#all my patrons are friends of mine I suppose I could theoretically just ask what people like to see (boobs and butts notwithstanding)

[blujayonthewing]

patreon: [adds ability to see how many times a post was actually viewed]

me looking back through them: [steepling my fingers in front of my lips] .... should I be doing more pinups.

[sidespart]

The Fall of King Romulus Part 3

Summary: Twin Princes Remus and Romulus are cursed at birth with Honesty and Obedience. When Romulus, who cannot disobey any order, is told to kill his brother the next time he lays eyes on him, he changes his name to Roman and runs away. Roman joins up with a misfit group of adventures and plans to never return to his homeland. But the fae have other plans for him…

Warnings (for whole fic not necessarily individual chapters): Violence, mind whammying/memory altering, curse of obedience related consent issues, references to sex, references to war related injuries/PTSD, references to child abuse/neglect (YMMV on that one but just in case), antagonstic-but-not-exactly villian!Janus, Extremly-moraly-dubious-but-not-exacty-unsympathetic-Remus

Pairings: Mostly Platonic LAMP and all the found family feels. Could be read as pre-slash.

Feedback appreciated. 

NOW ON AO3 :D

Prologue     Chapter 1   Chapter 2  

Remus. Remus, Remus, Remus.

The mad Prince of Notaleveale.

Remus was coming here. Remus was coming to Steveange and if Romulus saw him-

Roman had to leave.

Which was easier said than done; when the streets were crowded with hoards of shoppers and revellers all pressing against him, blocking his path, stealing the air out of his lungs-

“Roman!”

He needed to go. He need to find Virgil and Patton in whatever rooms they’d managed to find, collect his belongings and-

No. That would take too long – he could replace the clothes and books, he already had his sword-

“Roman, what’re you-”

- but he needed his lute. To make any kind of living he had to be able to perform. It was the only thing he was good at and once he’d got away he’d be -

He could do it. He’d run away before. He survived alone, without anyone, he could do it again and-

“Roman! Stop!”

He stopped.

Logan. Heading towards him. But he hadn’t given a time frame and if Roman grit his teeth and pushed past the spike of pain he could start to move again in just a second-

“Wait!”

Dammit.

Roman waited. Fists clenched by his side, until Logan was next to him.

“Roman.”

His chest was tight. His brain wasn’t -wasn’t working right and Logan looked so odd, with his glasses askew and his face flushed – had he been running?

“I thought I saw Patton.” Roman blurted.

It was the first excuse that popped into his head and it was clearly not – not good enough. Logan was frowning at him, a pinched expression, studying him like an experiment and-

Roman hated him, suddenly.

Logan was an upstart swot with ideas above his station and a chip on his shoulder. He poked and prodded and lost them jobs with his terse words and his better than you attitude. He reminded Roman of the tutors who snap at him for his lack of understanding and bark orders for him to recite, repeat, remember, to be better, smarter, stronger: someone worthy of his title.

He reminded him most of all of Julius. His fathers closest advisor, who had been charged with unravelling the Princes’ curses. He was the one who had helped Romulus learn how to push against his curse. He would give him orders that were almost impossible to follow and watch with cold eyes as Romulus struggled to disobey. Together they’d categorised how much pain he could withstand, what orders could be navigated and misinterpreted and which ones he was truly helpless against.

Once, he’d bid Romulus to stand on one leg. And left him there until his muscles started to cramp and shake, waiting to see if gravity or the curse was stronger. Romulus had been in tears by the end. Had even wondered, briefly, about complaining to his parents. But is was such a silly, innocuous order compared to other experiments. What had truly upset him was how Julian had just stood there, not speaking, his eyes distant and cold and calculating as he noted down every twitch and whimper from the boy. Even when he circled him, Romulus could feel those eyes boring into the back of his neck like a-

“Princey.”

Roman blinked. Julius’ practice room disappeared, replaced with the sights and sound of the Steveange street. Logan was in front of him and his eyes were far from cold. When he spoke it was with the same gentle tone that Roman had heard him use when Virgil’s worries overwhelmed him or when Patton woke from a nightmare and didn’t know where he was.

“Did the cro- the woman. Did she say something to you?” Logan was holding his hand. Gently but firmly, he tugged at Romans tightly clenched fingers, encouraging them to unfurl. Roman stared uncomprehendingly at the deep crescent marks he’d made in his palm.

Slowly, Logan released his right hand and reached for his left, repeating the process.

Roman felt shame ripple through him.

Logan wasn’t Julius. Logan would never push him so far he broke.

Logan was his friend and Roman has made him worry with his silly behaviour and his slapdash lie. But he could fix it.

He forced a smiled. Flexed his fingers and straightened up his full height. Made a show of looking around him.

“I swear I saw him. Big man, big sword, big smile – he’s hard to mistake!”

Hesitantly, Logan glanced around too before quickly refocusing on Roman.

“Are you sure you –“

“Ah well, the mind plays trick I suppose – must be hunger getting to me, speaking of which…”

Roman reached forward and deftly snatched the bag from Logan's grasp, reaching in blindly and shoving the first pastry he found into his mouth.

“Mmmm so good!” He beamed at Logan with berry stained teeth, flakes of pastry flying through the air. “Aren’t you going to have one?”

Logan stared at him. Roman kept his smile sweet and his eyes clear. He held up the bag and wiggled it enticingly.

Hesitantly, Logan took the bag and selected a tart. Keeping his eyes on the bard the entire time, he ate his treat with much more refinement then Roman had shown. “Holding back?” Roman asked, teasing, “I’ve seen you eat jam before, there’s no point pretending to have table manners now.”

Logan just hmphed but his shoulders relaxed slightly and Roman decided to take that as a victory. “We should get going” Roman said and started walking, Logan easily falling into step beside him.

The streets were crowded enough that none of the sellers seemed to feel the need to call to Roman specifically, and so this time he was free to investigate the stalls he was actually interested in.

But instead he stayed by Logan's side

Logan was a good friend. For all he claimed to lack an understating of emotional nuances he was letting Roman have his space. He’d even distracted him earlier, when his biggest concern had been the a spike of homesickness after meeting their northern customer.

He was nothing like Julius.

Roman was going to miss him so much.

***

Roman kept up his performance of normality all the way back to the main square, where they had agreed to meet the others once their mission was done. The sky was beginning to turn dark by the time they got there, though it was easy enough to navigate from the sheer number of stalls still in operation, each one boasting its own selection of colourful lanterns.

“This is fantastic!” Roman gasped theoretically, spinning on one foot to take in the whole spectacle.

“It’s a fire hazard.” Logan muttered with a frown.

They found Virgil waiting for them by the central fountain. He had manged to find a seat on the fountains edge but was wedged between two young couples who had clearly taken the romantic festival atmosphere to heart. The healer’s shoulders were up by his ears and his cloak was wrapped so tightly around himself it looked constricting. When he saw them he sprang to his feet so quickly he almost knocked one of the young ladies into the water.

“Took you two long enough.”

Roman and Logan glanced at each other.

“Logan got lost-”

“Roman kept wandering off.”

“-We brought you baked goods!”

Virgil took one of the two remaining pastries with minimal grumbling and led them out of the square. They took the north east road, a path that curved its wary upwards into the higher levels of the city. Here the buildings were all built of a blush-pink marble that sparkled in the evening twilight. The streets were wide, with neatly arranged flowerbeds and street lights which had the steady glow of Arkazeii glow lamps rather than the flicker of oil. There were certainly no traders spread out on blankets. Logan looked distinctly unimpressed.

“Was this inn you found an…economical choice?”

“It was a ‘the whole town’s rammed and this was the only place with a room left’ choice.” Virgil snarked “and don’t worry – its one room for all four of us with no breakfast included, if you were worried about getting too… bourgeoisie…or whatever."

Logan raised his hands for peace.

“I’m sure you did the best you could.”

“Well …we were lucky.” Virgil told him, and then glanced over at Roman, his lip twitching.

“Apparently they give discounts to performers.”

***

The inn was certainly a cut above their normal haunts. With brightly painted walls almost obscured by well pruned climbing plants, outdoor seating, and a wrought iron gate leading to spacious stables behind the building.  Even the doors were of better quality then your typical village tavern – made of wood heavy enough to make a satisfying crash when Roman stormed in.

The room was crowded, but Patton really was hard to miss. Roman shoved his way through to the back table where the big man sat waiting. Leaving other customers cursing in his wake.

‘Hey kiddo!’ Patton greeted him with a wide smile “Did you-“

“Key.” Roman snarled.

Patron blinked and him, shock writ large on his face. “Sorry?”

“The key. To my room.  Give it.” Roman snapped. “It is mine right? Since you seem happy to pimp me out in exchange for-“

“Hey!” That would be Virgil. Roman half thought he had left both men behind in his rage after Virgil’s little announcement, but the elf at least seemed to have kept up. He’d reached the table just in time to hear the start of Roman’s rant. “What the hell is your problem Princey?”

“My problem? Oh I’m sorry, I’M not the one signing other people up to sing for their supper without permission Virgil.”

“You like singing for your – we thought you’d want to!”

“Well it would have been nice to have a choice!”

“Virgil. Roman.” That was Logan, it had taken longer for the shorter man to force his way through the crowd but he wasted no time now in inserting himself into Romans business. “whatever this is… it’s not about putting on a show.”

He turned to the other two. Virgil scowling, Patton wide eyed.

“He had an…episode in the market.”

“Excuse me?” Roman shouted.

“Roman, whatever disturbed you, you practically ran away.”

“Well perhaps I had simple grown tired of looking at your face? Had you considered that?”

He turned his back to Logan, rounding on Patton again: “Now, give me the-“

Patton already had his hand out, wrought iron key resting loosely in his palm.

“We’re on the fourth floor.” he said calmly as Roman snatched it from him. “First door once you get up the stairs.” Roman spun on his heel only to find Virgil blocking his path.

“Move.” Roman hissed.

“What is wrong with you?” Roman narrowed his eyes. Virgil looked angry. Looked one second away from telling him to sit down, shut up, stop causing a fuss. He wondered if he could get past him without using his sword.

“I’ll bring you up some food in a bit,” Roman blinked glancing back at Patton, startled. The warrior still hadn’t moved from the table - admittedly no easy task in the cramped corner- and was looking at him calmly.

“I don’t want anything” Roman muttered, sullen.

“But you might later.” Patton smiled at him. Not knowing how to respond Roman turned back to Virgil. The elf glanced between the two, chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, before sighing and stepping to the side. Not fast enough to prevent Roman from knocking his shoulder with his own as he pushed past however.

It wasn’t as satisfying as he hoped.

**

At a guess, the room was normally meant for storage not guests. Two rickety looking beds had been shoved in, so close together they might as well have been one. There was one small table forced between the end of one bed and the wall, with a basin of water perched on top. Someone,  presumably Patton, had organised their bags neatly at the end of the beds. Roman’s was at the far end, closest to the window. Then Patton, then Virgil with Logan closest to the door, next to the only built in shelf where a candle had been left for the night. Roman would be able to wake with the dawn, as he liked to do, and Logan would have light for the longest to stay up and read.

Romans lute was not on the floor with his pack.  Instead he found in had been placed on the bed itself, propped up on his pillow, away from any potential harm.

Whatever righteous anger he had been able to hang on too as he stomped upstairs dropped out of him now like a stone from a cliff. Without it, the despair he had felt in the market came rushing back. He sank down right there by the door, bringing his knees up to his chest as he’d done in the forest. As he used to do in Julius’ room.

He almost wished Julius was here – at least he would tell him not to cry.

The through was so absurd he let out a weak snotty laugh and buried his head in his arms.

He needed to leave Steveange.

He didn’t want to leave them.

But they had planned to stay for a week at least, hopefully longer.

Convince them to leave early? Except he couldn’t explain why. Find them a job out of the city? How? When the coronation and accompanying celebrations were over it would be easy enough to find a traveling group in need of a little extra protection, but for now no one was leaving.

They’d been excited to come. Virgil want to try the city baths, famed for their heated pools and soothing water. Logan had been talking about the library for half the trip. Patton was just excited to explore the city itself, meet the people and try the food. He loved when they stopped in busier towns but it was a rarity.

There was no way Roman would be able to convince them to leave just because he wanted to.

Roman did what other people wanted. It was all he knew how to do.

And even if he had a convincing reason…well, they probably didn’t want him around anymore anyway.

He scrambled up, grabbed the first pillow he could reach and buried his face in it to muffle a scream of frustration which turned into more sobs.

He was so pathetic.

Since he’d left home, he’d kept his memories, kept Romulus, buried as deep as he could. But now it was like Romulus was just under his skin. Ready to jump out If he let himself slip. With all his anger and hurt and fear.

Romulus was a liability.

Romulus was a murder. Or would be. If Roman couldn’t think.

He stepped over to his pack, still hugging the pillow to him like a teddy bear, and started to review the contents. He didn’t need to take all of this with him, surely? Half of it wasn’t even his, their belongings having become more and more intertwined the longer they travelled.

The healing salve was rightfully Virgil’s, the soft shirt he wrapped himself in during cold nights was actually Patton’s, at least one of the notebooks belonged to Logan.

He opened the nearest book to check, but instead of Logan's neat lists his own sloppy scrawl stared back at him. Song lyrics and passing thoughts and, on the next page, an unfinished sketch. It was of Virgil, hand covering his mouth but eyes betraying his laughter. The other pages, he knew contained scribbles of all three of them. He flicked back and found his favourite, the page marked with a yellowed leaf he couldn’t remember picking up.

It showed all three in one sketch. Logan, sleeping and so looking years younger, head pillowed on Virgil’s thigh. Virgil was turned towards Patton, rolling his eyes as if to say ‘can you believe this?’ but making no move to actually shift scholar off him. Patton was laughing, he was the most well rendered of the three figures, you could almost see his shoulders shaking.

Roman looked at it for a moment. Then slowly replaced the book mark and closed it. This would have to come with him.

A knock at the door startled him so badly he dropped the book, which bounced under the bed.

“Kiddo? Can I come it?”

Fuck.

Patton. He had -he had been so, so unbelievably rude to Patton.

His first instinct, which was admittedly not a good one, was to jump out of the window.

Roman took a deep breath. Focusing on the mundane task of sorting items had cleared his head somewhat. He was still a little shaky but his eyes were dry. He knew what would be expected of him now - Romulus had spent most of his life apologising.

“Come in.” he croaked and stood, squaring his shoulders.

Patton entered alone, two bowls of something that smelled delicious cradled in his arms.

Roman ignored the sudden spike of hunger – the fruit tart seemed a long time ago now- and bowed from the waist. He kept his back ramrod straight and bent low enough that it quickly became uncomfortable. It was the kind of bow Romulus would only have given his father or elder brother.

“Patton, I owe you my most humble apology I-“

“Roman I am so sorry.”

“The way I spoke to you was the height of disrespect and unprin- ungentlemanly behaviour I – wait, what?”

He straightened up and looked at Patton, confused. “Why are you sorry?”

“Roman, I – wait hold on.” Patton handed him one of the bowls and turned to close the door. “Do you mind if we sit?” he asked and Roman nodded, smiling despite himself. Patton was the politest person he had ever met.

Once they were both seated, Patton’s bad leg stretched out in front of him, Patton looked at him seriously.

“Roman you were right downstairs. We should never have promised you’d perform without asking you first - no it's true!”

But Roman was already shaking his head. “Patton you were fine, you know I love singing! I was the one acting like, like some sort of beast I-“

“I know you love singing but that doesn’t mean we get to pick and choose when-“

“But I wanted to perform as much as possible whilst we were here- I’d told you that!”

“-especially after travelling all week. We were, er, presumptuous.”

Roman stared at him.

“Unlike this soup, which is pre – scrumptious.”

Patton beamed at him. Roman groaned.

“Anyway I’m sorry for letting you stew-“ he held up the bowl again waggling his eyebrows “- up here for so long, but we needed to make things right with the landlord.”

Roman, who had been starting to relax under the force of two puns in a row, tensed again. “What things?”

Patton smiled. “We paid the difference – you don’t have to perform! Uhh unless you want to of course, but it’s your choice.” He nodded decisively whilst Roman gaped.

“b-but isn’t it expensive?”

Patton just shrugged, “Well, the last job paid well didn’t it?”

“Not that well!”

“Aw c’mon kiddo, what’s the point of having money if we don’t spend it? Right?”

Not knowing what to say. Roman shoved a spoonful of stew into his mouth without tasting it. Guilt turning the meal to ash.

“Patton…how many days did you pay for?”

“The rest of the week! And there’s still enough to have some fun at the markets, don’t worry, we can all have a – hey!” Patton put his bowl down, shuffling closer to put one warm hand on Roman’s knee.” Roman, hey kiddo, buddy what’s wrong?”

Roman found, quite to his surprise, that he was trembling. He followed Patton's example and put the bowl carefully on the floor before digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I…can’t Pat. I can’t stay here. I have to go.”

“Go?” Patton looked at him with confusion clear in his big brown eyes, “But why kiddo? You don’t like the inn?”

Roman groaned shaking his head “not the inn. The city. I’m not – I can’t – if ‘m here it- “ he let out a whine of frustration, hating his curse heavy tongue.

Never tell anyone about our conversation.

“I just-“ My brother is coming and if I see him I-

“If – “ my brother is coming and he won’t be alone. There are people who know who I really am and I –

“Okay.”

Romans head snapped up.

Patton still had a frown on his face but when he looked at Roman his eyes were as serious as Roman had ever seen them. “If you can’t tell me the details it’s fine but-“ he lent forward, “Roman, are you safe here?”

Without breathing, Roman shook his head. No.

Patton nodded and squeezed his knee. “Well then of course we’re not staying.” Hesitantly, he lifted his arm and rested one large hand on the back of Romans neck. Forcing their eyes to meet. “Whatever it is – we will help you. You know that don’t you?”

Embarrassingly, Roman felt his eyes filling with tears.

“We’ll leave in the morning.” Patton told him. Patton stood up, taking Romans congealing stew and his own empty bowl and headed to the door. He paused, one hand on the door handle. “Everything’s going to be okay kiddo.” he smiled, “We love you.”

And he was gone.

For a long moment Roman sat frozen, staring at the closed door.

“Yeah.” He agreed, eventually. “Right.”

Except. They didn’t. Not really.

They loved Roman.

Roman had screamed and insulted them and instead of kicking him out of their group like they had every right to do, they had given up what little money they had just to make Roman feel better.

And Roman was a lie.

Roman was Romulus with a bad haircut. And Romulus was everything they weren’t’ – a stupid, pampered, prince with no power or pride.

Patton might be willing to upheaval their lives just on Roman's say so, But Logan and Virgil were more practically minded. They would want explanations. Might even demand them.

Never tell anyone about your curse. Remove yourself from anyone who might ask you about it and put as much distance between you as you can.

Romulus was a liability.

One they shouldn’t have to deal with.

He strapped his lute to his back and secured his dagger in a hidden pocket that Virgil had taught him how to sow.  Everything else he left, including, after a moments hesitation, his sword. He had been training Logan to use it, on and off, and whilst the scholar was no solider he was improving. At the very least, it would be some source of protection until they could hire another swordhand for their travels.

The climbing plants he had noticed on the way in made getting down from the window much easier than he had originally anticipated. Dusting off his hands he skirted the building, taking care to avoid the large windows of the main hall, until he found the entrance to the the stables.

He wasn’t proud of it, but he had stolen before when he first left home. He would have to again now in order to put some distance between the city and himself.

It wasn’t his worst plan.

And it might even have worked, had they not already been waiting for him.

When Romulus was eleven, and had taken to following the young Marquis de Orenlla around like a love sick puppy. Even now, under the weak light of a covered lantern and with almost fifteen years distance from the memories, he still recognised him instantly.

“Good evening, your highness.” The Marquis smile was as dazzling as he remembered, although his eyes were colder.

He had no army with him, and no weapon that Roman could see. But then, why would he need one?

“Come with me.”

Roman went.

part 4

[1lymark]

yellow paint blues || renjun

→ summary: a few hours before renjun needs to submit his art project, he realizes that he’s run out of yellow paint. luckily, you’re there to help (or not.) → genre: fluff, humor, college!au → words: 3.2K → a/n: dedicated to mary, my lovely patron. as always, this got way out of hand and got longer than i anticipated. i hope you enjoy!

Renjun had thought that the art course would be an easy A. He hadn’t needed the easy A to begin with anyway––his grades in every other course were beyond stellar, so most people would probably assume that he was doing it to pass time or to gain extra credits. Or so, that was what he wanted people to assume.

In reality, he had signed up for the course because you had wanted to. It wasn’t like you asked him to accompany him; he recalled you mentioning the course in passing a week before registration and somehow, that little comment had wormed its way to the forefront of his mind as he clicked “ADD COURSE” to his already packed schedule.

“Should be easy enough,” he assured himself, patting his own shoulder in untimely congratulations as he thought of the extra three hours in a week that he would get to hang out with you. After all, Renjun’s art skills weren’t shabby, so surely this could not go wrong in any way possible.

He forgot, in his hubris, about the tantalizing taste that procrastination had to offer. The sweet nectar that he had yet to conquer in all his years of education had once again enticed him like a fly to a fire. It was inevitable, and yet… how could he have been so blind?

So there he was, in his room at one in the morning, with more paint on his fingers than he had on his canvas. The blank surface taunted him in his mind, laughing hysterically at the cruel fate he had assigned to himself in the name of love.

The project should have been simple enough: it was a self-expression piece, wherein the objective was to present what makes them happiest. His professor was lenient to the point of negligent, allowing her students to use any medium they pleased for this first assignment. Macaroni and glue, string and popsicle sticks, scrap paper with a drunken doodle… She was open-minded to anything under the sun. However, the thing about Renjun was that he was an overachiever to a fault, so even though he could’ve theoretically slapped a Spotify playlist together on a CD and called it a day, he simply was not spiritually able to hand in anything less than perfect.

So of course Renjun chose to paint for his first project. Painting wasn’t even his strongest suit, but he wanted to challenge himself, or so he said when he had loudly announced that to you almost a week ago.

A week ago. He had an entire week to finish, with no other pressing assignments or tests in between, and yet he still found himself in this predicament. Thus was the fate of unending suffering that every university student must face.

You had texted him a few hours ago, asking to see a picture of his work. Despite your excitement to take this course, you had always been a bit self-conscious about your art pieces, though you have never expressed this to anyone. Renjun could see it in the way that you would close in on yourself when people ask to see your work, quickly redirecting the conversation elsewhere once people have their eyes off of you.

Not him though––you always showed each other your works. It made Renjun’s heart race just a little bit every time you exposed this side of yourself, and so he made a promise to always give you any sort of reassurance you might need.

Unfortunately for this time, he was a bit too busy trying not to drown in his own irresponsibility to answer you properly when you had texted.

to: renjunnie from: y/n-chi

hey!! how’s your project holding up? can i see yours? i finished mine just now and idk if i’m happy with it tbh…

to: y/n-chi from: renjunnie

not… going well… send reinforcements… T_T i think i’m gonna rot now…

to: renjunnie from: y/n-chi

eh??? the infallible huang renjun is suffering??? from a first year art assignment??? someone call the catholics, because i think the rapture is coming

to: y/n-chi from: renjunnie

y/n don’t be mean >:( this is srs!! i think i have inhaled enough paint fumes to fail a drug test by now

to: renjunnie from: y/n-chi

tsk. that’s what you get for procrastinating, babe. sending my thoughts and prayers!! txt me updates so i know you don’t die from paint ingestion ^^

If you weren’t so god damn cute, he would have smothered you (with his love) by now. Even if you didn’t know it, your texts had given him enough motivation to get something on the canvas, even though none of his drafts seemed to be good enough at the moment.

What was it that made Renjun happy, anyway? He liked listening to music, but that was as generic as it gets… Who didn’t like music? He also liked reading and travelling, though those don’t seem to be too appealing to paint either. Some of his friends had joked that he should just paint a bunch of Moomin, so that he wouldn’t really need to paint because it would mostly be white anyway.

Those things just seemed too shallow for him. While they were things that he enjoyed, he wouldn’t want to be that guy who showed up to class with a half-assed doodle and some stupid explanation like “happiness is what you make of it.” No, he would be better than that.

There was something quite obvious that he could use for his project, or rather, someone. It would be too embarrassing though––not that he was embarrassed of you, by any means. He just wasn’t brave enough to do it, not yet at least. Someday, he’ll have the heart to tell you his feelings, but for now… he was stuck with a blank canvas and an emptier mind.

The clock read 3:30AM when Renjun had decided to throw all his morals to the wind and just paint a field of sunflowers out of desperation. He thought that if all else failed, maybe he would submit that and say something about how he remembered going to a place like that in his childhood. It would be a complete lie, since his family hardly went out to nature spots like that, but at least you would like the painting. Sunflowers were your favorite, after all.

Halfway through his painting however, he realized that his tube of yellow paint was looking awfully empty. He squeezed it as much as he could, scrapping it out as much of the remaining paint as physically possible.

“Crap,” he moans out, looking at his half-colored canvas forlornly. There were still at least six sunflowers to be painted, though he had already painted most of the background. This couldn’t do; he had no time to start over. The art supply shop didn’t open until at least 9AM, but his classes start shortly after that. There was no way he could pull this off at this rate. Unless…

He reached for his phone from his table, almost tripping over his easel in his haste to grab it. He knew you were an early riser, though he doubted you’d be awake even at this ungodly hour. He just hoped to whatever entity up in the clouds that you would pick up your phone and not start cussing him out for ruining your sleep. Though it was hard to imagine you getting mad at him for anything, as he knew you always had a bit of a soft spot for him.

To his relief, you answered on the fifth ring.

“Hello?” You murmured quietly, voice still sounding rough with sleep. Renjun could hear you smacking your lips sleepily, the mental image of it all eliciting a grin on his face. He wanted to know how you looked right now, with your impossibly cute bedhead and droopy eyes.

“Y/N? You awake?”

You yawned, the sound of rustling sheets accompanying your reply. “I am now, I guess. It’s… 4AM? What gives? You don’t normally wake this early. Unless…”

“Yup,” Renjun sighed, head hanging in defeat. “Kinda haven’t slept all night. The project isn’t coming along too well.”

“Aww,” you cooed. Renjun perked up a little at your tone.

Then, “Tough shit.”

Renjun flinched at that, staring wide-eyed at his phone before returning it to his ear. “Excuse me?”

“Well, if you hadn’t been goofing off the entire week before, you wouldn’t be in this mess, would you? Now excuse me… I have another two hours of sleep before my alarm is supposed to go off, so I’ll see you later! Peace,” was all you said before promptly hanging up.

The room was silent as Renjun stood in the middle of his room, shocked beyond all belief. Was that really you that he had just spoken to? Where was the kind, empathetic friend he had come to know and love? Perhaps lack of sleep really does change a person for the worse.

Undeterred by your rejection, Renjun decided to head over to your house anyway. Was he probably going to get his ass handed to him for disturbing you even more? Probably. Was he willing to face the consequences of your fiery wrath? Absolutely. Was he going to enjoy getting berated by you as he stared, lovestruck, at your cute pajamas and angry, puffy eyes? Undoubtedly.

Luckily, your house was only a few blocks away, although Renjun still ran all the way because he was (maybe, slightly, on a little bit) afraid of the dark. So what if he screamed a little when a cat jumped out of some trashcans? No one saw, and that was all that mattered.

He arrived at your place in record time, the dark window panes indicating that you were still, in fact, asleep. He tried opening the door to no avail, not being able to find the spare key you used to place under the mat. With no other option in sight, there was one last thing he could do…

Tap. Tap. Tap.

There was something tapping incessantly against your window for a couple minutes now. At first, you had ignored the sound completely, assuming that it was the first drops of rain before a storm. After a while, you began to realize that rain did not sound like that, and it reminded you more like a finger tapping or knocking. That was impossible though, because you lived on the second floor of a shared house. Surely, it wasn’t what you thought it was––

Before you could contemplate further, you phone started to ring for the second time that night, and the pieces of the puzzle immediately fall into place. It was him, that fucking bastard. Grumbling loudly, you grasped your phone against your ear, a chain of swears tumbling out of your lips quicker than any seasoned rapper out there.

“Wait, Y/N! Lemme explain—“

“Renjun, I swear if I go downstairs right now and find you throwing pebbles at my window to disrupt my sleep even further, you better believe I’m calling the cops on you, friend or not!”

“I just need yellow paint!” He cried out, loud enough that you can hear him from outside. You hiss at him to keep quiet, worried that his noise would also wake up your roommates.

“No, Renjun! You have to learn to be more responsible! You can’t always expect things to go your way without proper preparation! 4.0 GPA or not, I’m not letting you keep doing this––hold on,” you paused, stopping mid-sentence. There had been loud thunk just outside your bedroom wall. There was a suspicious lack of response on Renjun’s end, though you can hear his heavy breathing through the speakers. You slipped out of your covers, padding your way to the window. You peered over, squinting blearily at the darkness of the night.

“Renjun? What are you––“ You gasped before finishing, slamming open the windows and letting the cool breeze gently brush your face. The sight before you was not as great as the wind, though. “Are you fucking crazy? Stop climbing before you get hurt!”

“Almost there,” Renjun grunted, his hands grasping tightly on your ledge. You watched in stunned silence as the gangly boy hoisted himself over and into your bedroom with the ease of someone who had done that at least a few times before. It took you a while before you could find your bearings as you stood, mouth agape, at the beaming boy now standing before you with neon green paint on his cheek.

“Hey,” he greets, smiling.

It took all the energy in your body to keep your hand from meeting his cheek (either to caress him or to slap him? No one was for certain.) “You could’ve fucking died.”

Renjun lifted both his arms into the air and shook his legs around. He shot you a cheeky look, faking contemplativeness. “I feel pretty alive, I would say. All limbs in working order, as far as I know.”

Oh my god. You were friends with a maniac!

“This is so unlike you,” you said. “You’re never this relentlessly annoying.”

“Well, you wouldn’t let me finish my urgent plea on the phone, so of course I had to take drastic measures! I’m gonna fail this GPA booster course, and then I’ll die, and then it’ll be your fault!” He said in one breath, grin never faltering. As his gaze flitted around the room, he noticed your finished project, sitting on your desk and covered in plastic to hide its contents from the world. “Ooh, is that your submission? can I see?”

You rushed over to it, hiding it behind your back with a huff. “Absolutely not! You lost all privileges from me the moment you called me up at 4AM! Now get out of my house before I really call the cops.”

He pouted, deflating visibly. “Okay, look… I know I’m being a prick right now, but you really gotta help me! I ran out of yellow paint and you’re the only person who can help me!”

You were not sure why, but hearing that reason coming from Renjun of all people was making your blood boil in anger. He went all this way to your house, throwing pebbles out your window like some cliché romcom protagonist, even climbing up a building, just to ask for fucking yellow paint?!

“Are you hearing yourself, Huang Renjun? I’m going to kill you!” You grabbed a few of the still open paint tubes by your desk, squeezing its contents all over his clothes in a fit of rage. He gasped, crying out in anguish as globs of blue and red marred the cute little Moomins on his shirt.

“You did not just do that!” He yelled, slapping the paint out of your hands. You were pretty shocked yourself, though you can’t help but giggle a little at how flabbergasted he looked.

“That’s what you get for being ridiculous, you stupid shit––hey, stop! Put down that cup of paint water now before I––NO!”

Murky black water splashes down your left cheek and onto your pajamas, the gross, cold sensation making you splutter out indignantly at the smirking boy. “Oh my god, you absolute bastard!”

It did not take long for the argument to dissolve into a full-blown paint fight as the two of you sprayed each other with every bit of available art supply in your room. Paint, brushes, pens, and markers were launched into the air, both of you screaming in both anger and delight as you hit the other with every type of projectile imagineable.

Renjun jumped across the bed, searching your bedside table for more ammo once you managed to hoard most of them on your side. It didn’t take long for him to find one of your unopened bottles of yellow paint, and he hooted in victory as he held it up in the air like a trophy.

“Yes, I found it! Ceasefire, Y/N! I got what I wanted!”

“And you think I’m supposed to stop just because you’re happy?” You screeched back, readying a large amount of black paint on one of your paintbrushes like a makeshift catapult. “Drop that paint bottle if you wanna live, Renjun!”

It was in that moment when one of your roommates suddenly barged in to the scene, her entire being blazing with heat as she furiously accessed the room. There you were, paint dripping from every inch of your body, with a similarly painted boy on the other side of your bed with a little 50mL bottle of yellow paint in his open fist. No one made a sound for a moment, afraid to explain what the hell you both were doing, until––

“I’m not even going to ask. Just shut up before I get you evicted,” Yeri growled, slamming the door with the frame rattling in her wake.

“Oh god, she’s going to kill me tomorrow,” you moaned, dropping the paintbrush and dropping your head against your newly painted bed. Not looking at him, you pointed your finger in his general direction, forcing him to stop as he tried to covertly escape through the window. “Don’t you dare move another muscle. You are helping me clean my room before class, or so help me I’ll paint angry eyebrows on all your Moomin plushies.”

That got him moving to help you quickly, at least. With the two of you working together instead of fighting, you managed to get all your bedsheets into the washer and most of the paint splatters removed from your walls and floor in record time. Thankfully there wasn’t much damage on your room, as you and Renjun were the main casualties of the paint war.

While the two of you finished up, you hadn’t realized that the sun had already begun its approach into the sky, meaning that it was time to get ready for class.

“Shit, I won’t be able to shower in time,” you whined, fruitlessly picking at the paint clumping your hair together. You gave Renjun the evil eye, who had the decency to look sheepish at least.

“Wait, hold that thought,” he said, grasping your hand in his as he appraised you with an odd look. His brows were furrowed, thinking deeply as he traced the strokes of yellow and blue on your cheeks, all the way to your neck. His proximity made the blood rush to your face, and you hoped that the paint was doing a good job covering your flush.

It was an odd sensation, feeling so aware of your friend’s presence. You never noticed how cute he looked until that moment, when he was so focused and thoughtful like this. He had always looked handsome to you, but for whatever reason, the dash of red on the corner of his lip never looked more enticing than it did then.

After a bit more staring, he smiled softly at you, tucking a bit of your hair behind your ear with the sort of gentleness that you have come to associate with him. Your stupid, funny, smart, lovable Renjun. The only boy that you could never stay mad at.

“I think I have my submission for my art project right here,” he said, simply and honestly.

You giggled a bit, not quite understanding. “Well, you got the yellow paint, right? Shouldn’t you head home and try to finish your painting before class starts? You got a bit of time, I think.”

He shook his head, cupping your face like something to be held. Like something to be admired. There was something blooming inside your chest; a field of sunflowers, all of them reaching towards the light right in front of you.

The sun grinned at you, and the sunflowers rejoiced. “Nah. I think I’m good. More than good.”  

[nataliejoyart]

Unit Zero: Chapter Three

This is chapter three of a story of mine: Unit Zero. It’s about a group of kids brought together by people who once protected the universe so that the honorable duty can be passed to another generation. Previous chapters can be found in older posts.

~Payton Dodson~

Payton Dodson scoffed under his breath as he shoved his way back into the main locker room.

That went well, he thought to himself, rolling his eyes.

So it turned out there was a reason everyone not only stayed away from Ren Graves but also reason for them warning Payton not to get too close. Nobody wanted to be around a rude, selfish, stuck-up demon of a boy. Then again, most people were that way, but hid it so that they’d be “accepted by society”.

What Payton did know: he’d sworn to himself that he’d help people. He didn’t need to be a superhero or anything. But some day, he’d drag people out of the pits they were in and show them the light.

Another thing he now knew: Some people didn’t want his help, apparently. His help or anyone else’s.

A twinge of pity bit Payton in the side, though. He could remember that days when he was that way. Being in the foster system, as Ren had so bluntly pointed out, could do that to you. Especially when the biological parents you had loved with everything you were had died, and the blame was placed on you. Payton was frankly relieved that a family from up North adopted him six years ago. Up here, he had a new start. A clean slate. Nobody knew who he was. Then again, it wasn’t like anybody really cared either. But what did it all boiled down to? Payton could recognize a crappy childhood. And Ren displayed all the signs.

Maybe Ren’s just that much of a jerk. Payton thought. Or maybe Poppy just puts on a brave face. And has real people skills. Payton thought to himself.

Because, oddly enough, Ren’s identical twin sister seemed like the type of girl who grew up with underbearing parents who spoiled her most of her childhood.

Poppy Graves was the peppiest, sweetest girl Payton had ever met. Her hair was always tied up with ribbons and clips that sparkled like jewels among the curly, black mane. And she didn’t seem to have a single negative word in her vocabulary. It wouldn’t have been true to say that everyone at Fairbanks High loved Poppy, but Payton could certainly say nobody held any kind of grudge with her.

Payton could see her across the gynasium. Well, he did before a dodge ball knocked him onto his butt after it rocketed into his gut at a ridiculous speed.

“Yer out, Dodson!” the coach shouted across the gym.

Payton stumbled back to his feet, wandering over to the sidelines, eyes still attached to Ren’s twin. It’s not like Ren was a stalker or anything. But, yeah... He had a crush… On the person whose brother currently had it out for him.

If you like her, talk to her, you doofus. A voice in Payton’s head pushed.

He rubbed his neck as a cold chill brushed past it.

No, I can’t do that. Especially with…

Payton’s eyes flicked across the gym, watching the shadowed figure of Ren Graves slumped, unnoticed by everyone around him, just underneath the scaffolding of the bleachers. A shiver ran down Payton’s spine as he thought of how much Ren looked like a ghost. Payton hated ghosts. The concept of them had always made him severely uncomfortable. Not necessarily scared, but…

Ren’s pale white skin and bright eyes sat starkly against the dark contrast of his dark hiding place. And his head wasn’t hidden underneath his black hoodie as it usually was, allowing an untamed thatch of curly, black hair to stick out wildly like some kind of mangled mop head. He was also turned, staring through the cracks in the bleacher seats at his sister.

But Payton didn’t have time to be staring at his eighth grade crush all day. After all, they only shared one class. It was a shame, and Payton was still trying to adjust to watching the backs of kids far larger and more rugged than himself as he sat through the last period of the day: quantum mechanics and theoretical physics. Well, it wasn’t really a class, especially with Payton’s knack for it.

So you’re a book-smarts kid, eh?

Payton frowned. What the heck? Book-smart? I’m not a walking textbook. I actually use my brain, not just store crap in it to sound intelligent.

Fair point. But what about street smarts? Any good with those?

The cold shiver from before ran down Payton’s spine.

Why am I thinking about this crap? Besides, they’re probably better than anyone else here. I doubt jocks grew up in a broken foster system… Not that I’ve had to survive on the side of a road in a few years… but still…

You wanna test that out? ‘Cause from an Arizona kid to an Alaskan, this terrain is pretty rugged. I could see why Natalie would live up here.

Payton shifted uneasily in his seat, rolling out his shoulders uncomfortable and glancing behind him. It wasn’t normal for him to think like tha-

A screech like a banshee made Payton jump out of his skin, heart rattling around in his chest faster than he preferred to handle. The last bell.

He shook his head, taking the opportunity to stand quickly and rush from the classroom, tossing his backpack over his shoulder. Making a beeline for the door, Payton couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder again as he broke off from the crowd shuffling towards the busses.

Just keep a cool head, Payton. Just until you get home… You can freak out then…

I can stay quiet until then, I suppose. Although there’s a lot that needs explaining.

As Payton practically ran down the sidewalks stretching out from Fairbanks High, those thoughts didn’t return. But they weren’t really like thoughts. It’d been more like… someone was… whispering into his ear or something. Or like he was listening to someone he couldn’t see and couldn’t tune out. But it was gone now, and Payton’s retreating pace slowed to a walk.

And it stayed that way the entire trek to the one place he felt comfortable in this world: The Corner Diner. A little mom-and-pop shop open almost all hours of the day on a lonely corner. It was a sort of hidden gem in Fairbanks, so not many knew of it All the restaurant offered for sit-in patrons was a long counter that separated the small open space where a few tables and chairs would have been welcome, but had never existed, from the kitchen in the back. A mere twenty stools lines the counter.

Almost every one of them was filled, save a single seat against the far wall. Payton sighed. It wasn’t any kind of special holiday or anything… although the weather was nice. And that often coaxed people from their homes. Some weird characters could show up at times, too. As Payton took the last stool, he recalled with a short chuckle the time near Easter when a man walked in dressed in a fluffy pink bunny suit, leading a pack of burly bikers all with rabbit ears on their heads.

No one particularly odd sat in the diner today. Payton had seated himself next to a man who had to be a hunter, dressed head-to-foot in camo with scruffy stubble riddling his chin. He and a buddy spoke gently between mouthfuls of hamburger, reeking of male body odor and frying grease.

But Payton just ordered his usual small basket of onion rings, hiding himself underneath a textbook and avoiding their glances. He had a rule when he came to the Corner Diner: no schoolwork, no studying, and no worrying. About anything. This was Payton’s cool-down time. Sure, it would only last thirty minutes or so, but between the school environment that, as today proved, didn’t quite suite him, and his foster parents back home… he needed some alone time.

And so that’s what Payton did. He slumped in the seat, lazily nibbling away at the perfectly-salted and fried onion rings underneath the shadow on his textbook wall he’d erected. The hunters left shortly after Payton arrived, their irritating stench drifting out the door with them as a new patron held it open, nodding to the hunters as they left.

“Hey there, kid.”

Payton peeked over his textbook, watching as a stocky man in a U.S. Marines cap slipped onto the stool two down from his own. He wore military fatigues and therefore carried that aura around him that demanded respect and made you sit up a little taller. He was a little odd, though, since his hair was not buzzed, but rather fell into his eyes, causing chronic hairflipping and brushing. And he wore deep red aviators, not even bothering to take them off as he continued to speak to Payton.

“What’re you doing by yourself?”

Payton glanced around nervously. “Uh, nothing. Just taking a little break after school.”

The Marine nodded. He was quiet for a while, allowing Payton to return to his onion rings. He didn’t know how to put it, but there was something… off… about this man. He wasn’t lying. Payton could recognize a liar.

“How old are you, kid?” the man asked through a mouthful of french fries. He nodded to the textbook, “That isn’t exactly junior-high level stuff.”

“Oh, uh… I’m thirteen.” Payton responded, removing his textbook wall and shoving it into his backpack. He didn’t want to seem rude.

The man grinned, “Only thirteen, huh? You sound like an old friend of mine.” He glanced at Payton, giving Payton an intrigued smile. “No offense, but you probably like to stick to those books of yours, huh? Not exactly the fighting type.”

Payton shrugged, shifting on the stool. “I dunno. Just because I’m smart doesn’t mean I can’t also be athletic.”

“That’s true.” the man chuckled.

There was something about the way he spoke… Payton couldn’t quite explain it. He found himself hanging onto every word, but there was something that seemed… unsettling… People didn’t usually just strike up conversations in the middle of a diner with six feet of counter space separating them.

Payton shoved his last onion ring down, pushing the tray towards the edge of the counter. He just wasn’t feeling right about this. Maybe it was the voice in his head from before that had turned his day sour. Although, Ren had started that cycle first. But he just wanted to go home now and be where he knew he could get some peace and quiet.

“Ya’know, kid, I have a feeling about you.” the Marine said as Payton shifted to leave. I think you’d do great in the academy I’m from.”

“The Marines?” Payton said, stopping, “But I thought you said I didn’t look ‘like the fighting type.’”

“But you said you could be.” he pointed out. “It’s not too far away, and there are a lot of pesky rules. But I have a feeling you’d be perfect.”

“I’m only thirteen.” Payton said, raising a skeptic eyebrow. Unease sat in his stomach like a rock.

Now hold on…

Payton spine tingled again. That voice!

I thought you were being quiet now! Payton hissed to himself - or the voice, he wasn’t sure. He felt like he was losing his mind.

Yeah, I usually can’t shut up. The voice said, It’s one of my defining traits. But you need to go with this man. You can trust him.

Uh, yeah, no thanks. Payton thought, slipping from the stool and reaching for his backpack. The only thing about him I can trust is that he gives me the creeps. Just like you.

“Your age isn’t a problem.” the man coaxed, turning his full attention now to Payton.

Payton roacked on his feet. “You know, sir, thanks, but… I think I’ll pass on your offer. I don’t think I’m military academy material.”

“Ah, come on. Listen to your head.”

And that was the red alarm for Payton. The Marine, as much as Payton respected the uniform, had crossed the line.

Although the Voice disagreed.

Yes, your head. Listen to your head. Listen to me. You. Can. Trust. Him.

[epchapman89]

The Dark Truth About Goth Lattes

A few short weeks ago we reported on the emergence of a new beverage trend: the Goth Latte, a latte made using activated charcoal. The results are visually stunning, but it turns out enjoying these drinks—or any of today’s multitude of ice creams and lemonades spiked with charcoal—could pose serious health risks for those on certain kinds of medications.

They were whipping up all manner of activated charcoal drinks out in Venice Beach at Menotti’s Coffee Stop, one of LA’s best cafes, when I visited a few weeks ago. Founder Christopher “Nicely” Abel Alameda is not shy about his enthusiasm for activated charcoal beverages, and his shop’s signature drink menu features riffs like the “Darth Mocha,” featuring Valrhona chocolate, Maldon salt, and activated charcoal, and the “Charcoalate Milk,” made with charcoal (natch), hemp milk, and house ganache.

The drinks are delicious and striking, drawing oohs and ahhs from the perpetual motion machine of customers coursing in and out of the tiny cafe, just a block from the Venice Beach boardwalk. “What is that?” a patron asks. “That’s a #2 Pencil,” Nicely replies. Folks start ordering the drinks in place of their usual iced lattes, and before we know it there’s a crowd gathered as the next drink lands on the bar.

Each activated charcoal drink at Menotti’s contains just a gram of activated charcoal, and that dosage is typical across other foodstuff applications of AC—like, say, the Charcoal Lemonade you might find for sale a few blocks away on Abbot Kinney. Nicely’s use of charcoal on the menu is about more than visual appeal and fad chasing—he’s used the ingredient in his own holistic health regimen for several years, to help combat problems related to stomach acidity. “Once I started integrating charcoal into my diet,” Nicely tells Sprudge, “I saw the benefits of it right away. That’s what compelled me to want to share it with people.”

But there is a darker side to the Goth Latte. Rumors abound around these drinks, and a growing chorus of voices are speaking out warning about the potential dangers they pose.

Most of the information on this topic is pretty scattered, ranging from poppy doctor chats to wacky trend pieces to glorified reblogs. Sprudge wanted to know some facts about the supposed charcoal risks, starting with a practical first question: what was the dosage necessary to interrupt the absorption of medication? I reached out to a doctor friend of mine—Dr. Ross Martini of the Oregon Health Sciences University (OHSU) in Portland, Oregon. (Dr. Martini, it should be disclosed, is the partner of Sprudge co-founder Zachary Carlsen.) Dr. Martini told me that a wide variety of factors influenced whether or not a drug could be disrupted by charcoal: pH of the stomach, where in your GI tract the pill breaks down for absorption, and the drug molecule itself—how big it is, what charge it has, and so on.

Okay, so no magic bullet. But in overdose situations—when charcoal is used for emergencies in hospitals—how much is typically administered? Dr. Martini checked with his toxicology colleagues at OHSU and determined that 50 grams of activated charcoal would be typically administered to combat toxins and prevent absorption.

50 grams! Well if my Goth Latte has just one gram, it’s probably fine, right? That’s 1/50th of the medical dose used to disrupt absorption. And according to the available medical scholarship, the introduction of something like milk—say, in a Goth Latte—could further diminish the effectiveness of activated charcoal:

The addition of some flavoring agents (e.g., milk, ice cream, sherbet, marmalade) are known to reduce the adsorptive capacity, and therefore the efficacy, of activated charcoal and should be avoided in preference to activated charcoal-water slurries; nevertheless, these flavoring agents do not completely compromise the effectiveness of activated charcoal and may be necessary in some circumstances (e.g., administration in pediatric patients) to enhance compliance (Cooney 1995; Dagnone 2002).

So maybe Goth Lattes—not unlike my own experience during my The Cure phase in high school—are just misunderstood.  At such a small dose, mixed with milk, what could possibly be the harm? Turns out the bigger issue relates back to what sorts of medications you’re taking, specifically medications made of very small molecules such as birth control.

When we ran our own admittedly poppy trend piece back in June, a few folks with deeper knowledge of the risks posed by charcoal in drinks reached out in response. One of them is a practicing hospitalist in the Seattle area, Dr. Matthew Powell, who goes by @cocktailmd on Instagram. Dr. Powell helped clear up some of the misconceptions I had about grams and dosage amounts when administering AC in a hospital setting. “The OHSU folks are correct that [doctors] use activated charcoal (AC) in certain types of overdose by administering a 50g dose,” he says. “That megadose is meant to prevent absorption of a megadose of a toxin or medication. It turns out that with all of the microscopic pores in AC there is an extraordinarily high surface area in even just one gram of it—about the same as three or four tennis courts. That surface area is where other substances stick (“adsorption”) to prevent them getting into the system (“absorption”).”

“Not everything sticks,” Dr. Powell says, “but everything that does stick passes through the system and out the other end without adversely affecting the person.” Dr. Powell continued (bold emphasis from Sprudge):

“What does stick well? Lots of different medications. The ratios matter, so one gram of AC wouldn’t have as much effect on half a gram of medication, but that same dose of AC is 10,000 times the weight of a common dose of birth control (100mcg) and could potentially adsorb that medication in its entirety,” Powell says.  “Many studies have looked at the reduction in medication effectiveness, and this effect is far from theoretical. For example, 1g of AC taken within five minutes of 500mg of Ciprofloxacin reduces that antibiotic’s effectiveness by about 10%. However, a different antibiotic that was only a 100mg dose was reduced by about 90%. Imagine the effect on birth control pills that are 1/1000th that dose!”

Imagine, indeed! This has been a hot topic of conversation in the cocktail world for years, prompting one doctor to quip to Imbibe, “I’m going to make a cocktail called the See Ya in Nine Months.” And it’s not just The Pill—many medications, including those for issues with depression, anxiety, and thyroid imbalance are made up of lightweight molecules and are especially susceptible to being absorbed by charcoal.

The doctors had spun my head around. I went from thinking that the Goth Latte was a bit of moody, synth-drenched fun, like the A-side of “The Head on the Door” to a realization that the drink was far more frightening and consequential than I could even fathom, like the B-side of “Seventeen Seconds.” But it’s not all tears dripping through dark eyeliner: Dr. Powell notes that activated charcoal can only disrupt medications it’s in direct contact with. “Medication taken four hours before or after AC wouldn’t be likely to come in contact with it,” he told me, “but the closer they are taken together, the stronger the interaction. Just think how many people take their medication in the morning before heading out the door to grab a coffee before work and you can imagine that many people will fall well within that four-hour window.”

Egads, this sounds like a public health risk! Surely this stuff must be regulated? Surely doctors are warning their patients not to ingest activated charcoal when prescribing medications that might be impacted by it? I asked Dr. Martini, is charcoal something doctors are starting to discuss with their patients? “Never,” he tells me. (Actually, it was in all-caps via text: “NEVER”.) “It would have to be a blanket statement given for all drugs, and since charcoal is unregulated, it’s impossible to tell what you’re really ingesting.”

But surely the FDA must be involved and have some oversight? “Even for herbal medications, the FDA just needs to know that what you are putting in it is literally not poison,” says Dr. Martini. “It’s about as regulated as McDonald’s.”

Unregulated, potentially harmful to a wide variety of medications, with no warning by the modern medical community. So what’s the moral of this story? Charcoal in foodstuffs are undeniably cool-looking, and the Goth Latte speaks for a forgotten generation of emotional outcasts—this much we know. But if you take certain medications, you should really, really be careful about consuming this stuff, whether it’s in your coffee drink, curated artisanal pre-squozen lemonade, Instagram ice cream cone, suspender-y urban apothecary cocktail parlo(u)r, Eater Steam List neo-artisan pizza pop-up, or what-have-you.

Meanwhile back at Menotti’s, Nicely is still offering charcoal drinks to curious customers—including enthusiastic nutritionists who champion the health benefits of charcoal—albeit with an updated caveat, and a new warning. “I think we need to appreciate why [charcoal] is used for medical purposes, and that’s why I’ve been using it myself,” he tells me. “When people order these drinks, I can tell them how it’s helped me—it comes from a true place of inspiration—but I’ve also put an asterisk on the menu to warn people to be careful if they’re taking medication.”

If you’re one of the millions of perfectly normal people who take medication regularly, for any reason, you should talk to your doctor about the risks of consuming activated charcoal, because there definitely are some. The truth is out there.

Jordan Michelman is a co-founder and editor at Sprudge Media Network. Read more Jordan Michelman on Sprudge. 

Photos by Jordan Michelman for Sprudge Media Network. 

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