ten years and Eddie’s now thirty and unsure what to do with himself. Finding a job and place was difficult before he finds himself back at home with Wayne Munson.

Eddies life and world begin again when he hears the knock on his trailer door at the age of thirty five. When his eyes meet Steve Harringtons, whose eyes now have crow feet.

And as they land in his bed minutes later like they were at their prime Eddie lets the world, his world, Steve Harrington hear him for who he truly is.

[mabeljonesrock]

About the cast:

Sally Starlet:

-Is the star of a travelling circus of freaks and outcasts. She is known as “Sally Starlet the living puppet”. -Started off as a singing trapeze artist but had recently become the new ringmaster after he passed away, henced her outfit and staff. -She brought a laptop and is currently writing up new scripts and plays for her circus. Scriptwriting acts as a stress relief for her. -Had gotten a little more egotistical and prideful due to her fame and popularity as a circus star. But underneath all her charisma and bravado lies a tiresome workaholic constantly stressed out by all the training and fearing the government capturing her. -She is secretly suffering an identity/existential crisis about who she is after she learns the truth. -She lost one of her fingers in a circus accident.

Poppy Partridge:

-Is co-owner of the store with Howdy. -The primary caretaker of the group and does the most sewing. -While still the nervous and worrisome but still the motherly bird we know and love, she has gotten wiser over the years and is slowly accepting the fact that she is a puppet from a kid’s show and her old life before the neighbourhood was not real. -She made sweaters for herself and Howdy, who had become her best friend. -Is dating a human woman named Peg. Peg is a tough single mom of a 3-year-old boy named Peter and has been working as a nurse to survive and provide money for her and her child. She and Peg meet for the first time when Poppy helps Peter find her mom. -She lost her tail when she saved Peter from the cultists.

Howdy Pillar:

-Also co-owners of the store with Poppy. -The most knowledgeable about how to handle stores and shops. -Also the most knowledgeable about weapons. -Currently owns four rifles and two shotguns. -To customers, he’s an affable, friendly shopkeeper. To thieves, criminals and thugs, he’s a terrifying nightmare with a killer instinct. Had become very protective of Poppy and Eddie. -Lost two of his legs when a gang of robbers ambushed the store.

Eddie Dear:

-Deliveryman of the store. -Still the same but learn to be more brave and tough to defend himself and his loved ones from thugs. He is more wary and learns not to trust strangers after his mistake of befriending a “mailman” who turned out to be working for the mafia and selling him and his friends out to his boss. -He missed Frank the most out of everyone. -He also missed being a mailman. -learn how to fight with a metal baseball bat from watching videos about baseball, hockey and kendo. -lost his arm to a mafia boss.

Frank Frankly:

-Join the scientists. -resent Wally the most and want nothing to do with him anymore. -He doesn't like talking about his past as a character from a kid’s show. -Missed Julie and Eddie. -is more quiet, solemn and sombre. He doesn’t talk much now except when it comes to research, facts, explaining and discussing. He is dealing with the pain that the butterflies from his old world were not real and he longs to find a real butterfly that is not a puppet. -lost his hand to a person with Mutanster syndrome. They replaced it by sewing it with a glove.

Julie Joyful:

-The member of the A.T.T.A.C.C.(Action Turbo Team Against Corrupt Corporations) resistance. -is shown to be more tomboyish due to her appearance and attitude. -Due to trauma(learning the truth about herself, her siblings aren’t real, being separated from most of her friends, seeing too much dark shit like death and rape, suffering near-death experience twice, losing most of her hair and killing a person for the first time), she become much more chaotic, violent and unpredictable like going all out in fights and laughing manically. Her temper had gotten worse and she acted very aggressive and hot-headed to everyone she didn't like(she had serious anger issues). Possibly a puppet version of Harley Quinn. -Has a very foul mouth and swears a lot more than the puppets. -Like Frank, she doesn’t like talking about her past as a character from a kid’s show. -Lost a piece of her horn and most of her hair to a fire. She dyed her hair with colourful highlights to make herself feel better.

Barnaby B. Beagle:

-Also a Member of A.T.T.A.C.C. resistance. -Now knows how to drive from one of his human friends who is a retired driving instructor. -Is hurt by Wally’s secret the most out of everyone. -On the outside, he is still a funny and laid-back jokester from his old days. On the inside, he is secretly suffering from depression and PTSD. -now tell jokes that are more adult and dark. -lost a piece of his ear when he rescued Julie from the fire

Wally Darling:

-After he and his friends awake in the real world as living puppets, the cast(excluding Wally who already knows) later discovers the horrifying truth about their existence about how they were made, their lives before moving to the neighbourhood weren’t real and how the audience is watching them, their every move. To make it worse, Wally is the only one who knows the truth and he has been hiding it from them for 4 years. This leads to a bad falling out between them and he then leaves the group out of guilt for deceiving them. However, he soon gets kidnapped by cult leaders who force him to become their patron for the cults. He had gotten into digital drawing and had social media accounts dedicated to his drawings but had to keep his true identity a secret from the public. -During his quiet alone time, he did a lot of drawing, reading and watching episodes from the old welcome home show VHS tapes he found… -He has gotten wiser over the years and now understands more complex emotions(sadness, anger, disgust, embarrassment etc.) and how the world can be harsh and cruel. But he still blamed himself a lot for lying to his friends and bringing them into this mess. He is trying to find a way to fix the mess and atone for his actions. He also misses Home and if he stares at a house-themed item for too long, he starts to shed tears. He soon begins to have suicidal thoughts about himself… -He made a deal with the government by agreeing to help him and his friends return to their old world in exchange for working for them. He wasn’t happy about working with the government. -He stabbed his eye in a fit of self-loathing and guilt.

[seas-storyarchive]

Carl gets turned into a Necrofriggian during Alien Force because of a glitch in the Omnitrix (the samples of dna are a separate thing that coexists within the device until it's "administered" by said device) which released an output of dna.

Max, Frank, Natalie, Ken and Sandra is protected by Gwen's shield, Kevin had touched some metal.

Cue the family drama.

Carl is freaking out, Ben is the first one to try to calm him down and then Sandra goes to help.

Natalie is making a snide remark here or there, towards her "new moth-in-law", which Frank is ignoring what she directs at his brother as he and Gwen get Ken into a chair.

Max is trying to help as Kevin turns back to not be eaten.

It takes Carl a bit to get used to this..

He can still eat human food, but he also finds himself snacking on metal now and again.

Ben educates him on some things, both as himself and as Big Chill. He shows him how to become intangible and how to fly and freeze things.

Azmuth, upon discovering this, runs some tests. Flabbergasted about Carl's transformations. And then, when he hears that Max married an Anodite and had kids with her, he merely says that it made sense - both regarding Max and why Carl's dna absorbed the Necrofriggian dna so easily. As he (and Frank, but he gets a pass for being "more" Anodite than Carl) is technically missing half of his genetic code it absorbed the first source that came into contact with it.

And then, Carl experiences bringing Necrofriggian life into the world. Cravings of metal, glass, pickles, any food his dad makes.. it horrifies him and Sandra, Ben tells them it'll turn out fine and informs Gwen and Kevin to be ready for the arrival of his younger siblings. Just in time for Max to drag his ass up into space to see his kids.

And for Ben to bring said kids down to meet his sibs/their aunts/uncles.

Carl waited for the hatchings, Sandra by him in support (holding his hand and telling him he was brave and giving him other encouraging words, even after laying "their eggs"), and he sensed it before anyone else. A wail left him in anguish and agony.

A wail Sandra herself knew all too well.

Everyone was at a loss, as the puddle dried up. Not knowing what to say as Ben and his kids joined the hug. Only for those kids to chitter excitedly as a single bubble floated up from the small puddle and popped.

Carl caught and held the baby larva close, showing them how much it looked like Sandra (its wings were goldish in color and it's eyes were brown). Sandra was the first to hold the babe, Ben having to wrangle his kids from crowding his parents.

They named the baby Rowan, after Sandra's grandmother.

Rowan, after identifying as a girl as time went on and them finding out she's more human than alien, grows up alongside her nieces and nephews. It's a lot of fun for her.

[hellsitesonlybookclub]

Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne

CHAPTER XXX. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG SIMPLY DOES HIS DUTY

Three passengers including Passepartout had disappeared. Had they been killed in the struggle? Were they taken prisoners by the Sioux? It was impossible to tell.

There were many wounded, but none mortally. Colonel Proctor was one of the most seriously hurt; he had fought bravely, and a ball had entered his groin. He was carried into the station with the other wounded passengers, to receive such attention as could be of avail.

Aouda was safe; and Phileas Fogg, who had been in the thickest of the fight, had not received a scratch. Fix was slightly wounded in the arm. But Passepartout was not to be found, and tears coursed down Aouda’s cheeks.

All the passengers had got out of the train, the wheels of which were stained with blood. From the tyres and spokes hung ragged pieces of flesh. As far as the eye could reach on the white plain behind, red trails were visible. The last Sioux were disappearing in the south, along the banks of Republican River.

Mr. Fogg, with folded arms, remained motionless. He had a serious decision to make. Aouda, standing near him, looked at him without speaking, and he understood her look. If his servant was a prisoner, ought he not to risk everything to rescue him from the Indians? “I will find him, living or dead,” said he quietly to Aouda.

“Ah, Mr.—Mr. Fogg!” cried she, clasping his hands and covering them with tears.

“Living,” added Mr. Fogg, “if we do not lose a moment.”

Phileas Fogg, by this resolution, inevitably sacrificed himself; he pronounced his own doom. The delay of a single day would make him lose the steamer at New York, and his bet would be certainly lost. But as he thought, “It is my duty,” he did not hesitate.

The commanding officer of Fort Kearney was there. A hundred of his soldiers had placed themselves in a position to defend the station, should the Sioux attack it.

“Sir,” said Mr. Fogg to the captain, “three passengers have disappeared.”

“Dead?” asked the captain.

“Dead or prisoners; that is the uncertainty which must be solved. Do you propose to pursue the Sioux?”

“That’s a serious thing to do, sir,” returned the captain. “These Indians may retreat beyond the Arkansas, and I cannot leave the fort unprotected.”

“The lives of three men are in question, sir,” said Phileas Fogg.

“Doubtless; but can I risk the lives of fifty men to save three?”

“I don’t know whether you can, sir; but you ought to do so.”

“Nobody here,” returned the other, “has a right to teach me my duty.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Fogg, coldly. “I will go alone.”

“You, sir!” cried Fix, coming up; “you go alone in pursuit of the Indians?”

“Would you have me leave this poor fellow to perish—him to whom every one present owes his life? I shall go.”

“No, sir, you shall not go alone,” cried the captain, touched in spite of himself. “No! you are a brave man. Thirty volunteers!” he added, turning to the soldiers.

The whole company started forward at once. The captain had only to pick his men. Thirty were chosen, and an old sergeant placed at their head.

“Thanks, captain,” said Mr. Fogg.

“Will you let me go with you?” asked Fix.

“Do as you please, sir. But if you wish to do me a favour, you will remain with Aouda. In case anything should happen to me—”

A sudden pallor overspread the detective’s face. Separate himself from the man whom he had so persistently followed step by step! Leave him to wander about in this desert! Fix gazed attentively at Mr. Fogg, and, despite his suspicions and of the struggle which was going on within him, he lowered his eyes before that calm and frank look.

“I will stay,” said he.

A few moments after, Mr. Fogg pressed the young woman’s hand, and, having confided to her his precious carpet-bag, went off with the sergeant and his little squad. But, before going, he had said to the soldiers, “My friends, I will divide five thousand dollars among you, if we save the prisoners.”

It was then a little past noon.

Aouda retired to a waiting-room, and there she waited alone, thinking of the simple and noble generosity, the tranquil courage of Phileas Fogg. He had sacrificed his fortune, and was now risking his life, all without hesitation, from duty, in silence.

Fix did not have the same thoughts, and could scarcely conceal his agitation. He walked feverishly up and down the platform, but soon resumed his outward composure. He now saw the folly of which he had been guilty in letting Fogg go alone. What! This man, whom he had just followed around the world, was permitted now to separate himself from him! He began to accuse and abuse himself, and, as if he were director of police, administered to himself a sound lecture for his greenness.

“I have been an idiot!” he thought, “and this man will see it. He has gone, and won’t come back! But how is it that I, Fix, who have in my pocket a warrant for his arrest, have been so fascinated by him? Decidedly, I am nothing but an ass!”

So reasoned the detective, while the hours crept by all too slowly. He did not know what to do. Sometimes he was tempted to tell Aouda all; but he could not doubt how the young woman would receive his confidences. What course should he take? He thought of pursuing Fogg across the vast white plains; it did not seem impossible that he might overtake him. Footsteps were easily printed on the snow! But soon, under a new sheet, every imprint would be effaced.

Fix became discouraged. He felt a sort of insurmountable longing to abandon the game altogether. He could now leave Fort Kearney station, and pursue his journey homeward in peace.

Towards two o’clock in the afternoon, while it was snowing hard, long whistles were heard approaching from the east. A great shadow, preceded by a wild light, slowly advanced, appearing still larger through the mist, which gave it a fantastic aspect. No train was expected from the east, neither had there been time for the succour asked for by telegraph to arrive; the train from Omaha to San Francisco was not due till the next day. The mystery was soon explained.

The locomotive, which was slowly approaching with deafening whistles, was that which, having been detached from the train, had continued its route with such terrific rapidity, carrying off the unconscious engineer and stoker. It had run several miles, when, the fire becoming low for want of fuel, the steam had slackened; and it had finally stopped an hour after, some twenty miles beyond Fort Kearney. Neither the engineer nor the stoker was dead, and, after remaining for some time in their swoon, had come to themselves. The train had then stopped. The engineer, when he found himself in the desert, and the locomotive without cars, understood what had happened. He could not imagine how the locomotive had become separated from the train; but he did not doubt that the train left behind was in distress.

He did not hesitate what to do. It would be prudent to continue on to Omaha, for it would be dangerous to return to the train, which the Indians might still be engaged in pillaging. Nevertheless, he began to rebuild the fire in the furnace; the pressure again mounted, and the locomotive returned, running backwards to Fort Kearney. This it was which was whistling in the mist.

The travellers were glad to see the locomotive resume its place at the head of the train. They could now continue the journey so terribly interrupted.

Aouda, on seeing the locomotive come up, hurried out of the station, and asked the conductor, “Are you going to start?”

“At once, madam.”

“But the prisoners, our unfortunate fellow-travellers—”

“I cannot interrupt the trip,” replied the conductor. “We are already three hours behind time.”

“And when will another train pass here from San Francisco?”

“To-morrow evening, madam.”

“To-morrow evening! But then it will be too late! We must wait—”

“It is impossible,” responded the conductor. “If you wish to go, please get in.”

“I will not go,” said Aouda.

Fix had heard this conversation. A little while before, when there was no prospect of proceeding on the journey, he had made up his mind to leave Fort Kearney; but now that the train was there, ready to start, and he had only to take his seat in the car, an irresistible influence held him back. The station platform burned his feet, and he could not stir. The conflict in his mind again began; anger and failure stifled him. He wished to struggle on to the end.

Meanwhile the passengers and some of the wounded, among them Colonel Proctor, whose injuries were serious, had taken their places in the train. The buzzing of the over-heated boiler was heard, and the steam was escaping from the valves. The engineer whistled, the train started, and soon disappeared, mingling its white smoke with the eddies of the densely falling snow.

The detective had remained behind.

Several hours passed. The weather was dismal, and it was very cold. Fix sat motionless on a bench in the station; he might have been thought asleep. Aouda, despite the storm, kept coming out of the waiting-room, going to the end of the platform, and peering through the tempest of snow, as if to pierce the mist which narrowed the horizon around her, and to hear, if possible, some welcome sound. She heard and saw nothing. Then she would return, chilled through, to issue out again after the lapse of a few moments, but always in vain.

Evening came, and the little band had not returned. Where could they be? Had they found the Indians, and were they having a conflict with them, or were they still wandering amid the mist? The commander of the fort was anxious, though he tried to conceal his apprehensions. As night approached, the snow fell less plentifully, but it became intensely cold. Absolute silence rested on the plains. Neither flight of bird nor passing of beast troubled the perfect calm.

Throughout the night Aouda, full of sad forebodings, her heart stifled with anguish, wandered about on the verge of the plains. Her imagination carried her far off, and showed her innumerable dangers. What she suffered through the long hours it would be impossible to describe.

Fix remained stationary in the same place, but did not sleep. Once a man approached and spoke to him, and the detective merely replied by shaking his head.

Thus the night passed. At dawn, the half-extinguished disc of the sun rose above a misty horizon; but it was now possible to recognise objects two miles off. Phileas Fogg and the squad had gone southward; in the south all was still vacancy. It was then seven o’clock.

The captain, who was really alarmed, did not know what course to take.

Should he send another detachment to the rescue of the first? Should he sacrifice more men, with so few chances of saving those already sacrificed? His hesitation did not last long, however. Calling one of his lieutenants, he was on the point of ordering a reconnaissance, when gunshots were heard. Was it a signal? The soldiers rushed out of the fort, and half a mile off they perceived a little band returning in good order.

Mr. Fogg was marching at their head, and just behind him were Passepartout and the other two travellers, rescued from the Sioux.

They had met and fought the Indians ten miles south of Fort Kearney. Shortly before the detachment arrived, Passepartout and his companions had begun to struggle with their captors, three of whom the Frenchman had felled with his fists, when his master and the soldiers hastened up to their relief.

All were welcomed with joyful cries. Phileas Fogg distributed the reward he had promised to the soldiers, while Passepartout, not without reason, muttered to himself, “It must certainly be confessed that I cost my master dear!”

Fix, without saying a word, looked at Mr. Fogg, and it would have been difficult to analyse the thoughts which struggled within him. As for Aouda, she took her protector’s hand and pressed it in her own, too much moved to speak.

Meanwhile, Passepartout was looking about for the train; he thought he should find it there, ready to start for Omaha, and he hoped that the time lost might be regained.

“The train! the train!” cried he.

“Gone,” replied Fix.

“And when does the next train pass here?” said Phileas Fogg.

“Not till this evening.”

“Ah!” returned the impassible gentleman quietly.

CHAPTER XXXI. IN WHICH FIX, THE DETECTIVE, CONSIDERABLY FURTHERS THE INTERESTS OF PHILEAS FOGG

Phileas Fogg found himself twenty hours behind time. Passepartout, the involuntary cause of this delay, was desperate. He had ruined his master!

At this moment the detective approached Mr. Fogg, and, looking him intently in the face, said:

“Seriously, sir, are you in great haste?”

“Quite seriously.”

“I have a purpose in asking,” resumed Fix. “Is it absolutely necessary that you should be in New York on the 11th, before nine o’clock in the evening, the time that the steamer leaves for Liverpool?”

“It is absolutely necessary.”

“And, if your journey had not been interrupted by these Indians, you would have reached New York on the morning of the 11th?”

“Yes; with eleven hours to spare before the steamer left.”

“Good! you are therefore twenty hours behind. Twelve from twenty leaves eight. You must regain eight hours. Do you wish to try to do so?”

“On foot?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“No; on a sledge,” replied Fix. “On a sledge with sails. A man has proposed such a method to me.”

It was the man who had spoken to Fix during the night, and whose offer he had refused.

Phileas Fogg did not reply at once; but Fix, having pointed out the man, who was walking up and down in front of the station, Mr. Fogg went up to him. An instant after, Mr. Fogg and the American, whose name was Mudge, entered a hut built just below the fort.

There Mr. Fogg examined a curious vehicle, a kind of frame on two long beams, a little raised in front like the runners of a sledge, and upon which there was room for five or six persons. A high mast was fixed on the frame, held firmly by metallic lashings, to which was attached a large brigantine sail. This mast held an iron stay upon which to hoist a jib-sail. Behind, a sort of rudder served to guide the vehicle. It was, in short, a sledge rigged like a sloop. During the winter, when the trains are blocked up by the snow, these sledges make extremely rapid journeys across the frozen plains from one station to another. Provided with more sails than a cutter, and with the wind behind them, they slip over the surface of the prairies with a speed equal if not superior to that of the express trains.

Mr. Fogg readily made a bargain with the owner of this land-craft. The wind was favourable, being fresh, and blowing from the west. The snow had hardened, and Mudge was very confident of being able to transport Mr. Fogg in a few hours to Omaha. Thence the trains eastward run frequently to Chicago and New York. It was not impossible that the lost time might yet be recovered; and such an opportunity was not to be rejected.

Not wishing to expose Aouda to the discomforts of travelling in the open air, Mr. Fogg proposed to leave her with Passepartout at Fort Kearney, the servant taking upon himself to escort her to Europe by a better route and under more favourable conditions. But Aouda refused to separate from Mr. Fogg, and Passepartout was delighted with her decision; for nothing could induce him to leave his master while Fix was with him.

It would be difficult to guess the detective’s thoughts. Was this conviction shaken by Phileas Fogg’s return, or did he still regard him as an exceedingly shrewd rascal, who, his journey round the world completed, would think himself absolutely safe in England? Perhaps Fix’s opinion of Phileas Fogg was somewhat modified; but he was nevertheless resolved to do his duty, and to hasten the return of the whole party to England as much as possible.

At eight o’clock the sledge was ready to start. The passengers took their places on it, and wrapped themselves up closely in their travelling-cloaks. The two great sails were hoisted, and under the pressure of the wind the sledge slid over the hardened snow with a velocity of forty miles an hour.

The distance between Fort Kearney and Omaha, as the birds fly, is at most two hundred miles. If the wind held good, the distance might be traversed in five hours; if no accident happened the sledge might reach Omaha by one o’clock.

What a journey! The travellers, huddled close together, could not speak for the cold, intensified by the rapidity at which they were going. The sledge sped on as lightly as a boat over the waves. When the breeze came skimming the earth the sledge seemed to be lifted off the ground by its sails. Mudge, who was at the rudder, kept in a straight line, and by a turn of his hand checked the lurches which the vehicle had a tendency to make. All the sails were up, and the jib was so arranged as not to screen the brigantine. A top-mast was hoisted, and another jib, held out to the wind, added its force to the other sails. Although the speed could not be exactly estimated, the sledge could not be going at less than forty miles an hour.

“If nothing breaks,” said Mudge, “we shall get there!”

Mr. Fogg had made it for Mudge’s interest to reach Omaha within the time agreed on, by the offer of a handsome reward.

The prairie, across which the sledge was moving in a straight line, was as flat as a sea. It seemed like a vast frozen lake. The railroad which ran through this section ascended from the south-west to the north-west by Great Island, Columbus, an important Nebraska town, Schuyler, and Fremont, to Omaha. It followed throughout the right bank of the Platte River. The sledge, shortening this route, took a chord of the arc described by the railway. Mudge was not afraid of being stopped by the Platte River, because it was frozen. The road, then, was quite clear of obstacles, and Phileas Fogg had but two things to fear—an accident to the sledge, and a change or calm in the wind.

But the breeze, far from lessening its force, blew as if to bend the mast, which, however, the metallic lashings held firmly. These lashings, like the chords of a stringed instrument, resounded as if vibrated by a violin bow. The sledge slid along in the midst of a plaintively intense melody.

“Those chords give the fifth and the octave,” said Mr. Fogg.

These were the only words he uttered during the journey. Aouda, cosily packed in furs and cloaks, was sheltered as much as possible from the attacks of the freezing wind. As for Passepartout, his face was as red as the sun’s disc when it sets in the mist, and he laboriously inhaled the biting air. With his natural buoyancy of spirits, he began to hope again. They would reach New York on the evening, if not on the morning, of the 11th, and there were still some chances that it would be before the steamer sailed for Liverpool.

Passepartout even felt a strong desire to grasp his ally, Fix, by the hand. He remembered that it was the detective who procured the sledge, the only means of reaching Omaha in time; but, checked by some presentiment, he kept his usual reserve. One thing, however, Passepartout would never forget, and that was the sacrifice which Mr. Fogg had made, without hesitation, to rescue him from the Sioux. Mr. Fogg had risked his fortune and his life. No! His servant would never forget that!

While each of the party was absorbed in reflections so different, the sledge flew past over the vast carpet of snow. The creeks it passed over were not perceived. Fields and streams disappeared under the uniform whiteness. The plain was absolutely deserted. Between the Union Pacific road and the branch which unites Kearney with Saint Joseph it formed a great uninhabited island. Neither village, station, nor fort appeared. From time to time they sped by some phantom-like tree, whose white skeleton twisted and rattled in the wind. Sometimes flocks of wild birds rose, or bands of gaunt, famished, ferocious prairie-wolves ran howling after the sledge. Passepartout, revolver in hand, held himself ready to fire on those which came too near. Had an accident then happened to the sledge, the travellers, attacked by these beasts, would have been in the most terrible danger; but it held on its even course, soon gained on the wolves, and ere long left the howling band at a safe distance behind.

About noon Mudge perceived by certain landmarks that he was crossing the Platte River. He said nothing, but he felt certain that he was now within twenty miles of Omaha. In less than an hour he left the rudder and furled his sails, whilst the sledge, carried forward by the great impetus the wind had given it, went on half a mile further with its sails unspread.

It stopped at last, and Mudge, pointing to a mass of roofs white with snow, said: “We have got there!”

Arrived! Arrived at the station which is in daily communication, by numerous trains, with the Atlantic seaboard!

Passepartout and Fix jumped off, stretched their stiffened limbs, and aided Mr. Fogg and the young woman to descend from the sledge. Phileas Fogg generously rewarded Mudge, whose hand Passepartout warmly grasped, and the party directed their steps to the Omaha railway station.

The Pacific Railroad proper finds its terminus at this important Nebraska town. Omaha is connected with Chicago by the Chicago and Rock Island Railroad, which runs directly east, and passes fifty stations.

A train was ready to start when Mr. Fogg and his party reached the station, and they only had time to get into the cars. They had seen nothing of Omaha; but Passepartout confessed to himself that this was not to be regretted, as they were not travelling to see the sights.

The train passed rapidly across the State of Iowa, by Council Bluffs, Des Moines, and Iowa City. During the night it crossed the Mississippi at Davenport, and by Rock Island entered Illinois. The next day, which was the 10th, at four o’clock in the evening, it reached Chicago, already risen from its ruins, and more proudly seated than ever on the borders of its beautiful Lake Michigan.

Nine hundred miles separated Chicago from New York; but trains are not wanting at Chicago. Mr. Fogg passed at once from one to the other, and the locomotive of the Pittsburgh, Fort Wayne, and Chicago Railway left at full speed, as if it fully comprehended that that gentleman had no time to lose. It traversed Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey like a flash, rushing through towns with antique names, some of which had streets and car-tracks, but as yet no houses. At last the Hudson came into view; and, at a quarter-past eleven in the evening of the 11th, the train stopped in the station on the right bank of the river, before the very pier of the Cunard line.

The “China,” for Liverpool, had started three-quarters of an hour before!

[briansgermanlitblog]

Reflections on a Year of Reading German Literature

Titles Read:

The Book Thief - Markus Zusak

Refugee - Alan Grantz

The Diary of a Young Girl - Anne Frank

These books are from different countries and different time periods, but they all have a common thread of highlighting the resilience of the human spirit in times of adversity. The Book Thief by Markus Zusak is set in Nazi Germany during World War II and follows the life of a young girl named Liesel, who finds solace in books during the darkest moments of her life.It’s setting is in Germany in the beginning when the Nazi is taking power. It portrays the power of literature and storytelling to provide hope and a sense of humanity in times of war and oppression, in Liesel's case while being a non jew she sees the events caused by Hitler first hand, it’s oppression and discrimination against Jews. The unnecessary violence, the construction of concentration camps, and forced relocation of Jews all taking place in the 1900s and through these hardships people managed to persist and survive using hope and family and friends (theme).

Refugee by Alan Grantz is a fiction novel 3 stories each based on a refugee child each from 3 countries - Syria, Nazi Germany, and Cuba. It shows the bravery and persistence of each refugee in their pursuit of a better freer, and life, despite the many struggles and dangers they go against. Joseph a Jew from the Nazi Germany story, experienced tragic losses with separation and death. Joseph and his family dreamt of an end of running and hiding while triumphing over many obstacles still dies at the end. Sacrificing himself and his mother to save Joseph’s sister Ruthie from the concentration camps. After both the mother and Joseph die in the concentration camp. Signifying the theme throughout the Nazi’s era and its stories caused a lot more deaths than dreams coming true and everyone surviving.

The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank is a first hand experience of an adolescent Jewish girl's life in hiding during the Nazi rise to power of the Netherlands and Germany. It provides an introduction and story into the daily struggles and hopes of a young girl facing discrimination and forced to hide from the world - specifically the Nazi’s. Also highlights the importance of family, friends and a positive attitude towards the conflict. However Anne Frank was unable to survive World War II and Hitler’s reign even after all the safety precautions taken to avoid relocation to a concentration camp and death she couldn’t survive. Showing that the theme is life doesn’t always go your way

From these 3 books I read over the last 20 weeks, I learned that humanity can prevail even the darkest moments in history. These books show that hope, resilience, bravery, and a belief in a better future are essential to overcoming impossible situations that seem scarce in survival. The Book Thief by Markus Zusak you’re able to see the bond she makes in her new family when they open up and comfort Liesel during these tough times, like when Mr. Hubermann comforts Liesel commonly at night when she has a nightmare. Also, Refugee by Alan Grantz in Joseph’s story, Joseph in such a dark and dangerous moment in history that he bravely sacrificed himself so his sister would be spared, showing the resilience and courage Joseph had to save his sister like a highly responsible big brother. The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank, I remember while hiding in the annex from the Nazi’s, debris, and the missiles they persevered through hope, and resilience together as if by blood. They experienced tough times like being supplied with less rations and near caught experiences with the Nazi’s.

After these 20 weeks of Independent Reading I’ve learned more about myself concerning books and more about time management. For starters I’ve read business and personal finance books on the side before Independent Reading to become more financially literate. After reading more storytelling stories both nonfiction and fiction I’ve learned that I preferred reading finance books. Mainly because of the useful knowledge you gain about your future but also because the stories related to Germany are usually boring. In general I find books and reading boring. I’ve given it my best try and with an open mind but it never clicked with me. This Independent Reading assignment feels more like a chore than an actual thing I look forward to doing. On the other hand, while it feels like a chore I was able to adapt to my busy schedule and continue to read 10 pages everyday right after school and had time to go to work after.

[callmeblake]

Transcription of Frank’s article in kerrang #1773 from May, 2019

from mixtapes and regrets.com

Frank Iero

There is no resolution. There is no meaning. There are no neat bows tying up errant strands or loose ends. Because real life rarely pans out how it does in movies.

Sometimes, all that’s left is a festering pit of anxiety in the stomach – gurgling, acidic and debilitating. Because if you’re brave enough to question the apparent entropy of the universe, be prepared to end up with anything but satisfactory answers. That’s where Frank Iero finds himself in 2019, still recovering from the fallout of the day that changed his life forever.

“Thanks for not making me cry and not treating this like a fucking Oprah [Winfrey] interview,” he says, gently chuckling as we get into the heart of a lengthy, often heavy and sprawling conversation. It’s the kind of laugh that belies a very real gratitude, or perhaps relief, at not being forced to yet again retell and relive the garish details and still-raw horrors of the road accident that he and his touring party were lucky to survive in Sydney, Australia on October 13, 2016. Two and a half years on from that brush with mortality, his physical convalescence may be complete, but the psychological and emotional scars endure.

“I think about it every day,” Frank confesses. “I still have nightmares about it. That moment, I will never forget – it’s still there. It’s not like an experience that shall-not-be-named, nor do I have to shy away from it, but there are certain elements of that day that I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay with. I just have to accept it and move on, but it’s like nothing’s been settled. That’s a horrific feeling.”

It’s a chilling insight into Frank’s state of mind as the release of his new album edges closer at the end of this month. Barriers will be his debut release on UNFD, and it’s also his first with new band The Future Violents, which sees him once again joined by long-time collaborator, fellow survivor and brother-in-law Evan Nestor on guitar, alongside former Murder By Death bassist Matt Armstrong, multi-instrumentalist Kayleigh Goldsworthy from Dave Hause And The Mermaid, and Thursday’s Tucker Rule on drums. On an album full of firsts, though, chief among them is that this is the first one written since that life-changing event. Understandably, there’s a lot of pain sewn into the seams of the songs – the kind a psychologist could have a field day pulling apart and analysing. Ask the man himself what he thinks a professional might make of the lyrics on Barriers, however, and he’s got little but exasperation left in the tank. At least, right now.

“I’m fucked if I know,” Frank shrugs, with a typically stoic, good-natured smile. “Every psychologist I go to, I don’t have a good relationship with them. We don’t get along, it’s weird. I remember as a teenager going to see a psychologist for the first time ever and he told me that I should think about doing acid. So I was like, ‘Well, I guess I have to, it’s doctor’s orders,’ but that’s probably not the best advice. It opens doors, but I don’t know if that’s the advice that I would give to my kids.

“Maybe I just haven’t found the right therapist yet,” he concedes, “but I seem to end up finding people who rub me up the wrong way and give me advice that I disagree with. As if I know better…”

Maybe in this instance, Frank Iero does know best. It’s clear from talking to him alone that he is still very much in the grip of the trauma that naturally comes as a result of a near-death experience, and he readily admits that is indeed the case. But it’s one thing knowing the theory and received wisdom of how to deal with such trauma, and yet another entirely being the person who is left to pick up the pieces in the aftermath; to put that theory into practice every day. It has, understandably, changed his whole outlook on the world.

“I know this probably stems from what I experienced, but I started thinking about how violent, and sudden, and abrupt life can be,” he explains. “Elements of this world, they aren’t always the prettiest things, and they’re not always the things that we expect. Living violently, for me, means to be active in living; it’s the action of causing a ripple in a stream. To live passively, to just be a passenger, to be someone who’s just kind of observing is a very… When I think about the world being the same place it was before and after me, that feels like a sad existence. I feel like there needs to be a change caused by every life, and change is inherently violent. So when I named the band, I thought of not just the people involved in making the music, but the people who are involved in listening to it and being affected by it as these elements or conduits for change – the ripple…”

Frank talks about the ripple effect a lot now. In that respect, Barriers is something of a first creative wave on his part – the thinking being that its very existence might encourage and inspire change elsewhere, in ways which are as yet unforeseen, even to him. That comes with a lot of pressure, self-imposed or otherwise. Not that he felt that he had any choice in the matter, regardless.

“I knew what I wanted to talk about on Barriers, I just didn’t know how to say it at first,” Frank admits of the imposing challenge he faced going into the album in earnest last March. “I felt like the things that I needed to get out on this record were so enormous that every time I wrote something down, I was like, ‘That’s just not good enough, it doesn’t cut through to the heart of it.’ Sometimes you try to be too clever and it ends up blurring the magnitude of what’s being said. So it took a while. And I’m glad that it did. There are songs on this record that I’ve wanted to write for years and years and years.”

Frank Iero has been ruminating on a theory of late. It’s one that’s as disconcerting as it is complicated, but in the aftermath of the confusion and existential reflection caused by surviving a near-death experience, he’s often wondered if he’s really here at all. Imagine for a second – as he finds himself doing a lot these days – that he didn’t actually make it that day. Or perhaps that he was supposed to meet his end in the accident, and yet he somehow avoided that fate – that he’s cheated death, Final Destination-style. It sounds like classic survivor’s guilt – when a person who has experienced something tragic or catastrophic subsequently feels so unworthy that they believe they should no longer be alive – although he insists it’s something much more than that. These are the kinds of complex questions currently swirling around inside Frank’s head – an illustrative example of just how profound an effect the events of October 13, 2016 have had on him.

“There are a lot of elements of it that are really fucking weird,” he gasps, holding his hands up as if acutely aware of how ‘out there’ he sounds as he tries to explain his frame of mind. “You start to feel almost like, ‘What if that was your path and you were cheated out of it?’ And yeah, you’re happy to be alive, but at the same time this trajectory that you could have possibly been on, maybe that was your time? So, why are you here? Is there something you’re supposed to do? What if you’re not supposed to be here, and you’re just fucking everything up?”

He takes the edge off the weight of that grim thought by adding in a touch of gallows humour – something he does a lot nowadays – by suggesting that maybe it’s his fault the current president is such an abject failure, as if somehow his own survival that day has had the knock-on, chaos theory-like butterfly effect of creating that disastrous ripple in the wider scheme of things.

“I don’t know if it gets any easier with time,” he frowns, considering the possibility that this eternal questioning of everything may be his reality now. “This [event] has absolutely, 100 per cent changed my life. When you watch movies and people have these kinds of experiences, they’re usually like, ‘Oh, but now I feel great about it, because I could have died and everything’s awesome.’ I mean, I’d like to think that. So you’re left wondering, ‘Why don’t I feel like that?’”

It doesn’t help that he’s since had to return to Australia for a doctor’s appointment, bringing the ordeal back to the forefront of his mind – a “really fucked-up experience” which resulted in a week-long panic attack from the moment he stepped off the plane. But while he says that everyone involved in the crash is doing much better now and they chat about it occasionally, they all have days where it’s still as frightening as it is difficult. It’s a struggle captured ultra-poignantly on the song Six Feet Down Under. ‘There’s a part of me that’s not sure if I’m here / Yeah, there’s a definite part of me that don’t believe in the now / And that’s just the start of it, ‘cause I ain’t convinced you’re all real’ Frank sings, laying out the full extent to which he is wrestling with the weight of what’s happened to him and trying to make some sense of why.

“Not to get all weird and metaphysical,” he begins by way of a jocular disclaimer, before indulging those very tendencies, “but like, is it possible that there’s these crossroads or branch-off moments where things could have gone one of two ways? And maybe there are different planes of existence where we didn’t make it. And this one where we did. And am I currently living in that one? I don’t know. Even in my therapy sessions, no-one can really answer all the questions that I have. Did I actually come out the other end? Am I still alive? Or is this all just a weird figment of my imagination? No-one can truthfully answer that question, or tell you that this is real.”

It puts into stark focus the scale of the task Frank Iero faced in writing Barriers. It makes you wonder how he managed to get through it at all, when his mind was plagued with demons and dilemmas much bigger than the average human being ever faces, let alone an artist trying to express such thoughts and feelings creatively.

“I came to a resignation,” he explains of the process of rebuilding himself from those depths. “Whether I believe it or I don’t, or I question it or not, I’m here, and I have to live in the world that I perceive to be the real world. You can’t just be like, ‘Oh well, this isn’t real. So, I’m gonna just start fucking going off, snorting rails and betting the house, because it doesn’t matter.’

“You have to accept this life and I’m thankful for this life, because I have my wife and my kids and my family,” he continues, gripping on to the only tangible sources of comfort and reassurance he can muster. “I’m making music that I really enjoy and I’m very lucky. If this is a figment of my imagination and I wake up at some point, I’m going to be so bummed.  I listen to this record and I go, ‘Wow!’ but I think, ‘Well, this is the kind of record I could only make if I was actually dead and I did it all in my imagination!’ That’s where I’m at right now.”

Admittedly, where Frank Iero is at right now seems like a place of tremendous pain and darkness, but in the process of rebirth and finding himself again via Barriers, he’s happened upon a path that may yet be marked ‘enlightenment’, ‘peace’ or at the very least offer some form of contentment.

Incredible as it is to think, given all that has come before, this is the most personal set of songs that Frank Iero has ever been involved in. It will also, he claims, be his last album. But then again, he says that every time he makes a new one. This time, however, he has good reason to believe in his own fatalism, given the close-call nature of the cards life has dealt him in recent years. It’s why a record he believed would be his last one needed to be filled with firsts. After all, if there’s a possibility that you’re not going to ever get to do this again, why not give it everything you’ve got left, right? That’s why he’s stepped outside of his comfort zones in ways he could scarcely have imagined before now. That’s why his face appears on the cover artwork for the first time ever. That’s why a lot of the stuff that’s made the final cut are actually first takes (“Shit’s unforgiving, so you better be on”). That’s why Frank has written in a much more direct and personal way than he has ever done. And it scares the crap out of him.

“There are a lot of things on this album that, oh man, they just freak the fuck out of me,” he admits with a nervous grin, bearing in mind the imminent prospect of sending it out into the wider world. “On the first record [2014’s frnkiero andthe cellabration’s Stomachaches] I feel like you can hear a lot of me trying to hide behind stuff. I don’t fault myself for that, because it was right for that time, plus I don’t think I really knew that the record was ever going to come out. I made it to put in my drawer and maybe play it for my kids one day. I swear I never expected to be doing this. You can probably listen to that record and tell, ‘This person doesn’t think anyone’s going to hear this music!’

“This time, there’s stuff about my relationship with my parents, and my mom especially,” he says of this new, open and more transparent version of himself. “That stuff’s been touched on before, but this was a pretty raw time to do it. Each song is about a moment in time, where there was either a wall being built up or broken down.”

Hence the record’s titular thread and theme. It’s a sentiment echoed in the words of the artwork’s inscription, too. For that, Frank enlisted his father’s handwriting. It reads: ‘Everything from nothing, with nothing to prove, destroy the walls they built around your heart, keep the faith’ underneath the ever-significant and recurring digits 1-3-1.

“They’re an important grouping of numbers for me – one and one being my wife and I, and the three in the middle being my kids. But also, when I first started playing guitar, my friend John had this Telecaster that he had 13 inscribed on, which he gave to me and I used it a lot. So when I made my own guitar, the Phant-o-matic, I put a 13 on it and then when My Chem ended I started this new chapter, so I reversed the numbers to 31. It’s also my birthday [October 31]. So these numbers keep coming into my life.”

The breakthrough moment apparently came with the fittingly-titled, Stax-like soul of A New Day’s Coming, which opens the record and acts as a vessel for “wiping the slate clean and starting anew”. Ironically, it’s a song that he’s been trying to nail for years – existing in nascent form first as a lullaby that he used to sing to his children, and later as a demo that he’d challenge anyone to recognise now.

“Sometimes I feel like songs are like relationships,” he begins, explaining the extended gestation period for that one. “You meet people along the way and you’re like, ‘Oh wow, this could be really great. But we’re not at the right time in our lives for each other.’ They’re all like little love affairs. New Day… is like saying, ‘Forget everything you know, let’s start from here,’ which works in your own personal life, but also in your sitting down to digest the record.

“That really captures what I’m trying to get across with the name of the record, too,” he adds. “We’re so concerned with protecting ourselves that we build up these obstacles and these barriers that we think are going to keep us safe, but they end up holding us in, stopping us from experiencing new things, and we miss out on so much. So there’s that duality to it.”

Duality is key to a lot of what Frank has committed to record on Barriers. In pouring his soul out on these songs, he’s had to expose parts of himself that even he feels uncomfortable with. It’s a cleansing of sorts; expelling all that he’s had bottled up inside and exploding into full view for the first time – a kind of recorded caterpillar metamorphosing into a butterfly.

“You have to remain hopeful, to wipe the slate clean and start anew,” he reflects on the process. “Because not every day is going to be great. Some days are gonna fucking suck, but you have to get back up, brush it off and fucking try again. You have to. Quitting is not an option. There are so many things in this world that are designed to bring us down, that’ll make us bleed and hurt. We don’t need to be an extra thing on top of it all.”

Despite all of the evidence to the contrary in the world around us, Frank can, however, see a distant silver lining in the clouds above.

“I do feel like, as far as times are concerned, it’s cyclical,” he offers by way of a hopeful parting message. “There is going to be a rain to wash this all away. Not to say that we need to take a passive backseat to it – we need to be violent and active in doing things to create that change – but we can’t just say, ‘Oh, everything’s fucked, it’s over. Burn it down.’ We have to turn the hose on and wash the scum off the streets.”

And that lack of resolution gnawing at the back of his mind all this time? All part of life’s great mystery. That’s as much as he’s got for now, and maybe that’s just fine.

“Sometimes you just end up with more questions in life,” Frank admits, wryly. “I like that dialogue of ‘what if?’ That search is not about finding answers. That searching and asking those questions? That’s the growth. It’s like life – we don’t know why we’re here, but all we can do is keep asking questions…”

(See my posts about his article, including the posters, here)

[thezanyarthropleura]

Film Ranking and Retrospective

So, after evaluating all twelve Gamera films based on purely objective metrics like turtle spin velocity, character development, how much I cried, number of potential sapphic relationships, and least amount of tapeworm, here they are from favorite to least favorite:

Gamera the Brave

Gamera: Guardian of the Universe

Gamera 3: Revenge of Iris

Gamera 2: Advent of Legion

Gamera: Super Monster

Gamera vs. Zigra

Gamera vs. Guiron

Gamera vs. Barugon

Giant Monster Gamera

Gamera vs. Gyaos

Gamera vs. Viras

Gamera vs. Jiger

Gamera the Brave takes the top spot for being so much more than it needed to be, perhaps taking a few steps outside what makes a typically good monster movie to just be an all-around great film. Of course, the Heisei trilogy still aren’t far behind, balancing the two a lot better than the Brave does and building an excellent cast of characters to the point that the hardest decision on this entire list, and the one I’m most likely to go back on at any moment, is ranking these three films against each other. Super Monster reaches for the stars just like the Brave does, daring to be something wholly unique despite its objective flaws, and is held back only by a gut punch ending after the likes of which I can’t actually make myself put it higher than the Heisei films. And of course, the rest of the Showa films are still going to end up ranked lower by being products of their time and having a relatively limited approach to in-depth storytelling, but there are still some I find exceptional for more unique reasons than I once thought I would. I even genuinely like most of Jiger, it’s just so much sensory hell it can be tricky to watch.

But my goals during this extended fixation weren’t really centered on pitting the films against each other - there was a lot of discovery, too. About halfway through March I did something I hadn’t expected I’d want to at the beginning, and bought myself the Arrow Video complete Showa era collection, mainly to get a physical copy of Super Monster but also with the bonus of getting to see Japanese versions of all eight films. In fact, I’ve now seen the Showa films probably just about any way one can see them, be that the subtitled original Japanese version, the AIP dub or first import English version, the Daiei pre-international dub (which I’ve learned is a more accurate term than “Sandy Frank”), the MST3K edition, the MST3K KTMA edition, the MST3K Fanmade edition, or specifically in Gamera: Super Monster’s case, the Elvira’s Movie Macabre edition or the Cinema Insomnia edition that’s missing a whole third of the movie.

That’s quite a lot of watching the Showa movies, and I think really a big theme for all of this was gaining a better appreciation of those films, specifically Noriaki Yuasa and his vision. He imagined Gamera as a hero for children, specifically because, as a child himself, living through the second World War and its aftermath, he came to believe adults were untrustworthy and too easily swayed by propaganda, and if that doesn’t make him the most relatable kaiju film directer of all time I don’t know what could possibly top it. Screw Gamera: Rebirth, the next one should be Gamera vs. Fox News.

Oh, right, speaking of which, I haven’t talked about that, either. And that’s because most of the major reasons I like the existing Gamera films so much tend to be more happenstance, and have little to do with how well they’ve followed the franchise formula. So far, nothing about Gamera: Rebirth has told me anything about how well it will handle its human characters, whether any of their stories will be relatable to me personally, whether it’ll have a strong environmental stance like Zigra, and actually with what we’ve seen of the cast, it seems like there aren’t going to be too many women in this series at all. Of course, that could always change, and there’s always a chance the one lady we’ve seen in the trailers could be compelling enough on her own to still make it a favorite, like with Mai in Gamera the Brave, but we won’t know anything for sure until release. But if, as seems most likely, Rebirth really is just a throwback to the early Showa era, I think now I can be a little more okay with that.

(I do actually quite like the monster designs revealed thus far. If I ever go back and write that possible Gamera vs. the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sequel, there’s a good chance of that magenta Neo-Jiger showing up in the Triceraton arena).

I think, if I were to put into words what makes Gamera unique among kaiju cinema, it’s that Gamera is most consistently a story about a giant monster interacting with humans, in most cases one or more specific humans. When I write for Toho kaiju (and by that I mean Battra), I’ll admit I’m basically just using yet another combination of the 37853590434 creative ways people have come up with to tell a story that’s still really about humans but using the monsters as the characters - and we do this because the monsters do have character. Unlike most giant creatures in the west, Japanese daikaiju represent things, they have emotions and personal values and life purposes, and often unique dynamics in interacting with one another. But you can’t really do much with just this side of things for the Gamera franchise, since there’s not a single monster in any of the full-length films whose relationship with Gamera is anything but antagonistic. But Gamera is already about the relationship between humans and monsters, and that was what I wanted to specifically take these couple of months to explore here, as it’s very similar to the stories I've already been straying farther from canon in order to tell with the friends and enemies of the other Big G.

As far as most of the western kaiju fandom is concerned, having such a focus on humans might appear to be the biggest risk the Gamera movies ever took, given how many fans I often see dismissing the human characters as unimportant at best, annoying at worst. Personally, I beg to differ, and the more I rewatch these films, the more I’ve begun to appreciate how remarkable it is that this one subset of historical foreign cinema, with the characters it portrays and the values it represents, became embedded in western culture all because there happened to be a market for imported special effects films. There are actually quite a lot of kaiju movies whose stories inspire me to want to write about the humans as well as the monsters. But the top of that list, if I wrote it out, would probably be stacked with more Gamera movies than anything else.

[moviefunforeveryone]

98: Death to Smoochy (2002): “Corrupt politicians make the other ten percent look bad.” so said noted war criminal and current resident of the fiery pits of Hell Henry Kissinger, and what this film presupposes is, yes, but the politicians are actually Kids entertainers. And Society. Imagine if you will that the lovable and extremely wholesome entertainers of our VERY children, were actually perverts drug addicts, crooks and of course, real jerks. Now imagine a movie where One Brave Man stands up against this rot and gives our children, and maybe ourselves exactly what it is we need. Well that is in the broadest strokes Death To Smoochy, and yet somehow it still fuckin rocks. Robin Williams is Rainbow (fuckin') Randolph beloved TV entertainer who among a myriad of flaws has been taking cash to put kids in prime locations on his extremely popular children's show. Unfortunately for Rainbow it is a pre 9/11 world (altho released in 2002 it is a very pre September 11 vibes time) and so the government actually had time to thwart his corruption. He is arrested for many crimes and most importantly loses his show. John Stewart the man in charge of Kidsnet shows (Marion Frank Stokes) has a problem, he needs his new host to be squeaky fucking clean, but when going through a list of potential replacements all he finds is reprobates, except for 'Absolute Sap' Edward Norton (Sheldon Mopes) the creator of none other than Smoochy The Rhino seen weekly at the Coney Island Methadone Clinic. Catherine Keener (Nora Wells) exec producer/child's tv host love maker is hard on Mopes until the time comes when she see that this Sap is strong as an Oak tree. No I don't really know what that means. Featuring winning turns by Harvey Firestein and Danny Devito (also the director) and one of the funniest line reads I have ever heard 'When Spinner Dunn punch drunk sweetie pie says “Don't go anywhere, Smoochy. I'll be right back after I take a dump ”' this movie is good. I mean obviously I have it on my list. DeVito as director is always interesting because the man himself is very interesting, when he's doing comedy I think he can sometimes go too hard for the 'dark' side of things, not in a shitty edge lord kind of way but from a pretty fair and correct POV. He is rare in mainstream celebrities in that he seems to have a good idea of what the problems are and more important the system that causes them (Capitalism BABY) but sometimes he just goes a step too far when describing it in comedy. I think that is where this film is not as tenable to a wide audience, ESPECIALLY back in 2002, even with the pall of 9/11 the world was still very gung ho about Crapitalism (patent pending) and any real critiques of it, especially ones that can verge on sour were really unloved by most people. A thing I will probably mention again and again is that I worked for almost 10 years in multiple video stores, and my experiences with this film were pretty singular. Women despised it back in the early to mid 00's. And I don't mean that in some shit head anti woman way, just that in my experiences women really hated this thing. I will update to say that in present day I have met plenty of women who enjoy the film and so I assume it is a cultural change not a gender change. OK COOL In closing I love this movie Williams is electric, Keener is really underrated and conveys anger and vulnerability expertly, DeVito is a good director heavy handedness or not, and he has some really lovely shots especially dealing with the taping of the Smoochy show. And look you're gonna find gentle reader that I am always gonna be into art that tells me not loving commercialism is good and if you don't that's a you problem.

[sunpirate]

But a part of Jason felt grateful.

As the searing pain started to flood from his chest to every molecule of his body, as his lungs started to fill with blood, as his senses numbed and his vision started to blur, Jason felt grateful.

That it was him. It was him and not Piper. It was him and not Apollo. It was him and not the demigod child he met just a few moments ago, who would have been far too young to suffer this type of fate. It was him, and by word of prophecy, that meant no one else would have to die tonight.

The cries of his friends sounded distant. He spent his remaining energy whispering his last request to Tempest, to take his friends as far away from here as the storm spirit can. He didn’t have the strength to look up and see if they made it out.

And as he lay on the broken floor of the sinking ship, his own warm blood pooling around him, his thoughts wandered to his other friends.

To Reyna, with whom he had shared many wonderful memories, who had been a faithful soldier, a reliable leader, an even greater friend, and one of the strongest heroes he had ever met. Jason was certain her name would end up in history books and tales of legend. He wondered if he had done enough to help her protect New Rome when they were both praetors.

To Nico, whom he deeply regretted ever doubting, who had shown Jason that people could be brave and true to themselves in more ways than one, who had been a friend that Jason needed just as much as Nico needed him, and it pained Jason to the end of the earth that he didn’t let Nico know when he could.

To Thalia, his sister, his family, whom he wanted to so desperately let know that he didn’t want to leave her a second time, yet knew she would understand his decision, but still wished he could have spent more time exchanging stories with, and that he could have hugged tighter and longer the last time they were together.

To Coach Hedge, that wild, old satyr, always charging ahead even when the enemy was stronger. Jason was heartbroken he couldn’t live long enough to watch Hedge’s son grow, but Jason’s certain he would grow to be as selfless and kind as his mother, and as stubborn and brave just like his father. He couldn’t have asked for a better protector.

To Percy and Annabeth, whose leadership, strength, and courage he had always admired, who as heroes he was honored to have fought alongside, and as friends he was honored to have made, and his friends at Camp Halfblood, who had taught him so much, and had given him a second life.

To Hazel, Dakota, Gwen, and his friends at Camp Jupiter, who made that place home for him. He thought about the little moments they shared: the dinners, the training, the midnight chats in the barracks. He felt more at ease knowing New Rome is in good hands with soldiers like them, and his faith in Frank as a leader had never once wavered. And in the back of his mind, he knew Hazel would be praetor one day, grieving for another moment that he would be unable to stick around to witness. He was immensely proud of his fellow soldiers, whose strength, bravery, and unity were marks of true Romans.

To Piper, the girl he wholeheartedly loved, whom he never regretted giving his heart to, because she was beautiful, because she was reckless, because she wore her heart on her sleeve, because she never turned her back on anyone who needed her, because she took her world into her own hands. He embraced her flaws, he loved her little habits, and he understood her enough to understand she wasn’t telling him everything, which was okay, because he also saw something in her that he once felt himself - the desire to understand your own identity, to feel secure with yourself, to have something to hold onto - and she deserved the chance to find it, even if she didn’t find it with him. He still loved her deeply, even after she left.

And to Leo, that crazy, wonderful, brilliant boy, the hero he was proud to have ever called his best friend. It had taken Jason all his power not to blow up a fuse and cut the power off for an entire city the moment he heard the news about his return. It had taken Jason twice that amount to look for him everywhere he could. He wished so painfully to let Leo know that they never once gave up hope of finding him, that even after his death they still wouldn’t have imagined ever leaving him out. He wished so painfully to feel the warmth that was so uniquely Leo’s once more. He would have given anything to hear him crack one of his ridiculous jokes just one last time. But even more so, Jason wishes Leo can find peace after returning to a world where they can never see each other again. “Sticking around is my specialty,” Leo once told him. And Jason didn’t doubt it one bit.

Sorry I couldn’t do the same, buddy.

He accepted his regrets. He accepted his mistakes. Moreover, he accepted his fate.

He prayed Apollo would be successful with his mission. He prayed Meg could live longer than he did. He sent out a silent apology and farewell to all of his friends, still holding the utmost respect for them until the end.

And slowly, he closed his eyes and emptied his mind, laying himself to his final rest.

The time it took for these thoughts to fly by would not be over a minute. After that, Jason Grace would exhale one last time, with the memories of the people close to his heart keeping him company up to his final moments as he lay alone in a collapsing ship.

[newt-and-salamander]

Okay, so here are my thoughts on Secrets of Dumbledore based on what we recently learned from the synopsis:

Professor Albus Dumbledore knows the powerful Dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald is moving to seize control of the wizarding world.  Unable to stop him alone, he entrusts Magizoologist Newt Scamander to lead an intrepid team of wizards, witches and one brave Muggle baker on a dangerous mission, where they encounter old and new beasts and clash with Grindelwald's growing legion of followers.  But with the stakes so high, how long can Dumbledore remain on the sidelines?

First of all: “Secrets of Dumbledore” is a quite boring name (I mean a few people even (almost) guessed it before) but I think it’s practical. It can refer (obviously) to Albus, but also to Credence/Aurelius, Aberforth, Ariana, … and whoever might be a secret Dumbledore. (Jacob? Picket?!? Everyone, probably.) Taking into account the author’s ominous “answers are given” she once said about FB3, I believe in the end we will know how exactly Credence, Dumbledore and Grindelwald are connected.

Also, I wonder how much the film really will be about Dumbledore? “Crimes of Grindelwald” wasn’t really about Grindelwald after all. I imagine it to be about Dumbledore and his family in the beginning, probably some flashbacks, then he gives Newt some kind of a mission. The main part of the film could be about Newt and his team trying to accomplish that mission, and in the end (maybe when Newt fights his duel with Grindelwald), Dumbledore realises that not everything turned out as he planned (or did it?) and decides that “the stakes are too high to remain on the sidelines”. The question is if he will be able to openly move against Grindelwald, that depends on the blood pact and maybe on whether Newt is able to accomplish his mission. Or maybe, Grindelwald fighting Newt already counts as moving against Dumbledore so he will break the blood pact first? But I rather think, both Dumbledore and Grindelwald are too smart to break the pact on accident – we don’t know of the consequences they would have to face if they violated the pact, but I don’t doubt they would be terrible.

What made me frown at first, but happy after I gave it some more thought, was the idea of Newt as a team leader. Because – I don’t really see him as a leader. He’s a private and quiet person. But (and this is the good part) he is also an absolute expert for magical beasts. So, if he is to lead a team, it is certainly because of something beast-related! And I love this possibility. It’s “fantastic beasts” after all, and in my opinion, the creatures are the most magical part of the films!

What are Newt and his team doing on their journey? I can see two main possibilities here: a) looking for a way to destroy the blood pact, b) looking for a way to properly separate an Obscurus from its host. A blood pact seems to be a very powerful kind of magical bond/object, but let’s not forget that Harry managed to destroy a Horkrux with a Basilisk’s fang – so maybe there are other beasts with strong curse-breaking abilities? As for the Obscurus, we know that Newt has tried before with a girl, but she died. We just don’t know if this was because he hadn’t perfectionated the spell yet, or if he just came too late to save her.

So, who is on the team? Jacob for sure, I don’t know another brave Muggle baker. I’m also sure Bunty will come along as it was said that she will be much more important in this film, and she also is a beast expert. Tina? Hopefully! Nagini and Yusuf Kama? Probably, because otherwise, what would be their purpose (sorry)? Theseus? Nah, he’s a ministry man, I suppose he will concentrate on politics. (And I can’t really see him being bossed around by his little brother. :D But it would be lots of fun. Maybe he will be on the Berlin part of the mission because I don’t imagine lots of creatures living there.) Then we have the ominous Eulalie Hicks who has to fit in somehow, but we don’t know enough about her at this point to know whether she will rather accompany Newt or maybe will be more of a kind of advisor for Dumbledore. And, of course, I wonder if we will see Flamel again? He’s an alchemist, so maybe he has some ideas about how to destroy a blood pact.

Regarding “old and new beasts”, we will certainly see Pickett and the Niffler (they are just too popular now and can’t be left out. Also, I’m rather sure Newt won’t go anywhere without Pickett. The Niffler has proven to be rather useful, especially now that he can track Tina’s footsteps, hehe. Okay, stealing the blood pact also was rather useful I admit). I wonder if we might also see Frank again, maybe connected to Eulalie. I really hope to see the Zouwu, I just loved her and maybe that’s (part of) the reason for a trip to China? As for new beasts… I have no idea and I doubt that my current copy of Mr Newt Scamander’s book will be a great help because some of the creatures weren’t featured in it before they appeared on screen. But I’m sure we will see a lot of the Phoenix (Fawkes?) because it/he is clearly connected to the Dumbledores. And what about the Kelpie? It still appears a little strange to me that Newt’s scene with it in CoG wasn’t cut for time as it has no connection to the plot - unless it has and we just have to find out.

It is also mentioned that Newt and his team will clash with Grindelwald’s followers. It’s obvious that this will involve Credence who is going to have a scene with Dumbledore (I think Jude Law said something like that, about having a scene with Ezra set in Berlin?). I also really hope we will see a lot of Queenie and learn more about her motivation because although we were shown her reasons to join Grindelwald in CoG, it didn’t really convince me. I especially hope for a scene with her and Tina, but… well, let’s just hope, okay? Another one of Grindelwald’s followers who I think has a very interesting role is Grimmson. He’s an undercover spy (so there’s a lot of potential for dramatic scenes where he turns out to be a traitor and turns against the ministry) and also it’s implied that he and Newt have some kind of a backstory (although that also wasn’t too clear in the film, but you could learn from the script that he hunts down magical creatures – and that’s most likely the reason why Newt and he hate each other, although it’s possible they had some more personal connection in the past… maybe fought together in the war or worked at the Ministry and were both disgusted by the other’s methods). I personally think he would be a great antagonist for Newt because their hatred for each other is so personal and natural, maybe Newts has a stronger dislike for him than for Grindelwald (much like Harry hated Snape more than Voldemort). But well, we know that in the end it will be Newt against Grindelwald…

…and that’s a point that worries me. Newt is astonishingly capable of getting himself out of dangerous situations with the help of his beasts, and he has already once defeated Grindelwald together with Tina, the Swooping Evil, and all of MACUSA’s Aurors. If this epic battle scene in the end is a 1:1 Newt against Grindelwald I see… well I don’t really see a way Newt could possibly win this fight. He’s clearly a really capable wizard but duelling is not his main interest. It might be enough to trick traffickers and escape, but we have already seen him in the NY underground fighting Grindelwald and I don’t know how it would have ended for him if Credence and Tina hadn’t interrupted the scene. Let’s see how he get’s out of the situation this time (and nope, please don’t let anybody sacrifice him- or herself for Newt, I want them all to be happy and alive… but if somebody is going to die for Newt I assume it’s either Bunty or Theseus. But, as I just said, this is definitely not going to happen because I love them all very much, so there’s no need to discuss that). I just hope the film doesn’t end with a cliff-hanger like Newt being defeated and taken hostage… because I cannot possibly wait at least another two years to learn how they solve this. Also, I have no idea if – from a marketing point of view – that would be a very good or a very bad idea. I think everyone just wants to see Newt happily together with Tina at the end of the 3rdfilm, but… who knows.

Anyway, these are my thoughts on Secrets of Dumbledore up to this point. I am super excited just thinking about the fact that we will get photos and a trailer soon!

[happyreid187]

Privilege - Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

WC: 2.1 K

A/N: Sad Spencer post nightmare comfort. Discovering and sharing feelings about each other. Mild angst then fluff. I wrote this after my season 8 rewatch but it’s not explicitly situated in any particular season. 

Warnings: Brief mentions of Spence’s various trauma; case issues, mom issues, drug use, generalized dark and twistiness. Insecurity. Swearing. Single sentence implying reader grew up religious. References to sex but not actual smut. 

____

With both of us working insane hours, we agreed early on to be casual, and then completely and entirely ignored that agreement in every way except verbiage. Avoiding labels and verbal expressions of affection, I pretended that it wasn’t emotional self destruction to spend every waking hour with this man who was notably not my boyfriend. With the amount of affection between us, it was easy to pretend it was something more. When we weren’t working, I essentially lived in his bed.

____

I was deep asleep when I heard him whimpering, waking to find him tossing and turning, breathing quickly. It took me a second to get my bearings, but when I did, I woke him as gently as I could

“Spencer! Spence.” His eyes shot open, and he immediately jumped, looked to me with his eyes welling up, and started shaking.

“Hey,” my voice was desperate as I wrapped my arms around him, “Baby, what’s the matter?” The pet name was generally reserved for other activities in this bed, but it felt appropriate now. I ran my fingers through his hair, trying to calm him. “Was it about a case?”

“It was about...” he started. “No, I don’t want to freak you out!” He sort of tossed and turned again, now in my lap. “This isn’t your job, you shouldn’t have to deal with this.” He sounded angry; with himself, and the situation. I tried to ignore the feeling that’s he might be angry with me.

“Why would it freak me out? Your job is depressing as shit, Spence. This is kind of predictable. Talking through it with you? None of this is work for me. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but you can.” I said, waiting for him to decide how to proceed.

He fiddled with his hands in that nervous way of his. “It was about you. First, you were breaking? Like glass on a windshield? Cracking but not falling apart. And everything around us was breaking; the phones and then the walls and then your face,” his voice broke then, “and then my own chest.”

Where the tears were only threatening to overflow before, he was really crying now, in a way I’d never seen him do before. In a way grown men rarely do in our terrible society if they can avoid it. In a way that made it hard for either of us to breathe. “But then it sort of mixed with work, and there was an unsub and he had you, and I couldn’t get to you. I tried, but I couldn’t get to you, and then...” he paused there, and I inferred the rest by his pained silence.

“You don’t have to keep going, I get it. And I’m not freaked out. I’m right here, Spencer. You’ve got me, and I’ve got you too. You are okay. You’re okay.” he didn’t say anything for a minute, and I rethought my words. “I’m not trying to belittle or silence you. I know you don’t feel okay. But you’re here with me, and no one’s broken, and you’re breathing, and I’m breathing, and you’re okay.”

“I’m not worried about me...” he grumbled, like it was obvious. Like I was wasting our time, worrying about him.

“Well I’m fine. I’m good. I’m happy to be here for you.”

He looked up at me doubtfully. “How can you be happy to be woken up at 4:02 am?”

Too sleepy to veil my feelings entirely, with words like adoration and devotion drifting through my head, I settled on saying, “It’s a privilege to have the chance to be here for you, and support you, and help you feel better. I have you, and you have me; okay? I’m here.”

“I’ve got you...” he softly echoed my words from earlier.

“You’ve got me.” I answered easily. It was a simple, honest fact to share.

There was a shift in him then. He pushed himself up with one arm, leaning back and staring at me, looking exasperated and vaguely frantic, like he just realized something was wrong. He looked almost angry as he asked “What the fuck are we doing?

I didn’t even know how to begin to answer that question. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m having nightmares about losing you, you’re like, taking over my subconscious, and renting all this space in my head, and then I wake up to find you here, in my bed, drying my tears and calling it a privilege! Like do you have to be so... I don’t know. Warm?” Well, that was a new one. I had never known that to be a bad thing, particularly with him. He flocked to my sentimentality like a moth to a flame.

He wasn’t done though. “I never intended to care about someone this much. It’s confusing for me. I know you have your catholic guilt, but you don’t have to martyr yourself for me. Dealing with my shit is emphatically not a blessing.” He took a deep breath and braced himself. He half smiled, half sobbed, and to be frank, he was freaking me the fuck out. “Unless you..” he trailed off. IQ of 187; an epic communicator, this one. I gave him a look that begged him to continue, holding my tongue as if he would break, like the dream, if I spoke. He sighed heavily, trying to catch his breath. I reached over hesitantly, unsure if he wanted to be touched, terrified of making it worse. Slowly, I wiped away the tears on both cheeks, willing him to look at me. He didn’t, choosing his lap instead.

I waited for him to continue. “I don’t have a lot of experience with fuck buddies,” he spit the last two words like they repulsed him, like they didn’t fit right on his tongue. Foreign words with uncertain and unsettling definitions. “...but I don’t think it’s supposed to feel like this.”

“Feel like what?” Despite the tears and the heavy air that threatened to suffocate me, I felt a new feeling. Like I would maybe feel better soon. I silently begged him to speak faster, hoping he could somehow telepathically pick up on my anxiety as I hung on every word.

“A privilege. That’s just...” he paused again, shaking his head. I could feel my anxiety coursing through my veins in a bizarrely literal sense. I wasn’t entirely sure where he was going with this, and I waited in suspense as he chose every word carefully. He then looked with me with the warmth I’d come to know, to expect, and to crave. “I know you’re a really tender person but why would you do this if we're just sleeping together?”

IQ of 187, this one.

After his lengthy monologue with its intensely painful pauses I cut straight to the point. “Are we?”

The sadness vanished from his face, leaving nothing in its place but wheels turning. No more damned pauses; I have to be brave now. “I’m not.”

“What?” I couldn’t figure out what to make of his expression. It wasn’t relief. Concern, maybe? Or disbelief? “Just sleeping with you that is. Does that make you upset?”

“No, no, y/n/n, it doesn’t make me upset.” his eyes meeting my face. I could feel that he was about to ramble, finally, and I was intensely grateful. “It depends on what you really want. It’s hard for me to believe that you actually want this.” he points at himself, like that explained his insecure thinking. Honestly, how dare he speak about my person in such a way, but now wasn’t the time to critique his criticism.

“You want to be woken up by nightmares after cases? To sleep alone while I’m gone? and when I’m around deal with my neurosis and awkwardness and rambling? and family drama? and drug cravings?” He dropped his eyes and his voice, “You could do so much better.”

We didn’t have time to even begin to unpack all of that. Not in the middle of the night, on the edge of everything we both want. I could write a novel explaining how he is in fact the very best I can imagine, but that would take time to convince him of. Time like years. Time like marriage.

Again trying to move this conversation to the conclusion I ached for just a bit faster, I answered directly, “Yes. I want that. I want you.” Like it was the simplest thing in the world.

I searched his face for some sort of happiness or disgust but received a blank stare and a look of bewilderment.

“I just want you. I’ve wanted you this whole time. I thought you would figure it out.” I laughed, and he smiled, a real smile that touched his hazel eyes that somehow sparkled in the dimly lit room, finally. “With fuck buddies, I don’t typically snuggle and go on museum dates or stop seeing other people or stick around for months.”

“You want me?” he smiled, but doubt loomed, and his smile fell as his long fingers traced my jaw.

“You say that now, but I think you’re going to find that I am a difficult person to love.” He said, as if I didn’t already know him. As if I didn’t already see him in all of his brilliance and darkness, all of his complexity and baggage. As if knowing him hadn’t been a precursor to loving him.

“Spencer, everyone thinks that about themselves.” I replied, greeted with still more disbelief. I continued in spite of him. “Besides,” I shrugged with a small smile, like my conclusion was entirely self evident, “It’s too late now.”

“What, you think that about yourself? First of all, you are unbelievably easy to love. The easiest in the whole world, probably. I know that that sounds hyperbolic, but I really mean it - I sincerely think that you are the single most lovable woman on the planet.” he rambled, talking with his hands and earning a tearful chuckle from me. “In my world at least. You are in fact, despite my best efforts, impossible not to...” he paused to physically shove the thought away, moving forward with a grimace.

“Second of all, what do you mean too late? I have a feeling I might know what you’re going to say. Please say it, y/n,” he whispered like that would make it less scary. “Or do you want me to say it? I don’t want to spook you but... it’s too late for what?”

“Too late to stop myself from loving you.”

 Finally, finally a look of understanding graced his face. A look like he believed me. He smiled that stunning, whole face smile of his that was reserved for special occasions.

 “Can you say the whole thing?”

“I love you, Spencer.”

“I love you, too.”

He was only half sitting up anyways, so when I kissed him he fell to the bed, and protested immediately. “No! I’m so gross and snotty, stop.” I settled on peppering kisses on his neck and damp cheeks instead.

I laid my head on his chest, murmuring, “You can go back to sleep, and when you wake up, I’ll still be loving you, and I won’t be broken because of it, and I certainly won’t be gone.”

“Okay,” he responded, voice still broken, but no matter. He’ll heal. He’ll believe me more with time. Eyes heavy and stinging, my adrenaline eventually waned, and I was about to fall back asleep, when his voice pulled me back.

“Just to be completely clear, this is no longer a fuck buddy situation. Like, I'm your boyfriend. Right?”

“Was it ever really a fuck buddy situation?” I laughed “But if it was, it’s over. You are mine, Spencer Reid. If that wasn’t obvious.”

I could hear his smile in his voice “Sorry, it’s so late, and my brain isn’t really working and I just wanted to make absolutely sure.”

He paused for a few minutes.

“I’ll check back again in the morning.”

“I’ll still be here.”

~~~

In my half asleep state, his soft words barely registered. “Good morning, sweet girl. I’m so lucky to get to love you.”

“I love you too.” I mumbled, smiling without opening my eyes. There’s his confirmation. He’s always been one for collecting good data, I suppose.

“Please keep doing that.”

[phanfictioncatalogue]

Existentialism Masterlist

And He Calls Me Moonlight Too (ao3) - cafephan

Summary: Late night balcony chats about stars, the universe and the future.

Are you satisfied with an average life? (ao3) - Shirit

Summary: Manchester. 2010. A 2am conversation between Dan and Phil about human existence

at the loss of words (ao3) - cantbother

Summary: when Dan finds himself unable to deal with his thoughts on his own , Phil tries to help him - through the door Dan had locked the night before

Existential Crisis (ao3) - LadyNikita

Summary: Dan is having an existential crisis about death and really needs comfort and that's basically it. Yes, I wrote almost 2k words just about existential crisis. Welcome to my world.

Fin de Partie (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: Dan struggles with existence.

Friday Night Death Talks (ao3) - LetGladnessDwell

Summary: Another Friday night in bed, another conversation about death.

Headlights (ao3) - cafephan

Summary: Dan Howell feels like he is anything but in control of his life. So one night, he decides to change that, starting with picking up a hitchhiker named Phil.

How to cure an existential crisis (ao3) - Phantje

Summary: Already one hour without Phil is enough for Dan to start questioning everything. When Phil comes back from his grocery shopping he notices that Dan is showing all the sypmtoms of an existential crisis and decides to do everything in his power to free Dan from the spiral of his dark thoughts.

Basically pure fluff with Phil reading Dan's favourite Winnie the Pooh stories to him and generally proving himself to be the best person on earth, at least for Dan.

I’ll Make Cereal (ao3) - your_starless_eyes

Summary: "Life is meaningless. It never had a meaning, a purpose, except for the ones people created out of clay and paint for fear of the truth.

"Paint chips. Clay cracks. Illusions shatter and the truth is always revealed to those who think it does not exist. Dan has seen it too many times."

New York I Love You, But You’re Bringing Me Down (ao3) - stillinblossom

Summary: In which they’re in the city that never sleeps and Dan can’t really sleep with six stories separating him and Phil.

speed of sound. (ao3) - commonemergency

Summary: Dan doesn't know what he wants to do with his life. Does he want to stay in college and be miserable? Or pursue his Youtube career and it possibly fail? A slight mental breakdown happens in the middle of Tesco and he brings it home with him. This story is about Dan and the events that lead up to being a College Dropout.

The Dust of Lights and Stars - echohowell

Summary: (Or the occasion where Phil discovered the cure for an existential crisis)

The Other Side Of A Loop (ao3) - dandrogynous

Summary: “Well, but you're brave,” Phil says. Dan smiles slightly and leans his head on Phil’s shoulder again. “Braver than I am.”

“I’m scared of the dark,” Dan tells him. “Not brave.”

“I’m scared of putting new shoes on top of tables. Even more not brave.”

2011 slice of life - moving in and dropping out

title from Seigfried by Frank Ocean

The Shadow of the Waxing Slain (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: Phil makes an offhand comment in a video, and Dan becomes troubled with their living room mirror.

Turbulence (ao3) - Cadensaurus

Summary: In which Dan reflects on his life and finds himself weary of it, unsure of if he wishes it were different, of perhaps having regrets that he didn't realise he would have.

your own little universe (ao3) - larry_hystereks

Summary: dan considers his existence irrelevant, minuscule compared to the complexity of the entire universe. and then he meets phil, who's strange and likes plants, and leaves dan with a sense of intrigue he hasn't felt in years.

or in which dan's an existentialist, phil wants to be a gardener, and the duo journey into a new beginning neither quite foresaw.

you’re somewhere breathing (ao3) - vvuptic

Summary: Guilt tastes like communion wine and cigarette smoke. Dan doesn’t taste it as much anymore. Until he does.

Or, Dan ponders existentialism and the passage of time.

[chudleycanonficfest]

Make a Move

Day 9, Story #2 is by @adenei

Title: Make a Move

Author: adenei

Pairing: Frank/Alice Longbottom

Prompt: You did WHAT?!

Rating: T

TW: mild language

**********

Oh, this is bad. This is very, very bad. What have I done?

Frank paces the floor of the seventh-year boy’s dormitory. He’s not even sure what possessed him to do it. Since when has he actually proven himself as a Gryffindor when it comes to the opposite sex? He hasn’t—because he’s always been a blundering imbecile when it comes to women. And today has proven no different.

“Frank, mate, what’s wrong?” Robbie Burke shuts the door to the dormitory behind him.

“I—I asked—ah, don’t make me say it again!” Frank throws his hands in the air as he shakes his head from side to side, his sandy-blond hair falling in front of his eyes as a result.

“Come on, it can’t be that bad,” Robbie urges Frank to confide in him.

Frank takes a deep breath to ground himself as he sits on the bed and covers his face with his hands.

“I asked Alice to the Christmas Ball,” he mutters.

“Bloody hell, that’s brilliant, mate! Good for you!” Robbie claps Frank on the shoulder in celebration but pauses when Frank looks up at him, his caramel eyes wrought with dismay. 

“Oh, no, did she say no?” Robbie winces at the premature celebration.

“Not exactly,” Frank huffs.

“But she didn’t say yes?”

“Er…”

“Frank—”

“I ran away before she could answer!” Frank admits his wrongdoing and prepares for the onslaught of profanities that’s about to erupt out of his best friend’s mouth.

“You did WHAT? Bloody buggering hell, mate!”

“I know, I know, I was a coward! But she looked so surprised, and she’s so cool, and I’m so...not, and then I started thinking, ‘why would she ever want to go with me’, and I panicked!”

So much for being a Gryffindor, I can’t even ask a girl out! 

Granted, Alice Fortescue wasn’t just any witch. She was popular, kind, easy-going, and always friendly to everyone. Plus, she was the girl you went to if you were looking to smuggle food and Butterbeer from the kitchens.

Frank has been holding a torch for Alice for as long as he can remember. He recalls how she was the first person he locked eyes with after being sorted into Gryffindor, how she beamed up at him and patted the bench for him to sit next to her. That’s the moment that Frank associates as the beginning of their friendship.

Over the years, Frank and Alice’s friendship has grown into a strong bond of the pair looking out for each other. They’ve worked through countless assignments together, where Frank is always happy to help Alice out with Potions. And Alice teaches Frank about a new jinx or hex that’s been created to cause chaos in return since his shyness has often made him an easy target. 

It was probably sometime between fourth and fifth year that Alice’s infectious laughter and warm smiles began to stir something deeper within Frank. He’s grown accustomed to their study sessions, and late-night hangouts that include swapping stories of Alice’s experiences in the duelling club and gossip Frank overhears during his weekly Gobstones meetings. 

But now, he’s certain he’s ruined their friendship. After a year of wrestling with his feelings and trying to decide whether he should go for it and ask Alice out, he half-asses the invitation and throws their entire amicable relationship down the toilet. How is he supposed to face her for their biweekly revising session? Bloody hell, what’s he going to do if the two of them get accepted into the Auror Academy together? Frank lays his head back on the bed and grabs the pillow so he can smother himself with it.

“Frank, stop, I’m sure it’s not the end of the world.”

“You weren’t there. You didn’t see the look on her face.” His voice is muffled by the pillow, causing Robbie to grab it and pull it away.

“No, I wasn’t, care to describe it for me?”

“Mortification.”

Robbie smacks him with the pillow before tossing it aside. “Gonna need some more details than that.”

“I don’t know. It was clear I took her by surprise. She just stared at me, with her lips parted, but she didn’t say anything. Nora and Melanie were giggling. The last thing I remember seeing was her turning to them, and I used that moment to hoof it on out of there.”

“You are hopeless.”

“Thanks for the pep talk.”

“What do you want me to say? I’ve been trying to convince you to ask her out for ages. I’m telling you, Alice Fortescue has a smile that’s only for you. Never once in seven years has she seemed interested in any other bloke, and she chooses to spend all her extra time with you. Bugger if I know why.”

Frank ponders Robbie’s words but doesn’t allow himself to believe them. Alice is his brave and ballsy friend, the one who takes life by its wings and steers it in the direction she wants. If she fancied him back, why hasn’t she made a move first? And then it hits him.

“Merlin’s pants, Robbie, what if she isn’t into bl—”

A knock on the door cuts him off. Both boy’s heads swivel toward the sound as the knob turns and the door swings open. It’s Alice who peeks her head in. She observes the room and takes note of both seventh-years before she speaks.

“Oh, hi Robbie! I was wondering if I could maybe speak to Frank for a mo’?”

“Hey, Alice. Yeah, sure, I was just, er, leaving.” 

Robbie grabs his wand and school bag and slips past her. Frank notices that he pauses to turn back in the doorway to mouth a ‘good luck’ before shutting the door behind him. Standing in front of Frank now, Alice asks,

“Mind if I sit down?”

“N-no, go for it,” Frank stammers. “I—er, sorry about earlier.”

Frank’s not sure why he’s apologizing as Alice sits down. It seems like the right thing to say as he avoids looking at her at all costs. He picks at a nonexistent speck of dirt on his trousers to distract himself.

“You are?” 

Frank chances a glance in Alice’s direction and sees her eyebrows both raise and scrunch together in confusion. He’s not sure if he’s imagining it or if there’s actually hurt and disappointment in her eyes.

“Er, yeah. I mean, no? I mean—”

“You took off before I had a chance to answer you.”

Bloody hell, why do women have to be so damn confusing? 

Frank has no idea what she’s thinking, and despite being friends since they were eleven, he can’t seem to gauge her feelings at all. At this point, he’s torn between brushing the whole thing off and saying he was extending the invitation as a friend or summoning the last ounce of Gryffindor courage that might be hiding somewhere inside him to go for it and ask her out officially. Instead, he chooses neither.

“Did you come up here to give me an answer, then?”

“Yes.”

Frank waits for Alice to continue, expecting her to give him either a clear yes or no, but she just stares at him, making him feel ten times more awkward.

“Right, so…”

Alice lets out an unbecoming snort. “Frank, you really are slow on the uptake, aren’t you?”

“Huh?”

“My answer to your question is yes. I’d like to go to the Christmas Ball with you.”

“You—you would?”

Now, it’s Frank’s turn to be shocked. Only in his wildest dreams did he expect her to actually say yes!

Alice nods as she smiles before grazing her bottom lip with her teeth. “As a date, right?”

Frank’s heart momentarily stops, and he has to remind himself to breathe. “I—uh—I, y-yeah! I mean, only if you want it to be a—”

“I do,” she responds eagerly. Her knee is bouncing up and down.

He almost doesn’t hear her confirmation as he babbles on, “—because we don’t, not if it would make things—wait, you do?”

Alice chuckles at his nervousness. “Yeah, and you could have saved yourself all the misery that I’m sure you just put yourself through with overthinking if you’d waited for my response.”

Merlin, she knows me so well. “But Nora and Melanie—���

  “—were giggling because I’ve been hoping you’d ask me out for ages now.”

If Frank could look into a mirror, he’s sure his facial expression would match the one Alice had given him when he’d first asked the question out in the corridor. So many thoughts were racing through his mind that it was a miracle he was able to form a sentence.

“But then, why didn’t you ever ask me?’

Alice shrugs before leaning in and boldly pressing her lips to Frank’s cheek before whispering into his ear, “because I guess there’s still some old-fashioned methods I put stock in, like the bloke making the first move.”

Frank is frozen. He couldn’t move even if he wanted to while all his dreams were coming true. By the time his brain tells the rest of his body to react to Alice’s gesture, she’s already up and halfway to the door. Before exiting, she turns back and winks at Frank.

“I’ve got to go make some plans with the girls, but I’ll see you in the library at seven, yeah? That Auror entrance exam won’t study for itself, even though I wish it would.”

All Frank can manage is a meager nod as he processes the whirlwind of the last half hour. He is going to the Christmas Ball with Alice. She fancies him. Does that mean she’s his girlfriend now? So many questions flood his mind, but one thing was certain: Frank can’t wait to find the answers.

[ickle-ronniekins]

when all hope seems lost

desc: George finds himself to be lost: his business, merchandise and home have been destroyed in the war and his twin brother is still healing from a battle wound that could’ve been fatal. He’s living temporarily in a flat in a desolate looking neighborhood, and he’s desperate for anything to feel like it used to be. It seems as though all hope is lost, until he meets someone who reminds him that he’s got to endure the darkness to be able to appreciate the light.

A/N: yaknow i hate myself sometimes because whenever i just wanna write ~one fic~ i always add WAY TO MUCH INFORMATION and need to make it either a two-partner or a series smh why can’t i write shorter pieces man??? also this is me just feeding my feelings sorry.. i know some other friends need some light too so hopefully this two part (maybe more?) mini-series can help you a bit, too

pairing: george x fem!american!reader

word count: 1.9k

warning(s): mentions of war, anxiety, mental health

tag list: @mintlibri @georgeweasleyx @seppys-return-to-madness @fopdoodledane @fredd-weasley @iprobablyshipit91 @darling-details @laneygthememequeen @lupinsx @keoghans @helloallthethingsilove @dreamer821 @feffffffy @the-hufflepuff-of-221b @62442-am @wtfweasleyy @obsessedwithrandomthings @thoseofgreatambition @harrysweasleys @sleep-i-ness @shadowsinger11 @haphazardhufflepuff @afriendlyneighborhoodhufflepuff @hood-and-horan @letsfightsomeorcs @theweasleysredhair @purpleskiesstorm @hxfflxpxffs @wand3ringr0s3 @finecole @angelinathebook @highly-acidic @purplefragile @90shermione @zreads @susceptible-but-siriusexual @hollands-weasley @andromedaa-tonks @bbstrawberry0421 @princessof-theuniverse @cappsikle @mytreec @imseeinggred @idont-knowrn @flyingserpxnt @auroraboringalis57 @godricsswords @jejegu @annasofiaearlobe @starlightweasley | message me to be added!

When it seemed as though every bit of light had been drained from the universe, you wondered whether the pavement beneath your feet would implode, catapulting you into some other world, some other place where maybe the darkness wasn’t so evident.

George was wallowing again, letting his unhappiness swallow him whole, the happiness he always seemed to emanate now diminished by the hollowness he felt inside of his chest. What had happened to him? How had it come to this? How had he let his desires go by the way side? Why had he given into the melancholy feeling overtaking him?

You wondered whether things would ever go back to normal. Though the war had taken place in England, it hadn’t stopped the following of the most dangerous wizard in all the world to make their way to America. They’d stopped at nothing. Not that you were surprised, really. You’d heard just how awful things had been across the pond. It was no wonder that they’d seemingly wiped out half of the population and then headed for the states, looking to inflict more damage upon the Wizarding community.

A sharp honking noise came from round the bend, but George didn’t move. He stood, feet cemented firmly into the cobblestone as he peered up at his shop; or rather, what was left of it. A few measly bricks and the siding that had been blasted open, showcasing the inner lining of the shop, their flat above it, and all of the products that had been destroyed along with it. The following of Voldemort hadn’t been kind. If he’d been there, if he hadn’t been at Hogwarts, he could’ve saved it -- Fred could’ve saved it --

You peered around the desolate little street you now found yourself on. Though the war had ended, the damage was still very prominent. Here you were -- halfway around the world, no job, no home, no life plans on the horizon, for they’d been smashed to smithereens the same way your tiny little home had been. You wondered if England would be the better choice than America. A wave of doubt surged through your bones, and you very quickly scratched at your head to try and ignore it as you made your way toward your new home.

Fred was busy at the Burrow. After his almost near experience with the great beyond, Molly had insisted that he come home. He hadn’t been too resistant, actually. He reckoned he could use some time there. George, however, desperately searched for a new place -- at least for a little while. A new place for himself, until Fred got better, and they could go back to their plans. Though, now, as he angrily clenched his fists inside of his pockets, the foreboding feeling of doubt swept through his mind, and he wondered if he and Fred would ever be able to replenish all that they’d lost.

Your suitcase clicked rather annoyingly against the cobblestone. You stopped and took an exaggerated deep breath, threading your brows together as you looked up at your new home: a tiny little apartment right on the outskirts of London. It was freshly painted a very stark white; it was beautiful, but nothing like what you were used too. It wasn’t just a new apartment -- it was a whole new world. England was too far from America, and every aspect of home felt as though it were light years of miles away.

George opened up the door to the room of his new flat: it was desolate looking -- bare walls, muted colours, a sort of dryness he wasn’t fond of, and he knew Fred wouldn’t be either. There was absolutely nothing exciting about this place. He set down his trunk in the corner and stood there for a few moments, half in a sort of daze and half in denial. He then threw his jacket onto the bed and made way toward the kitchen to make himself a much needed cup of tea.

You were busy tracing your hands over countertop in the kitchen when someone scared you. A redheaded man stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide with confusion as they glanced over you. He was tall and lanky; he desperately needed a haircut (or a hair taming, rather) and appeared as though he hadn’t caught much sleep in days. You stuck out your hand to introduce yourself: right. You forgot you’d be sharing a home. With a stranger. From England.

“Hi.” George’s voice sounded weirdly firm and unfriendly in his own ears. He cleared his throat a bit and forced a smile onto his face; in his desperation to find a place to temporarily live, he’d forgotten that he’d agreed to another flatmate. He slid his hand into yours and shook gently. “I’m George. Nice to meet you.”

By the puzzled look on his face, you wondered if he knew he was going to get a  roommate. A female roommate. An American female roommate. You figured probably not, because he seemed to be caught rather off guard when he walked into the kitchen and nearly froze on the spot. The startled expression cleared from his face, and he offered a rather genuine looking grin. You introduced yourself right back. “Nice to meet you.”

George found himself in a better mood when he realized that you were bound to be a good flatmate: you were tidy, didn’t have as many belongings as he’d imagined, and offered to shower either morning or night, it didn’t really matter to you -- whatever worked best for him. He was grateful to how accommodating you were being right off of the bat, especially when he felt as though his entire world was collapsing. But when he wandered past your room that first night and saw you sprawled out on the floor, hurriedly going through your belongings and peering down at what seemed to be some type of photographs, he wondered if you were possibly going through something, too. He pretended not to notice when you dabbed at your eyes.

It was nearing midnight, and you forced yourself to place back into your suitcase all photographs of your home -- or, the home you once had. It wasn’t doing you any good looking through them; if anything, it was just making the move to London that much more difficult. Suddenly, a gentle knock pulled you from your thoughts: George was standing at the entrance of your room, two cups in his hands. “I normally have a bit of tea before I head off to bed, and well.. you looked like you could use some. Hope I’m not overstepping.”

George was glad to see the grin that appeared on your face at the sight of him holding two steaming cups of tea. He watched you quickly got up from the floor and pull your hair back into a ponytail. “Thank you,” you told him, cautiously blowing on your tea to cool it. George figured now would be a good a time as any for a casual conversation, since it didn’t look like you’d be going to bed anytime soon. “So -- America? What brings you to England?”

He caught you off guard when he asked this. When you turned back around to look at him, he was casually leaning against the doorframe. His eyes looked much more awake than when you’d first met; it seems as though your foreignness had piqued his interest. Gently, you offered, “My home was destroyed. In the war. Crazy how everything that had started over here wandered all the way over to the states. Lost my job. Lost other...personal things.” You cleared your throat a bit and watched as George bit down on his lip; he seemed to understand. “Figured it was time for a fresh start, you know? New place, new adventure. Though I suppose I could’ve just moved to another state instead of across the country. But hey, England seemed as lovely a place as any, right?” You chuckled a bit before continuing, the first genuine laugh you’d had in months. “How about you? What brings you to this little apartment?”

“I’m so sorry. That’s awful.” George felt a tightness in his throat at your words. He hadn’t expected you to be so frank right off the bat. He wondered if all Americans willingly told intimate details of their lives to complete strangers. Though it was sort of strange to him, he felt as though it was an opening. He bravely took a step forward. “My reasoning isn’t any happier than yours, I’m afraid. I own a business with my brother -- the war destroyed nearly all of it and my flat above it. Fred’s back at my mum and dad’s; he was poorly hurt. I’m kind of on my own for the time being, struggling to find which way is up. That’s how I ended up here.”

“I’m so sorry.” A sudden wave of sadness took you over. You wanted to reach out and grab his hand and squeeze it, seemingly letting George know that you knew, sort of, how he felt. You’d both lost things due to the war. You’d both had to find a way to start over. You resisted the urge and instead sipped again on your tea. You lifted your eyebrows in shock. “It’s strange, the aftermath. It’s startlingly much worse over here than it is back home.”

George found himself laughing, genuinely giggling, for the first time since before the war. “England hasn’t scared you off, has it? I promise, it normally doesn’t look this bloody dismal. And, well, this little area on the outskirts of London really did take quite a hit. Not my first choice in terms of places to live, but I reckon for the time being, it’ll do.”

You swore you caught a bit of a glimmer in his eye, and you wondered how long it’d been since it had been there. George didn’t seem like a particularly melancholy kind of guy, but you knew that with his business destroyed, his brother hurt, his home demolished that he was entitled to a few (or more than a few) bad days. You peered out of your window to see the little rain covered cobblestone street, lit by nothing but the pale light of the street lamps, and breathed in gently. No, England hadn’t scared you off -- dismal looking or not. It had actually turned out to be much nicer than you’d imagined. You nodded at George, who offered up another small grin. “It’ll do.”

When George went to bed that night, he fiddled around with a few test products he and Fred had been placing the finishing touches on. He sucked in multiple breaths to stop himself from crying and just tried to remind himself constantly that they’d work it out. Fred would get better, they’d repair the damage, they’d create new products, their flat would be fixed. When he said all of it in the same breath, it sounded like too much for two blokes to handle. So he tried to focus on one thought at a time. Right. Fred will get better, after some much needed rest. George could handle being in this flat. It would give him time to work out logistics and design more products in all this new free time he had. He glanced to his bedside table and noticed a copy of The Quibbler underneath his wand, and his trunk in the corner of the room. The furnishings actually sort of reminded him of his dormitory at Hogwarts, and he chuckled to himself before shutting his eyes. Perhaps you were right. This new life? This time for all to heal? This time spent in a new flat?

It would do. It would do just fine.