#also to add on… the way the arms are posed on Mourning Mother…

[bioswear]

I’m sick with excitement

[angelaiswriting]

25 | (JATP) Alex & twin!sister!Nancy

✏️ Pairing (sorta, but not really): Alex & twin!sister!Nancy

✏️ Summary: It’s been twenty-five years, but Nance is still mourning the deaths of her brother and her friends. Life hasn’t exactly been going in the right direction since 1995 — it never has, though, ever since she has memory — but little does she know her daughter Sarah is about to find out that Uncle Alex and Sunset Curve are back as ghosts and playing with an old school friend. (Not requested)

✏️ A/N: Many thanks to @themazeskies for introducing me to this fandom ✌🏻 this story def wouldn’t be here without you. (Thank you for feeding my need for angst!) To the rest of y’all: enjoy! Angie and I sort of created a little universe of events and stuff with these characters, so if you wanna read more, just let me know. 🥰

✏️ Warnings: sad/angst (but also fluff? if you squint?); mentions of death (but that’s the show?); slight hint to a past use of drugs.

✏️ Notes: flashbacks in italics; lyrics in bold and italics.

✏️ Word Count: 6,472

It happens suddenly. One day she’s… normal, one would say — doing her things, carrying on with her life, helping her daughter prepare her things to leave home as soon as high school ends — and the next she’s whole again.

She hasn’t felt that kind of whole in twenty-five years.

Alex used to call it their twin link, back in the day, when putting up with their parents and their falling-out marriage seemed to be the worst thing they had to endure. Lex… 

There’s a treacherous tear running down her cheek and when her brain registers it, it’s almost too late. She feels it on her jaw, threatening to fall down onto the test she’s grading. Her mind almost anticipates what’s about to happen — the tear will dangle from her jaw for a moment, and then it’ll eventually land onto one of the words one of her students wrote, and it will stain it. But her hand is quicker, and it wipes that tear away before it’s too late.

Twenty-five years.

Her throat knots up with the tears she has been trying so hard not to shed. The anniversary of his death is coming up quickly, and with a son off at college and a toxic ex-husband still fighting to spill money out of her, she feels the loneliness and the weight of it all even more. It’s in her limbs when she wakes up, and it stays perched on her shoulders throughout the day, until it’s finally time to go to bed. And to start it all over again.

She’s managed twenty-five years without him, so she reasons that she can manage twenty-five more — it’s not like she has a choice. She promised it, after all, too long ago to even remember when, exactly, but that was one of the things they had both promised each other — that they’d have a happy life; that they’d fight for it, no matter the cost, no matter where they’d be in the world, if together or if apart. Life had spinned the roulette and the ball had landed on apart, but that had been out of their control.

“Mom? Mom, are you listening?”

Sarah’s standing there, fingertips digging into the cushioned back of the couch — her baby girl now at the threshold of adulthood. Time really does fly in hindsight.

“I said I’m taking Lex on a run,” she says, brows furrowing as she lets the dog’s leash dangle in her hold, almost as a way to catch her mother’s attention. “Are you okay? Did Dad call again? Do you want me to call Jake?”

She shakes her head and only then, when her gaze drops to the kitchen table, does she realize she’s been gripping onto the red pen in her left hand with more force than necessary. “I’m okay, just thinking. Don’t be too late, you still have school tomorrow.” And although that’s true, her voice comes out soft and tired, and all of a sudden she knows tears are about to come. “Have fun,” she adds before her daughter can speak.

A pet to Lex’s furry head, and the dog has sprinted into a messy run towards the entrance door.

“You know you can talk to me.” Sarah’s standing in the corridor, but her head is poking into the room, a hand gripping the door frame. It’s a weird sight, albeit not unfamiliar — a boy her age, blonde hair much shorter, a happy smile on his lips, she’s seen that pose a million times in a past life. “If it’s about Uncle Alex…” There’s a long pause as the girl looks for the right words, goes over every possible ending she could come up with, but then settles for none. “You know it,” her daughter nods, and then she’s gone.

Unconsciously, she sits up straighter and strains her ears until she hears the front door open and close. Lex barks twice outside and through the open window of the living room, she can hear her daughter’s chuckle at the dog’s playfulness.

Then everything goes silent again and she’s left with that odd sensation in her soul. It’s nothing she can put her finger on, but it’s… there, and it’s something. Something she had never known she felt until that night, and something she hasn’t felt ever since. It knocks the wind out of her and as the pen falls onto the table, a sob tears its way up her throat.

It feels like home, in a way. It feels like being seventeen again — not the Zac Efron way, but it’s… again, something. Something so utterly absurd that she’s this close to slapping a hand against her forehead, but that hand just ends up clamping down onto her mouth when she feels another sob coming.

She feels the sobs more than she does the tears. They seem to shake her from the inside out — and not just from there, but from her very soul. She tells herself it’s just the anniversary — and everything else in her life going both the wrong and the right way. Her marriage in shambles, and her kids off to college, leaving her with no one but the dog she rescued some five years ago at their spot.

It has to be that. It’s all catching up this year, after all. The twenty-fifth lap around the Sun, bringing back all the memories from that night, both at the Orpheum and then in that alley. Her ex-husband trying to shatter what’s left of her life after leaving her utterly heartbroken one too many times already. Sarah going off to nursing school when the school year ends; and Jake playing his uncle’s instrument with his friends from college.

The house already does feel empty, but right now it’s almost hollow. Hollow and silent, almost expanding to infinity as she tries her best to keep herself under check — and she fails.

“C’mon, you’ve already done this countless times,” but her voice shatters on the last syllable and her lower lip quivers, and for a moment she’s blind even behind her reading glasses. “Just breathe.”

But that just breathe doesn’t hit as well as her brother’s always did, it doesn’t calm her down. She’s left feeling like she’s whole again — and more than that, like she’s part of something bigger, of a two-for-the-price-of-one kind of deal. And as she makes her way upstairs, her knees aren’t the only part of her body trembling.

There’s an old shoebox on the top shelf of her closet. It’s been there ever since the beginning and through all the relocations her family has done since the unlucky day she moved in with Michael at eighteen. It’s a pale red by now, held closed by elastic bands of every color and they’re so many because when the memory of what’s inside makes her feel like she’s starting to crumble apart again, she adds one more in the desperate attempt to keep it sealed, to keep the past inside, hidden away, almost as though by doing so, she can keep every single one of those memories locked away in a dark and recondite corner of her mind.

But not today. Today she knows she has to open it. She feels it in her bones, and probably even deeper than that. And maybe it’s about time — just open the Pandora box and see what happens, or something like that. The tears are already there; she doesn’t see what else could come out of her hidden past that isn’t already there.

Taking the rubber bands off is the hardest part. One by one, it feels like ripping off a brick from the wall she has spent almost three decades building around herself. It’s exhausting and by the time she has reached the last rubber band — the last brick — she has no tears left to shed. But that’s good; it has the taste of liberation, like she’s finally free of a choker she didn’t know she was wearing.

Almost as a joke of fate, a velvety choker necklace is what welcomes her back to the 1990s when she takes the lid off. Black and simple, it used to be her favorite. It was her lucky charm necklace, something she had somehow ended up always wearing when her brother and his group were playing.

But the stack of photographs is still there, right underneath it, and it takes her endless minutes to convince herself to pick them up. She doesn’t know how long she’s been sitting cross-legged on the floor for, but probably not as long as she thinks she has.

Her hand trembles when she picks up the first polaroid. And she feels it again, that lump of tears in the back of her throat, and then that sensation of absolute void and loneliness she has felt inside for so long.

The empty stage of the Orpheum would be unrecognizable to anyone that doesn’t know where the photo has been taken. It’s just a place like any other, but she can still feel the electricity in the atmosphere almost as though she was still there, stuck between those four walls like some sort of ghost.

She was laughing, and so was Alex. He had an arm around her shoulders, and she had one around his waist. As absurd as it could sound, to this day she can still smell him — he had a cheap perfume he wore at gigs, one he had treasured dearly, and all because it had been a present from her for their shared birthday. And that night they had been laughing because Reggie had almost tripped down the stage when Bobby had called him over.

The memory crashes over her like a wave. Luke had tried to silence their laughter to snap a good picture — and she’s sure there are better ones in that shoebox — but somehow this in particular is the one that bears the most meaning.

“Guys, please!” She can still hear her friend as clear as day, probably more clearly than she hears her students in class every day. “Can you please…

*

… please stop laughing? I’m tryna take a decent one here!”

“Sorry, bro,” but Alex is still laughing, and she is too, and in the hilarity of the moment, they end up pulling each other closer.

The flash goes off and as Luke flaps the polaroid picture, Alex gives her shoulder a squeeze before eventually turning serious.

“I’m glad you could come, Nance.” And although he’s smiling down at her from the height difference their twin bond hasn’t managed to level out, it’s clear from the look in his eyes that there’s something else lurking underneath the surface. It could be one of the billion things their parents have said — have spat out like venom in their usual style — but she can’t put a finger on one in particular.

“They can say and do whatever they want,” she says as she shakes her head. “You know that, Lex: it’s always been you above anyone else and always will be. I’d choose you in a heartbeat over them. You know I’ll always be front row for you.”

He heaves a sigh and leans his forehead against hers. His nerves are starting to act up — as usual before a performance, before he sits down and starts pouring his heart out on the drums — but she knows he’ll find his calm very soon.

“Just a little longer.” She tries to come off as reassuring, but there’s a pinch of fear — of the unknown, of failing, of having to go back — inside her at the plan they have come up with. “September is right behind the corner, then we’re both eighteen and out of that house for good. They won’t be able to stop either of us.”

“I know, I’m just… impatient.” He looks up when Bobby calls his name — they still have to rehearse their opening song for tonight. “I miss you when I’m not there, and I’m —”

“No need to be worried, Lex.” She pulls him into a side hug and breathes him in. And she doesn’t know it, not yet, but this will be the last time she’ll be able to do it. In her forties, she’ll still remember the way the fabric of his t-shirt felt against her cheek that night — soft and warm, smelling of the perfume she gave him on his last birthday; the way he playfully tugged on her braid, or how that chuckle ringed in the back of his throat. And even the way Reggie flirtingly called her just so that she would turn around. “Now go show them who’s best,” she chuckles, letting her brother go.

Watching them play always gives her a first-time kind of sensation, and there’s no stopping her from dancing around, just feeling the music. Now or Never is one of her favorite songs of theirs, and she just knows they’ll make it big. Landing a gig and playing at the Orpheum isn’t easy, but she’s looking at them — a bunch of seventeen-year olds, and she can’t but smile because they’ll hit the big time soon. Their own concerts, their own tours, no more sneaking around parents to play in a garage — but an actual career, with an actual label, and everything will be good.

And it’s almost exhilarating to know that they’re all willing to take her with them on their journey. It’s not like they’ll ever be able to get rid of Alex’s twin sister, not when they know how much they mean to each other, how important they are to each other as they wait to become of age. It’s the start of something big and she’s there with them, a bunch of kids she’s met almost by accident, and she can’t wait for tonight. The people, the Orpheum…

She jumps around, excited, and there’s nothing else. Not her parents’ venom towards Lex, not the billion and one problems at home, not even volleyball practice at school.

“Nancy!” She looks up when Reggie calls her name over Luke’s singing and when her eyes meet his, she realizes she’s tired of the endless and fruitless flirting and that she’d love to go to the school ball with him. “‘s one’s for you!” he grins, before joining the others in the chorus — Keep dreaming like we’ll live forever, But live it like it’s now or never.

She cheers, and even the girl behind her giggles as she cleans one of the tables in preparation for tonight.

The one before her is a sight that would turn into a picture in her mind with time, a photogram that would never fade, would never age. Four friends living their dream — and it’s amazing to know that one of them is the person she cares about the most in the world. She looks at them and even at forty-two, she won’t be able to think back of Bobby with contempt as he stands on that stage.

It feels like finally being a part of something bigger than just herself, even if she’s standing on the sidelines, watching someone else living the dream. She’s there for that; she’s there for them, and she will always be, wherever that’ll take them —

— She doesn’t know that ‘wherever’ is a dirty couch in a back alley. Or an ambulance that will just arrive at its destination too late. Right now it’s the Orpheum first, and then something bigger and better in the future.

When the song is over, she’s the first to clap and whistle in an empty Orpheum Theater, excitement bubbling up inside her, making her blood buzz in her veins.

“You’re the only groopie that matters,” Reggie jokes, pulling her into his side after jumping down the stage. “I’d ask you out on a post-gig burger if it wasn’t for…”

They both turn to glance at her brother and see him climbing down the stairs to the side of the stage to get to them.

“Dream on, Reginald,” he says and she laughs.

“It’s just rehearsals but you guys were killing it up there,” she smiles, intertwining her fingers with her brother’s. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

“And that you snuck out just to come and see us,” Bobby adds, a grin shyly stretching on his lips.

“Bold of you to assume she’s not just here for Alex!” Luke picks her up from behind, his arms wrapped tight around her waist as he spins her around.

“Put me down,” she laughs out of breath. “He’s my brother. Of course, he’s the number one reason I’m here,” she jokes.

When he eventually puts her down and they stare at each other chuckling as they catch their breaths, Reggie is the first to speak. “You’re like family to us,” he says, “you make everything else worth it.”

She smiles, through her breathlessness and the skin of her face heating up. “You guys are family for me as well.”

There’s not much silence then, not when the few workers present cheer on the guys, distracting them from the moment. She stands there, smiling softly at the bassist in front of her, and he smiles at her just as warmly.

“For the record,” she whispers, “I would have said yes to that post-gig burger.”

And he smiles, cheeks flushing pink before Luke’s Street dogs? distracts them.

She watches as they all agree — all but Bobby, for he ‘could never hurt an animal,’ as he tries to flirt with the slightly older waitress. Rose. She’s nice, and as Nancy’s found out while the boys were setting their stuff up on stage, she has a group of her own. And just as Rose has made her feel at home while she had sat all alone on one of the stools, Nance steps in to steer the guys away just after Reggie gifts her one of their t-shirts — size beautiful, and she’ll forever remember those two words with a smile on her face even years later.

“I’m sorry, they just don’t know when to stop with the flirting,” she smiles apologetically just before guiding Luke towards the exit door.

“You coming with us?”

“Later,” she nods, turning to face her brother as he’s pulling his jacket on. “I wanna make sure everything’s in order for tonight. This is your big chance, right?”

He nods. “I’ll wait for you.”

And she’ll forever regret ever speaking her next words. “Nah, it’s okay. You go on, I’ll reach you in five, ten at most. Just make sure there’s something left for me.” Twenty-five years later she still hears her own chuckle, still feels her brother’s warm cheek against her perpetually chapped lips as she presses a see-you-later kiss to his skin.

She watches him leave, and answers to his ‘see you later’ with a wave of her hand.

It’s almost unbelievable how cruel things are at times. You’re seventeen, sneaking around your parents, having fun with your brother and his friends, playing the piano for them every once in a while… and then suddenly the wheel of fortune spins again, and something as small and insignificant as a hot dog turns into a major plot point. The wind changes, and suddenly the colors start fading, the music turns fainter and fainter, until there’s nothing but static silence.

When she leaves the building fifteen minutes — and an unexpected call from home — later, all she’s in the mood for are hot dogs and her friends. She doesn’t know where Bobby has gone off to, but she doesn’t pay it much attention as she wraps herself into her hoodie.

The night air isn’t too chilly, but there’s something to it that brings goosebumps to her skin. She’s nauseous, and she doesn’t know whether it’s because she’s just got off the phone with her yelling mother, but she doesn’t care. They’re not going back home tonight anyway — little does she know that she won’t be going home for a completely different reason than just celebrating with her brother and the guys.

The man selling street dogs out of his car greets her with a smile before she walks past him to fix herself a quick dinner. She’ll never understand how they’re yet to catch some disease from the weird food they eat before gigs, but she won’t have much more time to wonder.

“The guys are inside,” he tells her when she hands him the price, and all she can do is thank him with a grin on her lips, her stomach closed into a knot, before making her way to the makeshift dining area.

She stops in the entryway and quickly glances around before she spots them on the couch. Luke and Alex seem to have fallen asleep, but Reggie’s staring back at her and she finds herself blushing.

“Won’t you finish your hot dog?” she asks as she walks up to them, a smile on her face that slowly leaves its place to a frown when the boy doesn’t answer, doesn’t react in any way.

It’s then that the nausea gets stronger, and somehow she’s not in the mood to eat anymore.

“Reg? Cat got your tongue?” She fails at that chuckle and when she’s close enough, she almost crouches forward to shake him by his shoulder. “Prank’s over, your staring is unsettling.”

His head falls backward, against the back of the dirty and tattered couch, and it’s then that her heart starts beating in her temples. She stares at him, frowning, her hot dog still in her right hand.

“Reg?”

Her gaze moves down to his chest and suddenly, the place’s silence becomes deafening. She hears her heartbeat — she feels it everywhere in her body — just as she hears her breathing almost scratch every time she exhales. Her subconscious is quicker at reacting: her hand lets go of her friend’s shoulder all of a sudden, and it truly does feel like the contact burned her palm in a sickening way, but it takes her a full minute for the conscious part of her brain to catch up.

His chest is not heaving.

She gasps, and her hot dog drops down onto Reggie’s knee first and then to the floor.

Frantically, her gaze swipes over Luke and Lex. She’s aware of everything and nothing at once. Her palms turn clammy; her breathing gets deeper, it almost hurts her lungs; and just as her eyes move from Luke to her brother, she knows she’s about to throw up. It’s cold — despite the place being sheltered, despite Lex’s too-big hoodie on her: goosebumps tug painfully at her skin. And when her wandering eyes stop on the person she loves most in the world, her knees threaten to give out and make her trip over Reggie’s extended leg.

“Lex?” but her voice is a whisper. Her chest hurts as she seems to move in slow motion; her head is empty and heavy at the same time and oh my God, please, just —

She doesn’t know how she’s managed to take those three steps to stand in front of her brother, and even twenty-five years later, that still feels like the hardest thing she’s ever had to do.

He seems fine. She looks at him and there’s nothing weird on his face; he’s stained his shirt, but that can be fixed. Reggie could lend him his flannel. Hell, he could wear one of their Sunset Curve t-shirts!

“Lex.”

She doesn’t know she’s falling until her knees crash onto the rough concrete of the floor.

His hand is still warm when she gets a hold of it.

And she can’t move. The nausea almost makes her head spin, and she feels… empty. It starts slowly. It’s a feeling as tiny as a pinhead at first, but it grows quickly, like a black hole that eats and swallows her whole, quicker and quicker the more the momentum picks up.

“C’mon, it’ll be September soon… You have a concert tonight.”

But he doesn’t answer. And the more she stares at him, the more that whisper in the back of her head grows in volume —

— Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. —

— until it echoes in her mind and her ears and —

“An ambulance is coming,” someone says — to her, to the three boys in front of her, she doesn’t know, it doesn’t matter, nothing does. “I’m sorry, if we had realized sooner —”

But she’s already turning her head to the side to throw up.

The strongest memories of that night are the goosebumps, the cold, the nausea. And then that extreme loneliness building up inside her, quickly growing like some kind of alien parasite, rooting her to the spot, freezing her mind in a loop of Lex Lex Lex that just goes on indefinitely.

And then the flashing lights of an ambulance and Bobby calling her name — Nance? Nance? Nan—

*

—nce?”

She whips around so quickly she almost loses her balance on the heels she’s wearing. No one has called her ‘Nance’ in forever, even Michael preferred ‘Nancy’, but coupled with that weird feeling that has been rocking her for a couple of weeks now, it truly does feel like suddenly being back in some familiar place.

It takes her a couple of seconds before her sight zeroes in on the Trevor Wilson.

“Nancy?” The smile on his lips is unsure as he makes his way up to her between rows of clothes. He hasn’t changed since the last time she’s seen him, but at the same time she stares at him like he’s grown ten heads; like her brain can barely comprehend what’s going on. “That really you?” He has colorful clothes in his arms, she notices as her brain struggles to keep on functioning smoothly.

“Hey.”

“It’s been, what? Ten years?” Bobby’s never been good at small talk, and she realizes now that Trevor hasn’t become much better, not even after the decade that has passed since the last time she’s seen him at a teacher-parent meeting. “You look well.”

“Thank you.” Her heart is in her throat — it feels like choking, like gasping for air she can’t get —, and for a moment she forgets all about having a teenage daughter she needs to help find a dress for her school ball.  “You look well, too.” It’s lame, but she can’t even attempt a chit-chat with the only one of them that got away on his legs.

“How have you —” He sighs, and he probably catches up with what she’s thinking — the way her brain has stopped working, the way it must be back into that loop of loss first and drugs later, when they had turned their backs on each other. “How are you?”

“It’s been forty-two years of shit, Bobby,” she sighs. “But the kids make it good. I hope Carrie’s doing well. She was a good pupil.”

“I’m not…” I’m not Bobby, that’s what he’s about to say. I’m not Bobby anymore. I haven’t been Bobby in twenty-five years. Bobby’s dead.

But Bobby isn’t dead, he didn’t share his friends’ fate, so he shuts up. He still remembers the black eye she gave him the very day Trevor Wilson’s first song — Luke’s song — came out, and she reads it right on his face, in the way his expression changes and falls in defeat.

“I’m helping my daughter with her dress now. I should go.” The smile she gives him is tired and tense, and she doesn’t put much effort into coming off as a happy woman for him, not after the bad joke he pulled in the past. “It was good seeing you. I wish you well.”

And with that she turns around, swallows the lump in her throat and for a moment thinks back to Lex. Lex, and the fact that she didn’t get the chance to see him age into the man Bobby’s had the chance to become. To Luke, and the success he would have had with his talent. And then to Reggie, whose open eyes still haunt her to this day — and although she’s grateful for her children, she can’t help but wonder how things would have turned out if she and Reg would have had a chance.

“Mom? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” Sarah is standing there, at the entrance of the changing rooms area, and although there’s her usual concerned frown on her face, she truly does look like a princess in that navy dress she didn’t want to try on.

Nancy chuckles — she wouldn’t have thought of those words, but boy, are they spot on! “Just someone I used to know. So, what do you think of that?” she asks, desperately trying to steer the conversation into another direction. “I wasn’t always a mom, I used to have good taste in outfits, too.”

Sarah laughs at her joke and she does, too. And for a moment, a split second, she sees her brother in the way her daughter laughs and looks away for a moment. But that memory is as short and quick as a flash, and she doesn’t have time to think about it for too long.

“Yeah, I know.” She’s almost on the verge of spilling the beans — that she and Jake have gone through her secret box with all her memories, but she catches her tongue just in time. There’s no need to upset her mother, not when she’s been in her head so much these past two weeks. “But I like it, and you could do my hair…”

An hour later, they’re walking back to the car, bags with food and anything Sarah might need for her ball in their hands.

Bobby — Trevor — is there, and Nancy holds his gaze for a few seconds as she walks by. She barely has the time to see Carrie’s head disappear into her father’s car before the door closes with a slam. They stare at each other, but it’s not Nancy and Trevor: it’s a pregnant Nance standing in front of a Bobby whose face is about to meet her left hook. It’s tense and silent, and there’s the same guilt in his eyes that he had back in 1998.

How did things go like that? She’s had twenty-five years to look for an answer to that nagging question, but she’s never found one — not in the three years she’s spent with her feet in two different worlds, and not even after the birth of Jake in ‘98.

“I was over at the Molinas’ to help Carlos with his homework yesterday,” Sarah says as she lays her new dress down onto the back seat of the car. “Did you know Julie’s started playing again?”

Nancy stares at her daughter for a long minute and the longer she stands there, as she finishes putting the groceries in the trunk of the car, the more that soft smile stretches on her lips. “Really?”

Sarah nods. “She apparently has a band of holograms or something now. Carlos doesn’t exactly know how that works, but says they’re cool.”

“Her mother would be so proud.” The engine roars to life and when she turns to check that nothing or nobody is behind them as she puts the car in reverse, she catches her daughter’s questioning expression. “She had a group as well.”

The Sunset Curve demo her kids still listen to starts playing then, and Nancy has to be careful not to jolt the car to a stop — she didn’t remember it still being in the CD player, she thought Jake had brought it to college when he had left after spring break — he has been contemplating making his friends listen to his mom’s friends’ songs for months, but she must have been mistaken.

The silence is heavy, almost tense. It has the weight of a being alive of its own life, pressing down on her shoulders and robbing her of her breath as she leaves the parking lot of the mall and she heads back home. It’s always a pang to the heart, every time the notes start playing and Luke gets ready to sing again. And although it hurts, although the tears are always there, ready to prickle her eyes, it’s a way to keep them alive. Twenty-five years after their deaths, and she’s still childishly hoping that playing their songs will miraculously bring them all back to life.

It’s only when the chorus sings Keep dreaming like we’ll live forever, But live it like it’s now or never — the same one Reggie had playfully dedicated to her that night — that Sarah clears her throat. “I didn’t know you knew Mrs Molina well.”

Nancy hums. “We met once, before…”

“Oh.” There’s no need for explanations, nor to wait for her mother to finish that sentence. “I didn’t know.”

“We never had the chance to get close,” she shrugs. “But I’m glad you’re going along well with her kids. How’s Carlos doing?”

Sarah laughs, and it’s in that moment that the sun starts shining again. That weird feeling of slowly-building wholeness filling her cup one drop at a time is still there, and somehow it’s still something she can’t explain — maybe the pieces of an unfinished puzzle going back to their place? or maybe just life finally starting to go in the right direction? — but it doesn’t feel as nagging with her daughter’s laughter ringing in the cabin of the car.

“He’s starting his career as a ghost hunter.”

“A ghost hunter?” A smirk tugs at her lips and it feels good, after years spent trying her hardest to do something that should have always been so natural.

“Yeah, his dad was taking pictures of the house when they were still considering selling it and one came out with three orbs. Carlos thinks it could be his mom with some friends, or just some ghosts in general, and he wanted my help to set his channel up since he knows I helped Jake and the guys with theirs.”

Nancy chuckles, and she feels light again after so long. The last time she’s felt like that was when the divorce papers had finally been finalized, probably. “So, are you? Helping him, I mean?”

“Hell yeah, I am, mom! That kid is the best kid I’ve ever babysat. He’s going through all the old stuff at his place to see if he can find anything that might help him find out whose ghost he’s dealing with.” She smiles brightly — and Nancy can’t help but mirror her expression when she sees it from the corner of her eye at a red light. “I think I’m —”

*

— going to sing for Jake’s band.

It’s a week after that afternoon in the car, and Nance is still thinking about the news Sarah has informed her of a few hours ago. Her daughter has been acting weird for a week now, and although she couldn’t pinpoint the cause at first — Sarah wouldn’t tell her —, she’s now starting to understand. Jake and his friends had a falling out with their singer Peter the day before a possibly important gig at Eats&Beats, the same one Julie and her hologram friends played at, and she’s probably been pondering her brother’s offer.

Still, it somewhat stings, for there have never been secrets between her and her girl. The pride bubbling up inside her is stronger than anything else, though, and she can’t help but smile.

It’s the first time she smiles at what had used to be her and her brother’s secret place at the beach. That alcove used to echo with the sound of their laughter a long time ago, but had quickly turned silent after that night at the Orpheum. It’s just the way things go sometimes, when you can’t make them go the way you want, when life’s outcomes are way out of your control.

It’s peaceful, and for the first time in painfully long years, she truly does feel at peace. It’s a weird, almost stressful feeling for someone who’s never exactly felt at peace in her life, but she’d like to think that this truly is the start of a new and happy chapter in her life.

Lex is with her, with his head resting heavily on her thigh, much like the day she found and rescued him — or, well, the day he found and rescued her. He’s always by her side, and somehow he knows when she needs him the most. It’s not exactly like having her brother with her but it’s… close.

“I wish you were here.” She never talks to her brother out loud, but somehow she feels the need to do just that now. The words leave her lips before she has the chance to stop them, and she finds that it doesn’t hurt as much as she had always thought it would. “The kids are following in on your footsteps more than they are mine.”

And it’s not a bad thing. At all. It’s a relief neither Jake nor Sarah have gone down the path Michael had started to take her along with him. And although Jake behind the drums is still a sight she won’t become fully used to all that quickly — she hasn’t managed to in twenty years —, it’s still comforting in a way. She watches him play with her brother’s only remaining pair of drumsticks and she feels at home.

“I’m so proud of them, and I like to think you’d be, too.” Then, she smiles again. “Sarah asked me if I believe in ghosts the other day. If I think people with unfinished business come back from the afterlife in an attempt to see it through. If I think you’d ever come back, maybe with the guys. And I…”

But her voice fails her. One of her hands comes down to caress Lex’s head while the other plays with a smooth piece of wood she’s found in the sand.

The truth is, she’s spent longer than she’d ever be comfortable admitting with her mind wondering about that same question, bouncing around like a pinball.

She doesn’t know the reason for Sarah’s weird behavior isn’t Jake and his friends asking her to join September Dream. Just as she could never imagine that last week, when Carlos Molina invited her daughter to his sister’s garage party, she saw three guys she’s only ever seen in her mother’s polaroids playing right in front of her like life has never stopped.

Feedback is always welcome if you want to drop old me a line 💛

Original video used for the gif: https://www.pexels.com/video/blurred-bokeh-video-855204/

TAGS (to be added to or to be removed from any list, shoot me an ask)

Everything: @idhrenniel @saibh29 @fuckthatfeeling @aya-fay @pebblesz892  @mblaqgi​ @becs-bunker

[belzinone]

// @hunting-songs // cont. // ~<3

Melody Dönes had rented a tiny roofchamber that was in the summers as hot as a Titans melting remainds and in the winters so cold the young woman had to put bricks in the slim cast-iron-stive in one corner which she would then as soon as they were broiling like coles put under the layers and layers of blankets on her bed to keep her shattered bones warm. This day however was one of those blessed days were a summerrain had cooledfrom outside the temperature in her chamber and Melody, cramped between the  footboard of her old bed and the even older upright-piano, had spend the whole  morning playing the song on the piano that had been the rain pattering on the roof above,  the moaning of the wind stroking with featherlight fingers along the townbuildings-walls, and the calm almost Dolce tune of the rainwater washing in gentle waves over the pebbled streets below.It would be still horus until the young woman needed to leave to play in the establishment so her morning was filled with the patter of the rain and her fingers,short and crippled but still nimbly dancing over the pianokeys. Maybe, as her short fingers still swirled over the pianokeys as if held there by a spell, this was the  reason why she did not heard the typical song of  Bels normal walkingpattern on the damp stones on the street, or in the livingroom of Melodys landlady that was the entrance to the house or on her way up the stairs to the small roofchamber that was the Musicans home. Maybe she also was so caught in the song, still hanging after the orchestra in the rain only she could hear and play along to, that she actually was suprised when the door opned and Bel walked in. She almost flinched when the door creaked loudly and broke through the song she was playing. It was not often that Melody was suprised and whenever she ended up suprised she was eventually more amused by it than startled so she greeted the other woman with a quiet little chuckle and a welcoming smile that fit the very young woman Melody forgot she still was. The space between the bed and the piano was not big, all Melody needed to do was lean back and she would rest her hunchback against the footboard of the bed like against a wall. “Melody! What do you think?! I was inspired by that piece you played last week. You think we can go together??” The other womans voice hopped up a few octaves in her excitement, sweet and young, like a happy childrensong. Automatically Melody tilted her head to the side and listened appreciative, she had never been a person who would complain about the little good things Life was sending her way and having a very beautiful person posing in a just as beautiful costume while her heartbeat sang like a little happy bird, was indeed one of the very  good things in life Melody would  never even think of complaining about. The young woman was not a blushing virgin, not in the slightest, and she enjoyed beauty with all her senses if she saw it. And Bel was beautiful;  beautiful  in looks, beautiful in the sweet song that was her voice,  beautiful in her movements, beautiful in the impish, almost flirty nature she flaunted. Was the other actually flirting? For once Melody could tell and did not cared, it was not often that she had  heard Bels Heartbeat so carefree and excited, without the chains of worry and duty laying around it heavy like steel, so the Musican only leaned against the footboard, her head tilted to the side,  enjoying the view as much as the Music only she could hear.

“I have two questions though,” Melody hummed eventually, quiet, to not disturb the song that was the other womand pulse that stroked like gentle fingers around her  ears: “How did you got past my Landlady Dörthe without her hunting you away with a broom as she tries with every of my visitors?”, the Musican could still remember the evening she had for the first time brought a woman with her and the very old landlady Dörthe, as thin as a willow but bloodthirsty like a hungry dog and with the iron conviction that people living under her roof had to be ‘decent’  , had caught them as the pair had made their way upstairs. Melody had neither brought men nor women to her chamber again after this encounter. At least not when she had known that Dörthe had been still awake though smuggling the nightly visitor out of the house  in the morning had always been as nerve-racking as smuggling them in at night as Dörthe was a old woman and rose with the dawn and even the Titans beyond the walls were not as hunting-feverish after humen as Dörthe with her broom was after Melodys ‘ inproper’ involvements:  “And second, do you mean the song “Little wildbird?” Already the Musicans short fingers tapped the tact of the song against the wood of the footboard, nimbly, perfectly in rhythmn: “For if that is the case, I actually have a few very beautiful feathers you could add to your costume.”

She was extremely inspired, slaving over her her needlework like a madwoman and not even relenting as much to tell the visitors at her door to go away. It was her precious day off. Her comrades might have expected her to treat it as anything but (surely, she only had herself to blame for that), but that was before she met the Musician. The Musician that revived her fallen comrades from deep within the iron gated abcesses of her heart. The day she graduated from the Cadet Corps and became a soldier was a false christening. She didn't understand the meaning of the word, what it meant to live and die under a banner, to watch her closest friends live and die under a banner, until she fought for Trost. Her sheltered, nonetheless Underground upbringing did little to prepare her for the nuanced tragedy, the heartbreak of losing her comrades in arms.

Yet the music was what brought her back, the same music that served her only sanctuary amongst the filth, the lawless hellhole she once called home. Bel would have been embarassed to admit that her performances had been based almost solely upon counts of eight, stand-alone technicalities that allowed her to flex her talents without immersing herself into it or dedicating herself fully. It worked alright, as loaded nobles with painfully uptight private lives were more than willing to part with generous amounts of coin to see a scantily clad woman rolling her hips and flexing her core in their faces. Body isolation was an art, articulation was an art, capable of being calculated in her eyes as an empty vessel for tips. Yet like becoming a seasoned soldier, she had long forgotten the meaning of the word until she heard Melody play.

Finally, she learned how to enjoy herself again. Finally, she was granted permission to properly mourn. Finally, she could reclaim the memories and passion she had buried. More than anything in that moment, Bel wanted to honor her new friend's artistry and grew a new set of fangs for everybody and anybody who broke her concentration. Soon as she finished modeling for herself, she threw on a cloak and beelined straight down the street, knocking a junior soldier or two off balance on the way and raising more than a few eyebrows.

"Your landlord? That was easy. She just let me in. Is she really that scary?" If there was one thing that could throw her off her one track mind, it was freshly baked bread. The bakery on the corner skid her heels to a halt and she picked up a few rolls to bring to Melody's as a gift. The medic swung the bundle from her coat and offered the open haul to her, the sweet, fresh aroma quickly filling her loft from wall to wall. Perhaps the landlady too had a soft spot for her, just as Melody had. "Ok I lied," she snorted, "It wasn't my proudest moment. When the wings didn't work, I offered her bread, and when the bread didn't work, I begged and-" With a free hand, she lifted a mass of curls to reveal a rapidly purpling bruise. "MAN can that woman swing a BROOM," she laughed, then laughed some more recalling a popular antic of her Captain and his squad members, "What is she, your mother?" A small fit of cackling followed her slight wincing, remembering how tightly her own mother kept her under wraps in her youth. "But yeah! Little Wildbird! It's so cute and upbeat and I LOVE IT!"

Her eyes then blinked rapidly, racking her seemingly absent mind for traces of something that should've been so obvious. Preoccupied with getting the right colors, she'd forgotten the most basic accessories she could use to invoke the inspiration of a BIRD. "Oh my god, I can't believe I didn't think of that! It took so long getting the colors bright and vivid and the number of times I pricked my finger..." If it didn't concern machinery, design wasn't her strong suit. Nonetheless, it was something she found she really enjoyed. Perhaps she'd spend more time on her lost craft now that she'd rediscovered her passion.

"Where do you think they should go?" she asked, finally removing her cloak and neatly hanging it in the most suitable place in the room, "Off the wraps? Hip scarf, maybe? I'm gonna need your help, because I came straight here after I finished it and didn't bring an extra set of clothes to change into." Another snicker. "I got excited~ ... ... ... and am barely starting to feel this bruise... ow..." 

[estrxlar]

The Ghost Of You

04 - Learning To Receive

These chapters songs:

Moonlight On The River; Mac Demarco

Nostalgic Feel; Bedroom

New Flesh; Current Joys

——

TW: Self-harm, death.

(Not done by you, don't worry)

——

- K.S. Perspective

      Only two or three days had passed since high school had started, which meant only a couple more walks home with Y/n. They were shorter and quiet, and of course, there weren't any swerving cars.

But so far, what I had suspected was correct. She and I made amends and became buddies, thankfully.

      The only times she was left alone were when I had morning practice, and she had to have one of her friends drive her home. Either that or she would have to walk home alone. I would've loved to accompany her, but volleyball was something I didn't take lightly, and my priorities were important to me.

      Both I and my younger brother participated in volleyball and gave it our all ever since we were able to balance on our feet. Sadly, our parents were far too busy to go to any games, or even help us practice at home. But their goal was for their kids to grow up strong and steady with good grades and good stats, so that's why they made sure my younger brother and I were on top of our shit.

      Once my first year ended, I didn't expect that I would have to carry so many burdens all in one year. That's around the time mother had died from sickness, which left me with doubts, wishes, and an unaccomplished relationship with her.

      After the sudden death, our family didn't move on very well. My brother developed anxiety and depression, and he eventually had to take a break from school and volleyball. Then, my father became dull and increased his hours at work to avoid coming home to such a depressing home, leaving my brother and me to continue caring for ourselves, by ourselves.

      I, on the other hand, had barely anything to say about it. All I could do was pose as if I were handling it better than I had. Truth is, my mother's death changed my entire persona. I grew grim and gummy, deprived myself of rest, and repressed the trauma I've received. Not only did I overwork myself because of volleyball and stress, but I also grieved in harmful ways. It'd either be a blade to the wrist, or a night with a girl; anything that could help distract me from my state of deep dejection.

      It's been that way ever since. Only recently have I realized that I'm ruining whatever recovery I built up. That was all because of my best friend— Daichi— who had helped me come out about my feelings towards my mom's passing. Ever since, I've been able to learn from my mistakes, and slowly pick my life back up. I was beginning to become a better player for my team, better support for my family, and a better person for myself.

      That only happened recently. So now, I'm left with lots of things to mend, and relationships to make. I'm determined that I'll mourn more healthily than before.

——

      "Y/n!" A hopeful call leaves my lips, turning her head. As assumed, it was Y/n. Today she looked even brighter than before; she just has gotten more sleep. Not to mention she wore long socks instead of leggings, which must have been pretty hard in this weather.

      I didn't get to see her this morning due to morning practice, but I did catch her before lunch. Just enough time to tell her I won't be riding the bus tonight either.

      I look both ways of the cross hallway, before grabbing my book bag strap with both hands and jogging towards Y/n. I wasn't sure why I was so eager to see her, but all I knew was I needed a refreshing moment, and she could give me exactly that.

      "Why hello, Mrs. Refreshing!" I joke, bowing my head towards her while she giggled. Looking up, she stands there, shining by the sunlight that reflected on the windows.

      'If I could, I'd take a photo of you right here, just to show you how gorgeous you are.' I quickly put a halter on my thoughts, snapping back to a respectful filter. 'No, I can't do that. Not to myself, most definitely not to Y/n.'

      "You look nice today!" I exclaim, awkwardly patting the side of my hips while smiling at her. Hopefully, I hadn't made her uncomfortable in the first ten seconds of talking to her. The last thing I wanted was to ruin yet another relationship with a girl.

      Thankfully, Y/n responded with kind appreciation to my comment. "Why thank you, sir. And what brings you in my presence?" Her words curl in a formal British accent, adding onto our joke.

      Standing normally, I explain, "Oh, nothing. I just wanted to say hi, and to tell you I might not be walking home with you today. I'm really sorry,  practice has been very necessary for our team. I-I hope you understand." I stutter on the last part, with a gentle tone to add on. Ditching Y/n for most of the week wasn't what I had planned at first, but what I had told her was 100% true. The first years, as well as the rest of us, we're in bad shape. With our spring tournament coming up, we had no time to waste.

      "Oh, that's alright. I understand. I was in volleyball too, after all. Although, I do wish you could still accompany me. It gets a little lonely.." She looks down for a minute while I contemplate my existence entirely. 'So it does bother her.' But she quickly caught onto my thoughts by my expression and came up with a solution. "If— if you'd like, I can simply stay near the gym until practice is over! That way I can see you and your boys in action, yeah?"

      Her fists pop up into the air, as a bright smile appeared on her face. If you didn't know Y/n personally, you would expect them to be cold stone and dull. But in reality, I find they're like everybody else, and have a bright side to them, just like the one that was being portrayed right now.

      Nodding with her statement, I reply hesitantly. "Hm, I'd have to ask the captain, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind—"

      "Oh, Daichi? We're buddies, he'll be alright." I'm dazed by what she'd said, pausing the motion of rubbing my neck. She and Daichi hang in completely different groups, though! 'How is it they know each other? They hang around two very different friend groups.. that is unless they have some type of history I'm unaware about.' I think to myself, trying my best to find a reason they would be friends, but I couldn't. And so, I begin my questioning. "You two know each other?"

      Suddenly, Y/ns gaze twists. "Suga, you introduced me to them during our first year, silly. Remember? I went with you from practice once. And besides that, my good friend Miya is close to him."

      "Oh, yeah! I remember that. That means you only know Asahi, Daichi, and Kiyoko, right? I've gotta introduce you to the rest of the team! I'm sure they've missed you!" I chuckle, throwing an arm around her shoulders cautiously, expecting her to reject it. But she goes on casually with our discussion.

      "That's right.. well... I'm also— sort of— friends with them. Well, except Asahi. But Kiyoko and I are pretty close."

      '?' I tilt my head at the uncertain tone she spoke with. "Pretty close?" I ask, turning into the cafeteria with my arm still around her. The room is, of course, crowded as hell.

      Still, I manage to draw out what Y/n was saying to me, leaning my ear close to her mouth for better audio. "Yes! She's one of my best friends.. we used to date and it didn't work out, but we're pretty tight!"

      'DID I HEAR THAT RIGHT?!' My eyes widen, and I immediately let go of her, tightening my hands around the strap of my school bag. A gulp falls down my throat before I ask, "Did you say.. date?! You mean you two went out?!"

      To my surprise, Y/n nods proudly. "Yes! Why, did you not think she'd go out with a girl? Or is it so astonishing that I could ever get a girl like her?" She teases, while I'm still puzzled. So many questions ran through my head at the sudden fact: was Kiyoko gay? Was Y/n gay?! Does that mean she's gotten closer to Kiyoko than anyone before??

      "Suga, calm down. It's not like we're still together. As I said, it didn't work out!" She smirks towards me, putting a finger up towards her cheek. "Why? You got a little crush on her..? I wouldn't blame you."

      "N-no! It's not like that! It's just— she never told any of us. I guess she just keeps to herself more than predicted." My sentence comes out to sound like a question, rather than a response. It wasn't that I didn't support it, or that I was surprised Kiyoko would be her girlfriend. Honestly, I was just a little jealous of both of them.

      Either way, it seemed it didn't work out. So it didn't matter now. "Anyway, we're about best friends now, so I'm pretty familiar with your team. I don't think they would mind if I came, but just in case, I'll ask Daichi and Kiyoko." She explains, before looking back towards the slowly dying crowd of students in front of the cafeteria. "I better go soon, Suga. I'll let your captain know I'll be heading over there later—"

      "Wait!" I shut my eyes out of nervousness, as my brain wires work to come up with an excuse for why I yelled that. "You used to play volleyball, right?"

      An awkward nod from Y/n is given to me, followed by, "Yes, but I was sort of just a bench warmer. Nothing big." The hands that held her lunch box gripped tighter, as she suspected I would ask her a favor much larger than a lunch.

      "Mind helping me teach one of our new members how to receive?" I say. "His name is Hinata, and he's a first year. He has great talent and has great potential, but he kind of... sucks at volleyball. I mean, from what I've heard, he practices a lot. But I just think he needs some guidance. So, want to?"

      "Uhm... I'm pretty rusty.. but sure! It wouldn't hurt, right? Besides, I think I need a break from my friends wouldn't do any harm."

      'Yes, I did it.' I thought to myself, before leading her towards the doors that led to the gym. "Alright then, right this way!"

      "Suga! Don't you need your bag?" She immediately asks, tugging on my collared shirt. But I shake my head, responding with a light smile.

      "It's already outside, I just came to check on you, is all."

——

      Up, down, and up again went the ball. Each receive that Hinata had tried had failed every time. At this point, I wouldn't blame Y/n if she wanted to leave. But there she sits against the concrete wall of the outside of the gym, licking white rice off a spoon.

      "Hinata, drop your hips down more," I say to him, demonstrating the position I had stated. "Hit the ball like you're trying to return it where it came from. Got it?"

      Hinata's light expression appears on his face once again. "Yeah, got it!" He exclaims, before getting right into position. I signal the ball is going in the air before my palm hits it in the right spot, sending it towards him.

      And it shoots right back, along with a slap against Hinata's wrists. "Nice!" He praises himself, leaving a feeling of proudness deep within me.

      I'd never been able to teach somebody one of my special skills and having them accomplish it, not the way I did with Hinata. But that was mostly because he was driven by his entire body and soul to memorize every movement in his muscles to create a perfect receive. And who had taught him that? Your one and only.

      "Would you like me to start setting for you tomorrow morning?" I ask the ginger with confidence he'd reply with a yes. Thankfully, that's exactly what happened. His eyes light up in the sun, and his hands take full hold of the ball. "Y-you mean it, sir?!"

      The cold wind hits me, as well as another dosage of serotonin from the first year."Well, I am Karasuno's official setter after all! And you wanna practice spikes, right?" I ask, placing my red hands onto my hips.

      "Exactly! I love to spike! It feels so good when you get it right, and it's cooler than anything!" He shouts. I couldn't help but laugh at his excitement, even if it wasn't the first time he'd portrayed it. Hinata sure reminded me of my past self, and I'd do anything to help first-year Sugawara.

      Y/n suddenly joins our conversation, digging into a reason why Hinata is the way he is when it comes to spikes. "You must have a thing for spiking, don't you?"

      Hinata nods, putting a fist towards his face. "Yes. I didn't have a setter throughout middle school, and I was actually the only club member until my third year of junior high. I used to get my friend in the Basketball Club to toss for me, but after I had dropped out of the club, I went to anybody that could help me practice. Take the first years, and the ladies and setters from the girls' team, too. I've made a lot of friends along the way, but none of those people could ever become my real teammates. That's why I was dying to find out what kind of setters were in high school— but now.. you know."

      Hinatas pure passion dies down once he reaches the word 'setter', and I wouldn't blame him. The person he's supposed to be paired with is his complete opposite, and frankly, a dick-head. "Well, as I said, I'm a setter too. I'll toss you a few, Hinata! Don't get all down."

      I was expecting further satisfaction, but instead, his expression twists into envy. "But it's just that if I have you throw to me now, it kind of feels like... I'm losing." He frowns, looking away from my figure in anger.

      "You're just like someone I know, Hinata!   Always competitive." Y/n says, placing her small bento to the side, and lifting herself from the shaded spot she sat in. Her hands dust off her navy blue skirt, and her blazer comes off. "Why're you so competitive when it comes to Kageyama?"

      "If you ask me, it's better to avoid making enemies with those kinds of people." I join in.

      She wraps her hands around Hinatas shoulders, leaning over his shoulder. "You know, Hinata, you're not as bad as you make yourself out to be. Wanna know a secret about Kageyama?"Without hesitation, Hinata is fully interested in what Y/n had to say. Frankly, so was I.

      "Whatever you see from Kageyama is something he's learned from other players. He wasn't always so snobby; he used to be calmer and kinder. But once he was shown what he could do with his talent, it went to his head. Don't let that become you, Hinata! You have so much potential it's insane! I've never met anybody with as much love for volleyball as you." She pulls up her sleeves, getting into position for a receive, signifying I could rest now. "

      "How do you know what he used to be like, Y/n?" Hinata asks her, sending the ball into the air. My eyes follow it, but my ears listen intently to their conversation.

     "Well, I went to the same middle school as him. When he was a first-year, I was a third. Me and my friend we're on the girls' team, while my other three friends were on the boys' team. The four of us practiced every second of the day, which meant the two teams spent a lot of time together. Everything Kageyama knows is from another player; don't think he's just magically good at volleyball. Anyway, I don't know much about Kageyama, but I do know that he's changed dramatically." She explained. Just then, the bell for our sixth period had rung, and doors were heard opening and closing, as well as students fluttering around hallways.

       The three of us pause our mini practice and gather out things where they were settled. Thoughts ran through my head as I put my school blazer back onto my torso. If Y/n went to the same middle school as Kageyama, that must mean she knows a lot about Aoba Johsai: one of our greatest enemies in volleyball. And if she knows him, could she be familiar with his playstyle? In that case, having her around would not harm the team.

      "Sugawara, I'm off." She's heard saying from behind me, while she put her school bag over her shoulders. "Thank you for having me here with you and Hinata, I'm glad I could be of help."

      I nod in response, nervously breathing through the teeth."Yes, of course. Uhm— would you like me to pick you up from your classroom later on? Either that, or you could walk to the gym after band practice." I ask the young girl, longing for more time to hang about her.

      Then, she began walking backward, meanwhile talking. "I think I'll be just fine, Sugawara. No need to worry about me all the time. I've managed without you the past couple of days haven't I?" Her h/c danced with the wind as she did so, and the corners of her lips rose as she said so.

      "That's right.. I'll catch you later then!" I manage to shout out, raising a hand for a gentle wave, but it was too late. Y/n was already turning into the doors of the school, returning the gesture.

      Somehow, she always found a way to make the chains around my heart tighten a bit more. What was it that drew me towards Y/n? Hell, if I knew. "Wow, Sugawara. You've got yourself a pretty friend! She seems nice, too." Hinata expresses, looking agar with me. "Is she your girlfriend, or something?"

      "No, Hinata. Just an old friend. Someone who may know me better than anybody, you know." Y/n; The girl who knew her way around my heart.

—

Hey everybody, sorry I've been M.I.A for a while. Don't worry, I'm not giving up on my ff!!! I would never do that. This fan fiction is super duper important.

Please note my chapters!! It lets me know you guys enjoy them.

Make sure to be taking care of yourself: drink water, go outside, eat something, and heal yourself after hard work:) It's currently mental awareness month, and it's very important to be taking time for yourself.

love you guys

- Sugawara's beauty mark

[newstfionline]

Friday, February 12, 2021

House managers wrap up case against Trump (Washington Post) House managers on Thursday wrapped up their case against former president Donald Trump, imploring the Senate to convict him while warning that he could stoke violence again. Trump’s legal team is poised to respond on Friday, arguing that he should be acquitted. They are expected to use only one of two allotted days. A verdict could come as early as the weekend. The developments came on the third day of an impeachment trial in which Democrats have charged Trump with “incitement of insurrection” for his role in the Jan. 6 violent takeover of the Capitol.

California Is Making Liberals Squirm (NYT) California is a remarkable place. It also has the highest poverty rate in the nation, when you factor in housing costs, and vies for the top spot in income inequality, too. The median price for a home in California is more than $700,000. As Bloomberg reported in 2019, the state has four of the nation’s five most expensive housing markets and a quarter of the nation’s homeless residents. In much of San Francisco, you can’t walk 20 feet without seeing a multicolored sign declaring that Black lives matter, kindness is everything and no human being is illegal. Those signs sit in yards zoned for single families, in communities that organize against efforts to add the new homes that would bring those values closer to reality. Poorer families—disproportionately nonwhite and immigrant—are pushed into long commutes, overcrowded housing and homelessness. Those inequalities have turned deadly during the pandemic. There is a danger—not just in California, but everywhere—that politics becomes an aesthetic rather than a program. It’s a danger on the right, where Donald Trump modeled a presidency that cared more about retweets than bills. But it’s also a danger on the left, where the symbols of progressivism are often preferred to the sacrifices and risks those ideals demand.

6 killed in 130-vehicle pileup on icy Texas interstate (AP) A massive crash involving more than 130 vehicles on an icy Texas interstate left six people dead and dozens injured Thursday amid a winter storm that dropped freezing rain, sleet and snow on parts of the U.S. At the scene of the crash on Interstate 35 near downtown Fort Worth, a tangle of semitrailers, cars and trucks had smashed into each other and had turned every which way, with some vehicles on top of others. The ice storm came as a polar vortex — swirling air that normally sits over the Earth’s poles — has moved near the U.S.-Canada border, resulting in colder weather farther south than usual, said Steve Goss, a meteorologist with the National Weather Service’s Storm Prediction Center in Norman, Oklahoma.

History of abuse for Mexican police unit in migrant massacre (AP) When state police in northern Mexico allegedly shot 19 people, including at least 14 Guatemalan migrants, to death in late January near the border with Texas, it was a tragedy that critics say authorities had been warned could come. In 2019, prosecutors charged that the same Tamaulipas state police unit, then operating under a different name, pulled eight people from their homes in the border city of Nuevo Laredo, posed them in clothing and vehicles to make them look like criminals, and shot them to death. Now, a dozen officers of the 150-member Special Operations Group, known by its Spanish initials as GOPES, have been ordered held for trial on charges they shot to death at least 14 Guatemalan migrants and two Mexicans on a rural road in the border township of Camargo. The bodies were then set afire and burned so badly that three other corpses are still awaiting identification. Authorities had ample warning of the problems in the unit, which was created last year from the remains of the special forces group accused of the 2019 killings and other atrocities. A federal legislator even filed a non-binding resolution in Mexico’s Congress in early January to protest beatings and robberies by the unit. “If back then they had done something, if any attention had been paid, perhaps today we would not be mourning the deaths of 19 people,” said Marco Antonio Mariño, vice president of the Tamaulipas Federation of Business Chambers.

Brazilian ballerina born without arms soars with her attitude (Reuters) When Vitória Bueno’s mother first dropped her off at ballet class, she worried about her five-year-old fitting in. Born without arms, Bueno’s dream of being a dancer seemed painfully unrealistic—especially in a small town in rural Brazil. But Bueno, now 16, focused on her assemblés, pirouettes and other technical challenges. She took up jazz and tap as well. Now a regular at the ballet academy in her hometown in the state of Minas Gerais, Bueno’s talent has made her a social media star and an inspiration to many. Watching her glide across the wooden stage, synchronized with her colleagues in a dazzle of green and white, it is easy to forget she dances without arms. More than just realizing a dream, the strength and flexibility gained through dance have proven crucial to Bueno, who does everything from brushing her teeth to picking items off the supermarket shelf with her feet. “There are things she can do with her feet that I can’t do with my hands,” said her stepfather, Jose Carlos Perreira. With over 150,000 Instagram followers, Bueno is glad to be a role model for others too. “We are more than our disabilities, so we have to chase our dreams,” she said, flashing a broad smile.

German children suffer from psychological issues in pandemic (AP) A new survey of children in Germany suggests that the stress and depravations of the coronavirus pandemic are taking a toll on their mental health, especially among those from underprivileged families, researchers said Wednesday. The study by the University Medical Center Hamburg-Eppendorf found about one in three German children are suffering from pandemic-related anxiety, depression or are exhibiting psychosomatic symptoms like headaches or stomach aches. Children and teenagers from poorer families and those with migrant roots are disproportionally affected, according to the study. “Children who were doing well before the pandemic and feel sheltered and comfortable within their families will get through this pandemic well,” said Ulrike Ravens-Sieberer, the head of the study and research director of the children’s psychiatric clinic at the university hospital.

Koo d’etat (Foreign Policy) Indian lawmakers are threatening to abandon Twitter in favor of Indian lookalike app Koo amid a dispute with the Silicon Valley company. The Indian government has ordered the removal of hundreds of Twitter accounts and posts in recent days over claims that users are spreading misinformation about ongoing farmer protests. On Wednesday, Twitter announced it would not comply with some takedown orders as it deemed them in contravention of Indian law. India’s IT ministry posted its displeasure with Twitter on rival app Koo, as a number of Indian leaders, including Trade Minister Piyush Goyal encouraged a Twitter exodus. The Koo app has seen a ten-fold increase in downloads as a result of the spat—a total of 3 million in the past two days.

They were accused of plotting to overthrow the Modi government. The evidence was planted, a new report says. (Washington Post) Key evidence against a group of Indian activists accused of plotting to overthrow the government was planted on a laptop seized by police, a new forensics report concludes, deepening doubts about a case viewed as a test of the rule of law under Prime Minister Narendra Modi. An attacker used malware to infiltrate a laptop belonging to one of the activists, Rona Wilson, before his arrest and deposited at least 10 incriminating letters on the computer, according to a report from Arsenal Consulting, a Massachusetts-based digital forensics firm that examined an electronic copy of the laptop at the request of Wilson’s lawyers. Many of the activists have been jailed for more than two years without trial under a stringent anti-terrorism law. Human rights groups and legal experts consider the case an attempt to suppress dissent in India, where government critics have faced intimidation, harassment and arrest during Modi’s tenure. Sudeep Pasbola, a lawyer representing Wilson, said the Arsenal report proved his client’s innocence and “destabilizes” the prosecution case against the activists. On Wednesday, Wilson’s lawyers included the report in a petition filed in the High Court of Bombay urging judges to dismiss the case against their client.

China to pull BBC News off the air, state broadcast regulator says (Washington Post) China’s broadcasting regulator has moved to pull BBC News off the air in the country over a “serious content violation,” the Chinese state news agency Xinhua reported Thursday. China’s National Radio and Television Administration (NRTA) said in an announcement on its website that the broadcaster, which is partly funded by the British state but editorially independent, had “undermined China’s national interests and ethnic solidarity.” The announcement, which arrived with the Lunar New Year holiday in China, followed recent disputes between Chinese officials and BBC News. It also came just a week after Britain’s media regulator pulled the Chinese state-run television channel CGTN off British airwaves because of alleged errors in an application to transfer its license to another company. In December, BBC News produced a report that alleged the forced labor of ethnic minority Uighurs in China’s cotton industry in Xinjiang. Chinese state media bristled at the work, calling it “fake news” and accusing the BBC of political bias.

Racialized surveillance (Foreign Policy) Following numerous reports of Chinese firms, including Huawei, singling out Uighurs in facial recognition, a Los Angeles Times/IPVM investigation found that Dahua, the world’s second-largest security camera manufacturer, provides Chinese police with “real-time warning for Uighurs” and informs them of “Uighurs with hidden terrorist inclinations.” In many parts of China, being Uighur is now effectively criminalized, with the few remaining Uighur residents of cities outside Xinjiang reporting routine harassment by police. The arrival of Uighurs, even mothers with children, in a new city or town prompts the arrival of the police and actions ranging from warnings to stay in their hotel or apartment to deportation back to Xinjiang. Dahua is rolling out its race-based systems to other countries, which may have their own least favored minorities to target.

Biden Announces Myanmar Sanctions (Foreign Policy) U.S. President Joe Biden has announced U.S. sanctions against Myanmar’s military junta, ten days after the military seized absolute power and arrested members of the country’s democratically-elected leadership. Biden is to freeze $1 billion in Myanmar’s state assets held in U.S. banks, with further sanctions expected to follow against a “first round of targets” this week. But Myanmar’s generals have endured sanctions before—including recent ones over the ethnic cleansing of its Rohingya minority—and so whatever the international community can muster is unlikely to dislodge them.

Digital siege: Internet cuts become favored tool of regimes (AP) When army generals in Myanmar staged a coup last week, they briefly cut internet access in an apparent attempt to stymie protests. In Uganda, residents couldn’t use Facebook, Twitter and other social media for weeks after a recent election. And in Ethiopia’s northern Tigray region, the internet has been down for months amid a wider conflict. Around the world, shutting down the internet has become an increasingly popular tactic of repressive and authoritarian regimes and some illiberal democracies. Digital rights groups say governments use them to stifle dissent, silence opposition voices or cover up human rights abuses. Regimes often cut online access in response to protests or civil unrest, particularly around elections, as they try to keep their grip on power by restricting the flow of information, researchers say. Last year there were 93 major internet shutdowns in 21 countries, according to a report by Top10VPN, a U.K.-based digital privacy and security research group. The list doesn’t include places like China and North Korea, where the government tightly controls or restricts the internet.

Japan Olympics chief who said women talk too much will resign over remarks, reports say (Washington Post) The head of the Tokyo Olympics organizing committee is set to resign, Japanese media reported on Thursday, after an uproar over sexist remarks he had made about women at a meeting last week. Mori, an 83-year-old former prime minister with a record of insensitive and sexist pronouncements, had tried to justify the lack of women at a senior level in the Japanese Olympic Committee by saying women talk too much at meetings and make them run on too long. The following day he apologized but showed no apparent remorse and said he had no intention of resigning. The comments provoked an unprecedented reaction in Japan, with more than 146,000 people signing an online petition calling on him to step down. Nearly 500 Olympic volunteers withdrew, and one poll found less than 7 percent of respondents thought Mori was qualified to continue in his role. The World Economic Forum ranks Japan 121st out of 153 countries in terms of gender parity, with the largest gender gap among advanced economies.

20 UN peacekeepers injured in an attack in central Mali (AP) An attack on a United Nations base in central Mali has injured at least 20 peacekeepers, the U.N. mission spokesman said Wednesday. The temporary U.N. base in Kerena, near Douentza, was the target of direct and indirect fire early Wednesday morning, Olivier Salgado said in a statement on Twitter. No group has claimed responsibility for the attack, but Islamic extremists linked to al-Qaida and the Islamic State group stage regular attacks on U.N. peacekeepers and soldiers.

Salesforce declares the 9-to-5 workday dead, will let some employees work remotely from now on (The Verge) Cloud computing company Salesforce is joining other Silicon Valley tech giants in announcing a substantial shift in how it allows its employees to work. In a blog post published Tuesday, the company says the “9-to-5 workday is dead” and that it will allow employees to choose one of three categories that dictate how often, if ever, they return to the office once it’s safe to do so. The company joins other tech firms like Facebook and Microsoft that have announced permanent work-from-home policies in response to the coronavirus pandemic. “As we enter a new year, we must continue to go forward with agility, creativity and a beginner’s mind—and that includes how we cultivate our culture. An immersive workspace is no longer limited to a desk in our Towers; the 9-to-5 workday is dead; and the employee experience is about more than ping-pong tables and snacks,” writes Brent Hyder, Salesforce’s chief people officer. “In our always-on, always-connected world, it no longer makes sense to expect employees to work an eight-hour shift and do their jobs successfully,” Hyder adds. “Whether you have a global team to manage across time zones, a project-based role that is busier or slower depending on the season, or simply have to balance personal and professional obligations throughout the day, workers need flexibility to be successful.”

At first cat lawyer was embarrassed. Then he realized we all could use a laugh. (Washington Post) As far as courtroom disclosures go, this one was unique: “I’m not a cat,” a Texas attorney claimed as his Zoom square displayed a fluffy white feline. At a routine civil forfeiture case hearing in Texas’ 394th Judicial District Court, Presidio County attorney Rod Ponton accidentally signed on with the cat filter, making the flummoxed attorney look like an adorable kitten. The 34-second clip of Ponton’s brief appearance as a cat immediately amused many and is becoming a viral hit. The prevalence of video chat platforms for court appearances has led to other unusual moments: A defendant in Sacramento appeared from a barber’s chair, a Florida burglary suspect tried to flirt his way out of trouble with a judge, and a lawyer in Peru was caught on camera naked after he stripped to have sex. But Tuesday’s video was the cat’s pajamas to many. Even Ponton, once he recovered from cat face and mortification, found humor in his proverbial 15 minutes of fame. “At first I was worried about it,” Ponton, 69, told The Washington Post on Tuesday, “but then I realized as it was going viral if the country could take a moment to laugh at my cat moment at my expense, I’ll take it. We’ve had a stressful year.”

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

Wrack and Ruin: Final 

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Part V

Part VI

What an end to a day. Arthur is frustrated. Feeling bad for a monster! Indeed. How typically French. How typically Bonaparte. How typical it is for one from that family to go and throw the entire plan off. This is how society falls, he thinks, when we start feeling poorly for monsters like the Jersey Devil. As if it inhabits any humanity within it to warrant pity or kindness.

What a miserable end to his letter to Liverpool. Well, perhaps not miserable. Bonaparte, that is Napoleon, assured him that the creature posed no military threat or otherwise to England or her colonies. What would happen were it to go to Upper and Lower Canada? Nothing, Bonaparte had said. Eat some cattle? Scare a few farmers?

He will admit he was not sure what he had expected from the entire expedition which hadn't been his idea to begin with. There was no great confrontation as there had been in Woodford and for that he is thankful. He isn't sure he is up for more confrontations with mystical beings of supernatural power. Age does catch up with one.

He concludes his letter to Liverpool and adds it to the stack that is to be sent on ahead of them before they embark on their journey homeward.

'No dinners with a president,' Napoleon says, letting himself in. 'Are you offended or relieved?'

'Relieved, I assure you. And I had dinner with the director of the Federal Bank and the former, if temporary, King of Spain. I think I can forego dinner with Monroe for that.'

'And you dine regularly with the former emperor of France, how your other dinner guests must pale in comparison.'

'That is a title we do not recognize,' Arthur replies in a stiff manner.

'But Joseph is King of Spain! That is unkind. Not to mention a work of great mental elasticity. Who made him king of Spain I wonder.' But Napoleon is smiling as he says it so Arthur does not take umbrage.

They end up topsy-turvy on the bed with Napoleon's stockinged feet on the pillows and head by the foot of the bed with Arthur the opposite. It is a quiet evening, no formal dinner. At some point soon they will go downstairs and be social.  Both are still in their hunting clothes, buckskin breeches and wool coats deposited on chair backs.

'I still cannot believe neither of you shot it,' Arthur says. He can feel circles being traced along his hip.

'It was no wolf, bear or boar. There would have been no honour in it. You would agree with me had you seen it.'

Arthur props himself up and looks down to Napoleon who has his eyes closed. One arm is beneath his head as a pillow, the other against Arthur's leg drawing those absent shapes.

'It's the Jersey Devil,' Arthur says.

'It was sad.'

'Sad? You don't look at a deer and think, oh it's sad so I shan't shoot it today.'

'No, no.' Napoleon's face screws up in thought then regains composure. He unwinds his hand that was a pillow and rubs his eyes. 'It's different. I felt pity for it. Not the pity you feel for a wounded horse or hound, where it is a mercy to shoot them. But the pity you feel for a man who dies alone with no one to hold his hand. Or the pity you feel when someone is dead and there is no one to mourn for them. The pity associated with extreme isolation.'

'That is all very well but it is hardly human.'

Napoleon thinks on this then sits up and frowns at Arthur. He holds out his hand and balances it side to side, 'yes and no. When I met its gaze I felt there was something humane about it. It's eyes, though red and yellow, were still human eyes.'

'You mean they expressed human emotion.'

'No, I mean they literally were the eyes of mankind. The eyes of Adam.' He rubs his face again. 'It's hard to explain. I hold no grievance with Joseph for not shooting it. I didn't run it through either. We just sort of exchanged eye contact with it then it went on its way. The only of its kind Joseph thinks. How sad. Alone, exiled from its family all those years ago.'

Arthur, 'there is no similarity there. Your family still cares. Well, some of your family cares.'

Napoleon laughs. Says that Arthur really knows how to make a man feel loved. Excellent ability to improve a person's mood. ‘God,’ he sighs as he lies back down, ‘what would I do without you to remind me that some of my family cares?’

'I wager you would get on well enough.'

'I'd be a puddle of despair.'

Arthur rolls his eyes, mutters that Napoleon is not being serious anymore. Always skirting away from difficult truths. At that Napoleon sits back up and with a grave expression says, 'I'm sorry.'

'For what? I was just grumping. It's my way.'

'Now who isn't being serious?'

'Fine, fine I accept your strange and unnecessary apology.'

Napoleon smiles and pats Arthur's cheek. 'I am glad.' Bringing up Arthur's hand he brushes a kiss along the knuckles then says he must go and bathe and change if he is to be in anything resembling a presentable state for dinner.

//

It is later, after food and drinks and several rounds of cards and Arthur has retired for the evening that Napoleon finds Joseph in his library with a thick blanket on his lap and reading Defoe. Joseph looks at him from overtop his glasses.

'You appear comfortable,' Napoleon says. He lingers at the edge of the room. Outside the light of the fire and the lamps and candles. Joseph motions him to the chair near him.

'I hate this book but I'm too committed to stop now. Besides, I promised Cadwalader that I would give him my assessment of it and I would like it to be more thorough than 'absolute rubbish, feed it to the pigs with turnip tops'.'

'What a country gentlemen you have become.'

Joseph smiles, says that the same could be said for Napoleon. He heard of the garden from Wellesley who was really just complaining about the bees. Bees, how fitting. He has thought about bees as well.

Napoleon, 'what I said today. I didn't mean it.'

'Yes you did.'

'No,' he sighs. 'No, I didn't. I was angry more at myself than you. I'm never angry at you.'

'What a lie.' But Joseph laughs a bit as he says it.

'I am trying to apologize brother. Very well, I have been angry you in the past. I am capable of being angry and frustrated and all manner of other things with you but I still love you and I am sorry for the unkind words I said today. I do not truly believe them of you.'

Joseph takes his glasses off and sets them aside along with Defoe. He looks at Napoleon with great patience. Napoleon ponders for a moment longer then goes, 'and I am also sorry for making you King of Spain instead of letting you remain King of Naples like you preferred and I am sorry for leaving Elba thus setting in line a chain of events that lead to this current situation and I am also sorry for making you do my homework on Corsica when we were seven and never managing to keep my stockings up then blaming you for my state of undress to mother.' A tentative look. 'Shall I continue?'

'Perhaps you should just write me a letter. No, no, Nabulio it is all right. I thank you for your apology. I always know that you generally do not mean what you say in the heat of the moment. What was it Duroc said about you?'

'Oh no not the Duroc quote.'

Joseph, in an aproximation of Duroc's manner of speaking, "The emperor speaks from his feelings, not according to his judgement; nor as he will act tomorrow."

‘How perceptive of him...I miss him a good deal.'

'I know.'

'We are leaving for England tomorrow.'

'I know.’ 

Joseph searches his brother's face and finds sadness but it is a well-restrained emotion. At first he is annoyed because even now, even after it all, even in this intimate moment when it is just the two of them, he must be in control of himself but then he remembers being ten years old and going to France and how he wept and wept and made his brother's shoulder damp and Napoleon, who was Napoleonne then, just cried a few tears. Two, or three. And he swallowed a few times but couldn't speak. The empire just made him worse.

When do walls develop? Is it when you are taken from your family who you will not see for another fifteen years and thrust into a country whose language you do not speak, whose customs you do not understand and told to make friends with boys you cannot interpret? Is it when you witness war for the first time? Mobs running wild? Your friend taking a piece of shrapnel and dying atop of you as they cough blood onto your face? When do you bury yourself in irony and smiles and wry social observations?

Joseph wonders how much he has changed as well, in all those years. He looks back to Corsica and it feels as if it was ten minutes ago. Then, at the same time, it feels one hundred years ago.

Napoleon is staring at the fire and breathing very carefully. He is tapping out a rhythm on the armrest.

'I should go to bed, it is late.'

Joseph, 'no, no. Stay. We may not see each other for some time after this.'

Napoleon does not look at him. Joseph wants to say, You know I have seen you naked and squalling, right? You know I have seen you screaming in our father's lap because you scrapped your knee, ruined your breeches and everything is terrible?

But that would serve no purpose. Joseph instead goes to a shelf and retrieves a selection of books. 'Do you remember when father read Cicero to us for the first time?'

'Vaguely. I remember sitting on the floor of his study and listening to him read. I don't remember what it was about. It was our tradition whenever he was home. He would let you sit in his nice chair because you were always in a better state of dress than I.'

'You had just spent the day chasing around with the shepherd boys in the hills. You were filthy.'

'I was six. All six year olds are filthy.'

Joseph sits back down with the books and sets them on the floor between them. He says they should read from one, that he has chosen all those he remembers them going through when young. There is even Ossian, Napoleon's favourite though Joseph never quite understood why. And beneath that Virgil and Ovid and Caesar and Roland and countless others. Napoleon picks up Ossian and thumbs through a few pages.

'I was once accused of having Ossian dreams,' he says as he reads a section.

Joseph shrugs, 'there are worse dreams to have.'

'What do you want to read?'

Joseph picks up dusty Virgil and hands it over. Anything of his, for now. And really, it doesn't matter, they have all night.

Later, several books alter, Napoleon bids good evening. It is half two in the morning and Joseph says, 'I am glad you came. Even if we didn't succeed in anything remotely close to what we set out to do.'

'Next you must come to England. We have trolls.'

Joseph grasps his brother's hand and says that it is a plan then pulls Napoleon into a hug. He tells himself to not cry so much as he did when they were boys. The sense of separation is not as large as it was then. There has been a decreasing in the miles in the gulf that Joseph had imagined between them. Perhaps scouting for trolls would be just the thing. A vacation from sometimes-dreary Bordentown.

Pulling back Napoleon's hand stays on Joseph's neck and he looks his brother full in the face. It is like he is memorizing him, or seeing him afresh for the first time in many years. Joseph grins.

'Don't get into too much trouble, Nabulio.'

'Don't worry, Giuseppe, I have made enough noise for one lifetime. Come to England for the trolls?'

'For the trolls. Maybe we'll find some humanity in them, too.'

'Sure, but don't tell Wellesley, he'll have an apoplexy.'

Sometimes, Joseph thinks, it is like that poem wherein we go into the forest and carve the words of our love into trees and as the trees grow so do our loves become louder. There will be some forgotten people whose trees do not grow and their voices petrify, freeze in time. But they have been lucky, he thinks. Their voices are still heard, they are not reduced to living in silent woods barren of human contact and love. Their exile could have been thus - could have made of them unspeakable creatures not to be seen or heard or known.

A gentle thank you to all who stuck with me this week and through the strange and odd journey of this wee story. It went in an unexpected direction for me and I am glad you all kept with me as we jointly became emotional about brothers being brothers. 

I also want to thank everyone who lovingly liked, reblogged, and commented. You are all so great and wonderful and supportive and it means the world. Really though, you’re all the best. 

Thank you also to the anon who sent in the prompt of Napoleon and Arthur vs. Cryptids. I am not sure if this is what you wanted but thank you for the inspiration! It has been a pleasure to write. 

<3 <3

[exmpairmid]

;; caillteanas

starring the always wonderful @mp-yixing a long time ago in the irish hills & plains

when she’s born, she’s the most beautiful thing airmid’s ever laid eyes on.

it doesn’t matter what the truth is, to airmid the child is hers and yixing’s. to airmid, they have created the perfect little being, the perfect example of all that is good and right in the world. the reason why airmid does what she does is this; the creation of new life, the innocence of a child unschooled, the joy and wonder that can be found in the eyes of those yet untouched by harm. if she could keep it that way forever, she would.

and with xia-he she can. from day one the little girl is given the world, in such a way that she can discover it and roam in it safely. she never once has to worry about the dangers that lurk in the shadows, because in those first few years yixing is like a shadow to the little girl, visiting as often as he can find the time to spare. airmid teaches xia-he all about plants, flowers and nature, yixing teaches her every single skill he owns himself. it’s wonderful, amazing and everything airmid ever hoped to find in her life; someone to love, to have a child with, a family to belong in once more. the love, care and affection of those around her. for the first time in a very long time, she finds peace.

and peace stays with her even as her daughter grows and yixing strays further from their side again. she has never begrudged him the life he leads, after all, has never been upset with him over the way he chose to spend his time. instead she treasures every moment he spends with her - with them - and simply lets him go when go he must. that is one thing she’s never had issues with; letting people go when they have to leave. a free spirit requires freedom, after all, and that is what she loves so much about him as well.

xia-he grows up, becomes a young woman, a fullgrown woman. airmid sees herself in those eyes, in the thick, dark hair, in the smile that graces her daughter’s features more often than not. but she also finds yixing there, in that very same smile, in that athletic built and the defiant streak that occasionally makes itself known. they’re an almost perfect little family, even as years and decades pass, even as xia-he grows up and heads off into the world on a path of discovery.

just like them, xia builds herself a life, finds herself someone to love, makes her own little family. airmid poses as her sister rather than her mother, yixing automatically becomes the sister’s boyfriend when he visits, but visit they do. and their family grows, and airmid watches her daughter grow, learn and prosper. watches the girl find love and happiness and adventure. it is xia-he who teaches her to let go a little too, to not try and make things too easy for her daughter because then what does it mean to live? it is xia-he who teaches her to live for herself as well, to take the time to enjoy things, to go a few days without feeling like she needs to save everyone around her. and so they grow together, they live together, they laugh together, they love together.

but the truth is hard to hide when you don’t age the way a normal human does. eventually xia has to choose whether to tell or to stage her death and leave, and for some inexplicable reason she chooses to leave. they move to a different place, create a new story, have a new start. decades pass like this. centuries. throughout them all, airmid and yixing keep making sure that their daughter can live the best possible life, that no harm can befall her. just like yixing became a constant in her life over the years, so does her daughter, until she can no longer imagine the world without either of them in it.

then one day, xia-he tells them she’s done. they’re willing to do anything and everything to make it better, to try and fix things, but their little girl is adamant. life has been going on long enough, this is where it ends. and that is a final decision, nothing can change her mind about it anymore. she wishes to visit home one final time, run with gŏu one final time, have dinner with them one final time. she wishes to do everything once more, and then she goes. her first child, her beautiful girl, their beloved daughter...

when she goes, the part of airmid’s heart that has been exclusively hers, dies along with her.

at first, they don’t fully realise it yet. at first there is nothing. and then the emotions come. to airmid, the sight of yixing becomes a stark reminder of the child she’s lost. what yixing thinks of it all, she does not know, for they do not speak of it. but he leaves her side soon after and does not return, and she does not look for him. they go their own ways, and whether it’s accidentally or on purpose, they don’t cross paths again.

the love that had been so big and all-encompassing within her, that had brought warmth to every one of her words and movements, now grows into a cold, lifeless mourning. she stops healing people altogether, disappears into the mountains again, deeper than she’s ever gone before. she leaves humanity behind, leaves everything behind and makes a home in the loneliness, accompanied only by her pain.

when eventually she returns to the world, she is different. she no longer heals everyone in her path who is hurt, no longer feels like the world deserves saving. she doesn’t embrace people with open arms anymore, doesn’t love humanity like she used to. but one day she sees a little girl crying over her dying mother and she could never really do anything other than heal the woman. she sees a brother praying for his sister to recover and steps in. but she leaves again instantly after. she shields herself off from the feeling, from emotions, from having to remember how she lost both her brother and her daughter.

she wanders aimlessly, learns the changes in the world slowly, more because she can’t not see them than because she is interested, though. people no longer remember her from the legends, don’t recognise in her the warm and caring goddess of healing. not this woman who is all cold eyes and hard lines, who hardly has a friendly word to spare and who doesn’t stay in one place long enough for anyone to really remember her features.

until one day she lifts her gaze from the road in front of her, and finds herself suddenly face to face with an all too familiar presence. for a good moment she freezes up entirely, the unexpected meeting shaking her to her very core. for a long moment all she can do is stare. and then as if automatically, her arms come up, open themselves for the man opposite her, like an invitation and a question all at once. one, she must add, that he answers in a heartbeat, because she blinks and suddenly he is there. his arms come around her as well, her face gets pressed into his shoulder and the warmth of him surrounds her. the life of him drowns her.

there is a part of her heart, she realises then, that never belonged to her daughter. a part of her heart that belonged to him and him alone. and it is that part that comes alive again when she holds him in her arms once more. that part that beats with a sudden frenzy, that sings a song of relief and of joy at having him back again. that part that, in a rush of emotion, brings the tears to her eyes and lets them run over her cheeks in a way that she never managed to do again after that fateful day.

she sobs into his shoulder without shame, clinging to him as if he is her last hope, and in a way he is. when eventually the sudden wave of sadness dims down enough for her to get words out, they are not words of blame, nor of sadness. they are words of love. because she loves him and having been apart from him for all those years has been the worst thing she could have ever done to herself. so she holds him close and she tells him that if lovers they can no longer be - for their daughter stands like a beacon between them, their similar features a constant reminder to each other of that which they have loved and lost, this she knows - then friends she still wants them to remain. anything he is willing to give her she is willing to take. she does not wish to lose another loved one, a brother, a friend - not when he is still alive to be with.

she holds him for a lot longer still, just breathing in his scent, keeping her eyes closed so she can remember all the good moments without having to be faced with the reality until she feels like she can take it. but when eventually she does look up at him, it feels as if no time has passed at all. it feels like she has wasted a century not seeing him when she could have spent a bigger part of it safely tucked away in his arms. but she knows she has changed, and she figures so has he.

“i’ll learn you again,” she says then - promises, really - as she reaches up a hand to rest it against his cheek. “i’m sorry.” she doesn’t apologise for leaving, they both needed time for themselves, but she simply conveys the sadness she feels for him, because he has lost someone dear as well. he has had to give up an important part of his life as well, no matter the effort both of them made to try and keep it alive. “i’m sorry you lost her. i’m sorry she’s gone.” and that, she knows once the words make it past her lips, is truly the thing that needed saying between them. she’s gone. we’re still here but she is gone.

it’s a start, albeit a small one, and they work from there. she doesn’t entirely recover from it, doesn’t think she ever will, but she regains some of the light that had once shone brightly within her. slowly but surely she learns to stop resenting humanity for its flaws, learns to appreciate its beauty again as well. the walls she built around her heart, however, don’t come back down again, for she doesn’t think she could ever love a mortal thing again. not when all it can bring her is more loss.

even when she eventually bears another child. and another. and another.

even when the ache dulls to a throb and the throb, eventually, dulls to a mere bruise that only hurts when touched upon.

she never embraces her children again.

[davidastbury]

It was one of coldest winters ever - but he hardly noticed. The economy was in recession, strikes everywhere - but it meant nothing to him. Nuclear war with the Soviets seemed to get nearer each passing day - but it didn’t interest him. Big changes at his firm; opportunities, promotions up for the asking, but he didn’t ask, didn’t put himself forward. Instead he drifted along, smiling and polite, vague and optimistic, willing yet unreliable, glad to see you but glad to get away.

In a single conversation I learned everything and nothing. We talked for a few minutes in a bus-shelter

Oy

The mother went crazy when she discovered that her daughter was seeing a non-Jewish boy. At first the girl tried to sell the idea that it was just a normal date, but it soon became clear that there was more to it. The parents were shocked and appalled.

When the girl told her boyfriend about all this he telephoned the father; suggesting that meet up, man to man so to speak, and try to find a way forward. The father shouted abuse and made threats. That was that.

A bit later the girl’s elder sister came up from London. She was hoping to mediate a solution. The father informed the family that he had briefly explained the situation to his family daughter’s employer (she had worked at the same place as her boyfriend) and she no longer had a job there - instead she would work with him. The elder sister stayed on at the house because her marriage was troubled, but she didn’t mention it at the time, not wishing to add to her parents worries.

The girl and the boy continued to see each other. Several of their friends were supportive - even giving them use of their homes so that they could be together alone. Meanwhile the father became incandescent with anger and he told his daughter - with the mother wringing her hands in the background - that if she didn’t end the affair she would be considered dead by the family and the community. This was the threat of following the ritual of ‘sitting shiva’ - a practice during the first days of mourning for a close relative. The girl would be dead to them.

Later the mother told her that she had been diagnosed with cancer - not sure which type - and that she was going in for a big op. She pushed the girl back and told her that she was to blame for the illness.

It was all too much for the girl. The relationship ended.

The elder sister got divorced.

The mother’s operation was a success.

The father went bankrupt but he appeared not to mind. He had been secretly ‘seeing’ another woman and used the euphoria of his wife’s recovery to ease out the bad news.

They divorced.

The girl eventually took up with a nice boy she had known all her life (she was nineteen). He was a dentist already; they married.

The boyfriend took it all in his stride.

Twenty years later he converted to Judaism.

B.

I will be in the staying overnight in a certain town and, out of the blue, remembered that this is where an old friend lives. We haven’t seen each other for a long time. Made some enquires with mutuals and learnt the following:-

He couldn’t hold down his job - teaching in ‘higher education’. Years of medication and then early (very early) retirement on a cruelly reduced pension.

Divorced and lives alone.

Does not answer his phone.

Takes weeks to answer letters.

No longer reads - he taught English Literature.

No longer listens to music.

Recluse - only leaves his house for shopping and walking neighbour’s dog.

I’ve decided I don’t want to see him - I will not be phoning him or trying to make contact. This might be surprising, coming from someone who has written thousands of little stories about his old friends etc. But for me they belong in the stories; I am totally unsentimental about this. Nearly everyone in my life is new - I relish the rush of curiosity excited by a new individual - the stranger on the train attracts me more than any figure in the past - there isn’t the slightest wish to come face to face with Russell and Caroline, Ian and Lorna - or ‘Uncle Tom Cobley’ and all.

Favourite cafe. Chairs and tables spread out over the pavement. Watching the flow of people. Nothing of great interest for a while but I don’t mind. I enjoy watching. In a way it’s like fishing or birdwatching, you just wait - and watch.

Nice young couple - the boy particularly, he has the luminous shine of someone who is loved - and has been loved all his life. You can spot people like him quite easily - you can see that they were ‘wanted’ and treasured right from birth. They have a glow, an atmosphere about them; they are often, but not always, very charming people. This boy has it - and then some more. I can imagine that earlier today his mother might have immaculately ironed a shirt for him - but he didn’t want to wear it, and instead chose a crumpled T-shirt, and she just smiled and hung it up carefully. I can imagine the characteristic unspoken irritation on his father’s face and the difficulty he has in finding the right tone - the right voice when speaking to his son. But they get along okay, or as well as you could expect.

His girlfriend appears to be very taken by him. She looks up - all her attention is on her glorious boyfriend, not the hundreds of people swamping the pavement. We all get in the way - preventing her doing what she wants to do - preventing her pulling his head down and showing him that she can do things that no other girlfriend has ever done.

Saw a youngster playing what appeared to be war games on a small IPad - it was something violent because the screen flashed whenever he made a hit. It was impressive in a way - he unquestionably had astonishing reflexes and motor skills (that might not be the right word). And maybe there is a positive psychological aspect - in his imagination he may have been saving the world from a hostile invasion.

There isn’t much difference from how I was at his age. I fantasied about saving this country from our usual European enemy - sitting up late at night, just a single naked lightbulb, crouched over a table, my wrist working furiously - tapping out crucial information on my Morse code key.

I suppose memorising the Morse code is more challenging, but there are similarities.

Russell and Caroline and Me ... (1959)

A very rare memory - the three of us walking together; Russell in the middle. He was crowing with laughter and swaying about, losing his balance, pushing us with his shoulders. Caroline was laughing too; she linked arms with him and Russell linked arms with me.

We walked up the road. It was around the time that school finished for the big summer break - it might have been the last day. Caroline was dazzling; I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

We passed the ten bedroom mansion commissioned by a market stall-holder who had won a fortune on the football pools. We passed the small park where men used to linger around the gents lavatory. We passed the mock Tudor hotel where the landlord owned a noisy Morgan sports car.

I didn’t want that walk to end - even during the walking I didn’t want it to end - and in a way, given the right mood and circumstances, it never has.

Artistic Stirrings

One of the good things about doing drawings - even if the results are disappointing - is the way that the image becomes fixed in your mind. I once tried to do drawings of Russell’s dad, and they were very disappointing but the memory is vivid.

The setting was a service of commemoration in the town’s main church; it was the centenary of some benefactor, some eminent figure of the past. Russell’s parents had been invited and Russell had told them that he would attend only if I was also invited.

The two of us arrived early and his parents appeared with only a couple of minutes to spare. I got a wink from his father and a nice smile from his mother - nothing at all from Caroline. I remember that there wasn’t enough space for them in our row of seats and his mother hissed for us to move forward and join them - Russell refused. They took their places in front of us. Caroline neatly seated between her parents - ‘one forward and one diagonal’ like a knight’s move in chess.

The church gave me the creeps - the thick stone pillars and iron rings made me think of a torture dungeon of the Inquisition. And then the service groaned into action.

I looked at Russell’s dad and immediately wanted to draw him. I wanted to draw the way he took his place and then, how he leaned forward, shielding his eyes and mumbled a fake prayer. But best of all was seeing him during the hymns - the way he stood - hymn book in one hand and the other hand in the side pocket of his blazer. So fabulously superior and casual - just his fingers were in the pocket; his thumb was hooked outside the pocket. I was only thirteen years old but this pose struck me as totally English; no foreigner would attempt it.

There seemed to be quite a number of hymns - all in the same mood of drearily triumphalism. The choir warmed to the task, giving it all they had, heads back, open throated. The organ roared and thundered, making the building shake. I got caught up it all myself and began to enjoy the madness - the throbbing bliss of the noise - the voluptuous brasses - the yellow light from the altar candles - the crimson canopy over the nailed up Jesus and the snug tightness of Caroline’s skirt.

Russell’s House ... in retrospect

It was impressive; standing back from the road with a curving drive, half-concealed by old trees. The sort of house that might have stained-glass fanlights, French windows at the back, expensive rugs, dado rails, brass stair rods, a vestibule and somewhere in the hall for a visitor to sit and wait, a ring-pull chime, watercolours in the dining room, German crockery, engraved silverware. Actually, it had all these - as did other solid homes in the 1950s - the homes of bank managers, headmasters, clergymen and such like.

But other things should be mentioned. There was a garden shed disfiguring the side view. The edges of the lawn at the front were chewed up with tyre tracks because the turning circle was tight. The hall was always cluttered with bicycles; at least one upside-down for repairs - the lower parts of the walls were dark with the rubbing of dogs; the same dogs that scratched the doors in their pre walk frenzies. All the sofas and chairs had traces of cat hairs; people sometimes tripped over the feeding bowls and water dishes. Russell’s musical instruments were scattered and Caroline’s paint boxes were often mixed in with the plates and glassware.

All this might have caused eyebrows to raise. But you see, it was the home of a happy family - the happiest family I have ever known.

Tunisia

Sir David Attenborough recently said that we are a plague on the earth and that we have no more right to life than any other species.

Well, I for one have done okay - house and food, cars and holidays, good suits and watches, healthcare and financial comfort.

Outside, under my window there is a cat making noises. The only thing she had in the world were her three tiny kittens. She no longer has the kittens because they were taken away early this morning - and she is looking for them

Wrestling with Russell

We were both reasonably good at school sports - in the way that twelve-year-olds tend to be - but our speciality was wrestling. Together we devised our private version which had its own rules and system of scoring.

Wrestling bouts were carried out spontaneously, at any suitable moment. It was always started as an act of surprise - one of us would simply attack the other - preferably during a moment of distraction.

On one occasion, when we were alone in Russell’s house, he suddenly seized me in an arm-lock. This wasn’t the ‘arm twisted up the back’ variety popular with law-enforcement officers, but a very painful version where the arm is pressed against the joint. I responded with the only blow permitted in our rules - a sharp chop on the neck with the side of my hand. And then the two of us toppled over, landing with a thud on the carpet.

Once on the floor there could only be two options - ‘knockout’ or a ‘submission’. Submissions meant that one of us - in great pain - calling out ‘Give in!’ A knockout usually meant getting astride your opponent’s chest and pressing his shoulders down to a count of ‘one-two-three!’

Anyway ... we were rolling over, grunting and giggling, knocking things over, each trying to get a firm grip of the other - when the door swung open and Caroline - beautiful Caroline - was standing over us.

‘What are you two doing?’

Her opinion of me, already low, plunged to irreversible depths.

If your writing’s simply rubbish, raise your hands! (boo hoo)

If your writing’s simply rubbish, raise your hands! (boo hoo)

If your writing’s always rubbish and no one wants to publish

‘cos your writings really rubbish raise your hands.

(boo hoo!)

If you’ve got writer’s block, scratch your ‘ed (boo hoo)

If you’ve got writer’s block, scratch your ‘ed (boo hoo)

If the block’s real bad, and you feel you’re going mad

If you’ve got writer’s block, scratch your ‘ed.

If ideas come thick and fast, clap your hands

If ideas come thick and fast, clap your hands

If ideas come thick and fast and you think they’re goin’ to last

If ideas come thick and fast, clap your hands.

If an agent likes your book (shout hooray!

If an agent likes your book (shout hooray!

If he says it’s really good and you never thought he would

If an agent likes your book (shout hooray!

When the movie man says ‘sign here’ (woo hoo)

When the movie man says ‘sign here’ (woo hoo)

When he offers me his pen and I count from one to ten,

When the movie man says ‘sign here’ ((woo hoo).