#and even if arne have no idea of personal space

[ronkoza]

Them ✨

Tor belongs to @littleulvar

[riting]

Bad Stars True West by Amanda Horowitz

DJ Hills on Bad Stars True West

Two images have stuck, like pin art, in my memory.

The first is Jess Barbagallo as Cricket, knife in hand, toaster between his legs. Despite the chord, dangling, obviously unplugged, I still flinched when Jess dropped the knife into the toaster. A fear leftover from childhood. There was a time when I was sure a toaster would kill me.

The other image is of an open briefcase, wet pasta spilling out into a bathtub. Wild and so earned it felt inevitable, this moment comes after a verbal tennis match in which Arne Gjelten performs both mother and father, voice and body contorting to fit an idea of gender that is as slippery as it is ever-present.

Bad Stars True West is a game—like the ones I hope we all once played with friends—where a train track-rug bears very real possibilities for travel. This game-nature allows danger to lurk so innocently at the edges of the play.

We are all in danger. We are all having fun. Anything can happen. Every moment is a surprise.

Boundaries are fuzzy in Amanda’s world. Images and words bend around us, reshaping themselves, beat by beat, into familiar things made unfamiliar.

Outside the gallery, Hollywood, too, feels even less tethered to reality than before. I’m still in child’s play mode. Each person I pass on the street has a little cowboy inside them. There could be spaghetti in anyone’s briefcase.

DJ Hills is a writer for the page, stage, and screen. They are the author of Leaving Earth (Split Rock Press) and their play TRUNK BRIEF JOCK THONG was shortlisted for the Yale Drama Series.

Stacy Dawson Stearns on Bad Stars True West

Sam Shephard holds a wiggly warm spot in my dirt. In the 80’s, I was a young teen and already starting to feel out of place in the creative boxes available to me. The play Cowboy Mouth showed up. Shepard and his unique troping of the American West plus asphalt and addiction tripped my switch so I tried it on, acting out scenes and making costume designs for characters I didn’t understand. I was just a kid and had no idea what addiction and love do to each other, no idea about the thin line between obliteration and inspiration, no idea how hard it is to stay free when you cross the threshold from childhood to the big A. But I learned that Sam and Patti Smith were lovers who had written and acted that play out together, so maybe the line between fake and real was a dotted line. Is it a coincidence that Patti Smith made her public debut as a poet at St. Marks Church on the same day I was born? Funny that I would debut artistically there, too, 20 years later performing on the 2nd floor at the Ontological Hysterical Theater. Dotted lines on road maps worn thin from thumbing connect disconnected folk to one another. Ghosts of the living and dead love churches that act as theaters.

I moved to NYC 6 years after my first exposure to Shepard and saw a flyer wheatpasted to a mailbox for a production of Cowboy Mouth. The theater was a basement in the East Village. Ghosts love basements, too. The mythical Lobster Man character was played by a guy with no clothes on- very unlike the Lobster Man costume design I had drawn years before, but much more honest and economical. I couldn’t believe how weird and normal the play was and how easy and hard it all seemed at the same time and how it made sense without making sense. I figured that Shepard was my uncle and these folks were my cousins: children of an America made of narcotics, disfunction, TV, and asphalt. It felt good to sit without lies for a while.

30 +years later I’m in a small gallery space in Hollywood seeing a play by a playwright named Amanda Horowitz that spawned somehow from Shepard’s True West. Ghosts are ok with galleries. Sam wrote True West 9 years after Cowboy Mouth- but with Uncle Sam it’s all just one play, really. Different acts. I came because I wanted to see Jess Barbagallo, who is a rock star of an actor just like Malcovitch or Shepard himself but braver, more vulnerable, tougher, softer. Shepard no longer lives in flesh- he is a ghost grampa who passed out and left the car keys on the dresser next to his drumsticks. He is sitting with me on these metal bleachers a block away from the Boulevard of Broken Dreams, fading in and out of vision depending on the angle of my glasses. On the stage, wild ones with their hearts pushing through their shirts are taking his car on a joyride into new territory: a wormy place of what we do when fucked up romance and being sad about wasted people is no longer enough. They run off the road in a town called Almost Hope, population 3.

Bad Stars True West is a beautiful evolution of Shepard Country where surviving the death of relationships is worth trying. Where the threat of being run over by a train is no worse than the threat of not being run over by a train because worms survive and thrive. Where mother and father are an actor who has noodled himself into a Mobius strip: self-contained yet unwieldy, feral yet capable of being studied. Jess is not the only star in this trio; Arne Gjelten and Sophia Cleary end up rocking my world, too.

On the sidewalk after the show, Jess and I talk for a minute about the ways we all put out for our own art, and how great it is when projects feel necessary and fullfilling. Part of me feels like saying “feels like old times,” but I don’t want to. Nostalgia sits too close to atrophy for me, so I choose gratitude for this hijacking of Sam’s direction, saying in my mind: “Thank you for acknowledging that we are way beyond the era of hopelessness as a statement. Thank you for not being snarky and guarded. Thank you for discussing platonic love and heartbreak.” In his day, Shepard did not write to celebrate abuse and codependence per se, but at some point in the rotation his plays stopped being exposed wounds and started becoming reliquaries. I am not saying these plays have lost their prescience, I am saying we have a hard time being present*. Sometimes textual legacies need not be revivals. Enter Horowitz et al on the dusty horizon of Shepard Country. Having eaten the old plays like worms in a corpse, they split in two and regenerate their own heads. They fill a bathtub with spaghetti, they lay down on the tracks. Mom becomes an artist but maybe she always was and we didn’t notice. As still night falls on Almost Hope, USA, we don’t know where this is going, but we feel like we just might get there.

*Say a little prayer for Buried Child to erupt through the floor of the Supreme Court soon in a showdown of the undead! We can dream, can’t we?

Stacy Dawson Stearns (she/they) believes that artists support societal well-being by modeling and instigating collective creative practice. A Bessie Award-winning artist known for her work with Big Dance Theater, David Neumann, Hal Hartley, and Blacklips Performance Cult, Stacy has choreographed for pop icons Debbie Harry and Ann Magnuson, House of Jackie, and The Vampire Cowboys, and has performed and presented in 10 countries in venues ranging from NYC’s Lincoln Center to Tblisi’s Teatr Griboyedov. Stacy develops new media with Channel B4 and uses her curation and programming to serve communities and further social justice, representation, and accessibility initiatives as a CultureHub LA 2023 Fellow.

Bad Stars True West by Amanda Horowitz was presented at STARS Gallery in Los Angeles on July 13-16, 2023. It was performed by Jess Barbagallo, Sophia Cleary, Arne Gjelton, and Beaux Mendes as the "plein-air-painter." All photos by Jonathan Chacón.

Amanda Horowitz is an interdisciplinary artist working between performance and sculpture. She writes and directs theater projects with experimental and collaborative methods. Past performance projects include: The Plumbing Tree (co-written & directed with Bully Fae Collins, 2018-19), Suddenly, This Summer (2019) and Bad Water True West (2022). She is currently a 2022-2024 Playwright-in-Resident at Rutgers University. 

[wrestling-all-the-time]

Salt of the Earth: Part 1 (Request)

Pairing: Maxwell Jacob Friedman x Bella

Warning(s): None

Word Count: 858

Part 2

~

Being the daughter of Dustin Rhodes meant I knew my way around the wrestling business. The biggest thing I've learned over the years is that not everything is what it seems. For example, Maxwell Jacob Friedman was a complete ass in the ring but backstage, he was the sweetest boyfriend I could ask for.

When Max started his feud with my uncle Cody, it didn't bother me. At least not until this point.

Cody wanted a match against Max, but Max wasn't going to just give it to him. He had three stipulations that Cody had to meet before he got his match. Cody couldn't touch Max until the day of their match, he had to beat Wardlow in a steel cage match, and he had to let Max whip him ten times.

Something about the final stipulation got under my skin. I knew Max was one to push boundaries, but this felt like crossing a line. I tried to ignore it and somewhat thought that the lashes wouldn't happen. However, tonight was the night.

"Are you really going through with this?" I asked Max as he was getting ready.

"Yes, unless Cody stops me," Max said.

"Don't you think it's going a bit too far?" I asked.

"I mean, it's just for TV," Max said. "You know I don't actually have anything against Cody."

"I know but that doesn't change the fact that you seem to expect me to be okay with you whipping my uncle on live TV," I said. "It just seems like you're trying to embarrass the Rhodes family. My family."

"Bella, I-" Max stopped when he heard a knock at the door.

It was one of the crew members coming to get Max for the lashes segment.

I followed Max to the tunnels, finding my place behind Tony so I could watch from the monitors.

I winced every time the belt made contact with Cody's back. By the time they got to the final lash, Arn, my dad, and the Young Bucks were ringside trying to keep Cody's spirits up.

Brandi was about to go out but when she saw me, she stopped.

"Do you want to go out?" Brandi asked. "We can do it together."

I nodded so she put an arm around me, and we walked out together. I gave Brandi space to talk to Cody when we got to the ring. I stood with my dad as Cody got back up.

Max seemed to hesitate now that I was out there watching. The final lash was quick and to Cody's chest. Once it was done, I got in the ring with everyone else to check on Cody. After a quick low blow, Max and Wardlow ran from the ring.

The Bucks made sure Cody got back to medical. I stood in the doorway as Cody got looked over. I wanted to be there for him, but I didn't want to be in the way.

"It's okay to come in," Cody said once he noticed me standing there.

"I don't want to be in the way," I said.

"You won't be," Cody said.

I walked in, getting a glimpse of Cody's back as I went.

"How bad does it hurt?" I asked.

"It looks worse than it is," Cody said.

"Are you lying to make me feel better?" I asked but Cody ignored the question.

"Don't be mad at Max about this," Cody said.

"I wouldn't say I'm mad," I said. "Just not happy with him whipping you. It felt a little too personal."

"It wasn't," Cody said. "He didn't even want to do this segment because of you."

"Then why-" Cody cut me off.

"The stipulations were my idea," Cody said.

"They were?" I asked.

"Yeah, I had a feeling no one told you," Cody said. "Bella, Max cares about you so much. He wouldn't do anything to intentionally upset you."

"I know," I said.

"And you know his whole brand is built on kayfabe," Cody said.

"I know that too," I said. "I think I'm going to go talk to him."

I left medical and made my way back to Max's locker room. When I knocked it was Wardlow that answered. He stepped aside to let me in. Before I could say anything, Max caught me in a hug.

"I'm sorry," Max said.

"It's okay," I said.

"No, it isn't," Max said. "If it bothered you, I shouldn't have gone through with it."

"You're a heel. What you do is supposed to bother me," I said sarcastically. "Look, I talked with Cody. I know it was his idea and I want you to know that I was never mad at you per-say."

"You seemed mad," Max said.

"Not mad, just bugged," I said. "But that's bound to happen from time to time."

"So, are we okay?" Max asked.

"Yeah, we're okay," I said. "I just get a bit protective when it comes to family."

"And there's nothing wrong with that," Max said before kissing me.

"Just, next time Cody is wanting to do something stupid, let me know before it happens," I said.

"I will," Max said. "I promise."

[sullustangin]

Pubside SWTOR 7.0, Part 1

Playing this from a max level smuggler, Loyalist , LS5, romanced Theron, rejoined the Republic. 

In general, spoiler-free:

Although the story is very short overall, the Imps really got extra shafted in terms of lore.  Pubside had decent lore going back to KOTOR.  No, there is no pre-existing romance content, so you’re going to have to make up what your spouse is doing, unless it’s Lana. Even then... I have a suspicion that was not the original plan (see below).

Non-spoilery FP help:  Despite the set bonus being red, if your 306 gear has a green arrow compared to the 312 stuff, use it.  Malgus’ Relentless Assault and Force Pull abilities have the chance to yank you through the floor, so the faster you burn him down, the fewer opportunities he has to do that.  Stick to the outer ring where the kolto is; the middle is full of gaps that drop you through the world.

All told, I spent 4 hour on the main questline. I asked Spouse about this, since he was actually playing during KotXX, and he stated that this felt like a large chapter (I’ve only played the game straight through).  I HOPE that when they said they were going to celebrate the 10 year anniversary all year round, that means they’re going to drop monthly ‘chapters’ (just not call them that) or at least more than 3 story updates this year.  If they do this, then I’ll feel better about what’s out there now. 

Until the Powers That Be do what they do, I’ll withhold judgment.  If this is it, then this is profoundly disappointing, and the endgame really has become Space Barbies: The Video Game, where the plot doesn’t matter and they STILL don’t let us schmooze with our romance. 

I’ll be goofing around on a new smug to get the new char experience, so Part 2 to come.  

Putting the rest  behind a cut.

Wait, PSA:  you should visit the anniversary vendor for all the 10th anniversary stuff if you have not already!

Smuggler

This is very, very smuggler specific, but The Shadow does not seem to recognize the DS Smuggler as Voidhound or make any reference to Voidfleet.  If you’ve played the Uprising on Port Nowhere, Hylo even says that you’re the only person to conquer it twice.  This is obviously a pet peeve of mine and of a very narrow segment of the SWTOR population...

But I killed a lot of people to be Voidhound and stole a lot of stuff -- ok, I don’t regret stealing the stuff or the killing, but still, I want my propers on the Smuggler’s Moon.

That said, once I got into the mission, the smug dialogue was actually pretty good. Less of a goofball compared to some of the options in Ossus/Onslaught.

Selkath and Manaan, Pubside

The selkath on Manaan are expressing attitudes one does expect of people whose top export has been warred over by super powers for years.  I really like that they’ve now included this in the game.  I may like it as much as I do because I did play KOTOR recently, which has a lot more selkath culture and history than what little we do see in Shadow of Revan.  The battle fatigue is real.  Being warred over by two superpowers is EXHAUSTING, especially over 300 years.

Manaan felt good on my smuggler.  There’s a demand for kolto -- let’s send the smuggler to go get the supply. I liked Gallo -- I liked meeting selkath that weren’t cult members for once, yay!  Spouse played on a Sith Inq, and he felt no immersion or connection to the content.  However, the Imp side just... had nothing in terms of KOTOR references, and he hated everyone new on Sith side. I was flapping around and pointing at the Progenitor, and he just looked SAD that he didn’t see the ol’ fish (he blew him up as Revan, but still, old friends).

You have no idea how happy I got when the Progenitor ate a bunch of Imps.

I like Arn.  This toon coaxed him to go all LS and nudged him to Tau.  He’s a nice boy.

The Glitches

That said, every time I was supposed to switch automatically to a new zone, I had to log out and in again in order to switch instances.  (like getting on the imp ship for example).  That’s something that shouldn’t have made it to launch -- that’s an easy fix.

Also, I had the issue of the opening battle scene getting stuck behind the goddamn planet.  Not gamebreaking but it jolted me out of watching some Han Solo shenanigans.  

I already talked about the Malgus fight.  What a shitshow.  That should not have been pushed to live servers. 

The flashpoint is well-constructed in the sense that a) I know what’s going on and why; b) the enemies are there, reasonably, for plot purposes. However, the falling through the earth glitches and the like just. UGH.  BAD.  This is the most unacceptable part of the chapter.

Lana and Love Interests

Ok.   The Imp soldiers before the Malgus battle ARE Lana’s voice actor.  I don’t think they planned to have Lana there when they first worked the FP.

I have a feeling that

a) initially, they planned it to be a run with you and Tau only.  You two banter, only.  And then they launched the FP annnnd it ate the player and Tau alive -- so slot Lana in instead of the Combat Droid....

AND/OR b) However, ... The way Lana walks in -- that’s not how Lana walks, typically.  I think they may have thought about using another character or characters (Love Interests?) in this scene.  Also, the dialogue in the flashpoint itself seems -- off. someone of the dialogue seems un-Lana like to me.  Almost as if it were written for use with different characters or interchangeable characters.  I’m wondering if they had planned to slot in everyone’s love interest, but just failed to do so. 

Overall, this fits into the whole feeling of this would-be expansion of being ‘undone.’

[wyofabdoms]

Undercover I Do - Chapter 7

Characters: Javier Peña x female reader

Summary: While on an undercover assignment posing as a married couple, you are attacked and nearly assaulted. Upon waking, all you remember about Javier Peña is what you remembering seeing from two photographs of the two of you posing as the happily married couple. As you struggle to regain your memories, Javi struggles with his own feelings for you.

Rating: Mature (Eventual smut)

Warnings: Memories of attempted sexual assault, fake/pretend relationship, married and undercover trope, temporary amnesia, injury, swearing, soft Javi, feelings, I have no idea how amnesia really works, brief mention of masturbation, Javi reads poetry...did you know that?!?!?...me neither!

Word Count: 4407 (again....Whoopsie!)

Notes: A trip to the office in an attempt to jog your memories ends up revealing more about Javier Peña then you expected. Plus, a trip to the farmer's market knocks some things loose and a thunderstorm brings you and Javi closer.

Read on Ao3

It had been a week since you’d come home from the hospital.

During that week, there had been so little success in regaining your memories save for those brief hopeful moments with Javi the previous weekend.  Javi had done as much work from home as he could this past week; when he did have to go in to the office, he usually returned with stacks or boxes of paperwork, spreading out on the coffee table or in the kitchen like now, grumping that he didn’t want to leave you on your own for too long if he could help it.  The time in the alone stretched on endlessly and you always felt a jolt of happiness when you heard the key in the lock and your husband strode in on a cloud of cigarette smoke, faded aftershave and cologne with (more often than not) a frustrated scowl decorating his handsome face.  You always took note of how that scowl slipped from his face when he greeted you, though, and that moment always made you smile.

The previous day you’d joined Javi at work for a short while.  You had discussed at dinner the night before that maybe more familiar surroundings would jar something loose...after all, Javi had said, the two of you usually spent more time at the office than you ever really did in your apartment.  You eagerly agreed.  If nothing else you were excited for a change of scenery.  

It had been more awkward than anything, really and you were disappointed that nothing short-term had seemed to come back to you.  Feistl and Van Ness had both greeted you warmly, inquiring as to whether you’d gotten the flowers they’d sent.  Both younger men had kindly remarked that you looked like you were doing well and then proceeded to lapse into an uncomfortable silence, glancing from one another and then Javi before quickly scurrying off to complete some menial task.  Dixon had found you as well, and had seemed a bit on edge when she had made small talk with you.  You simply chalked it up to stress, but you had seen her pull Javi a short distance away and speak furtively to him, clearly irritated with something he had said or done.  Javi’s brows had lowered over his dark eyes when the older woman had moved away and he had ushered you into his office, telling you he needed to pop into a quick meeting...shouldn’t take more than fifteen, twenty minutes and did you want to wait here or should he get a car to take you home?  

You’d been happy to settle yourself onto the worn leather couch, but as the time ticked by you grew antsy and started pacing around your husband’s office, tracing the pens on the desk, sitting in his chair and twirling in it absentmindedly, aimlessly gazing at the maps and photographs on the walls and bulletin boards.  As you wandered, the corner of your jacket caught on something on the edge of the desk, pulling it off and sending a stack of papers fluttering to the floor.  You cursed, then bent to re-stack the papers, hoping they had not been in any kind of order. You saw a thin, navy blue book also on the floor and reached to pick it up.

Rumi: The Book of Love: Poems of Ecstasy and Longing

You were struck for a moment: what was Javi doing with a book of love poems at work? You sat down in his desk chair again. Flipping open the small book you noticed a name written neatly in a woman’s handwriting on the inside cover: Sofia Flores

A small piece of paper, worn with time was tucked between the cover and the title page.  You carefully open it and read a small message in the same writing as the name:

Even though this marriage didn’t work out, my sweet Javi, remember: I will always love you. Xoxo

Your stomach clenched.  “This marriage” hadn’t worked out?  You felt like your mouth was suddenly sandpaper and you started to close the book and place it back on the desk when another loose paper fluttered out from the middle pages...one of many pieces of paper stuck there you realized as you flipped to the middle of the book of poetry, finding two with corners dogeared.  Two poems on opposite pages bracketed a small collection of what appeared to be newspaper clippings. The first poem read:

“Lovers find secret places inside this violent world where they make transactions with beauty.”

And:

“I want to see you. Know your voice. Recognize you when you first come ’round the corner. Sense your scent when I come into a room you’ve just left. Know the lift of your heel, the glide of your foot. Become familiar with the way you purse your lips then let them part, just the slightest bit, when I lean in to your space and kiss you. I want to know the joy of how you whisper “more”

Your breath caught at the simplicity and beauty of the poems, and it made your heart ache that your husband even possessed a book of poetry, much less one filled with such lovely words. You started to look through the clippings flattened between these two poems and were surprised when you noticed they all seemed to be about you.  

There were five total: one from what appeared to be an interoffice newsletter highlighting your work as a successful agent in a mostly male dominated field.  The short article included a photograph of you taken several years ago when you had graduated from Quantico.  The other four were in Spanish and had clearly come from local Bogota papers.  Each had grainy black and white photos of you (and two with Javi along with some other DEA agents) at different locations around the city taken during the last two years as you had worked to help unravel the mess that was Columbian drug trafficking.  In one, you and Javi and Feistl stood together surveying a map spread on the hood of a Jeep, most likely either pre- or post- op.  In another, you were escorting a minor drug crony from a building, his hands behind his back, your hand firmly on his shoulder and your torso covered in a sturdy tac vest.  The others were similar and at the bottom of the small pile of clippings, you found a polaroid photo.

It was another picture of you, but in this one you were sitting amongst a small group of co-workers.   Despite the others in the picture, you were framed at the center, clearly the focus of the photographer.  You remembered this night from over a year ago: It was Van Ness’’s birthday and you and several other colleagues had pitched in to buy him a Polaroid camera like the one that would have taken this picture.  It had been a good night out, a fun dinner with margaritas and beer flowing.  As everyone got more silly and giggly and loose, the camera had been passed around and each person had taken a turn snapping a photo.  You vaguely remembered glancing across the table just as the snap from this photo being taken had reached your ears and noticed Peña lowering the camera from his face, removing the picture from the roller as it slid from the device, growling something to the person next to him as he passed the camera. You hadn’t thought anything of it, thinking your partner had just taken a wide shot of you and your colleagues across the table. All of the photos had been collected at the end of the evening and presented to Van Ness, who had spread them all out on the table for everyone to giggle and admire one another’s silly faces and poses.  

The realization struck you that your husband must have kept the photo he had taken that night, a photo with you at it’s center.  It was worn, smudged along the edges and showing creases and a small tear in one corner.  Clearly it was handled regularly.

“Hey.”  The gruff rasp of your husband’s voice startled you and you looked up at him guilty.  “You ready to get outta here…?”  He stopped short when he saw the book in your hand, the clippings on the desk, the photograph in your other hand.

“I’m sorry!”  Your first instinct was to apologize; clearly this wasn’t something he wanted people to see. “I didn’t…” You quickly moved from being apologetic to feeling tears well up in your eyes as you remembered: “even though this marriage didn’t work out”...from “Sofia”.  You looked up at him.  “Javi?”  You could only choke out his name by way of question.

Javi’s face transformed to worry when he heard your voice say his name.  He moved quickly to crouch next to you in his desk chair.

“Hey, hey...it’s ok.  What is it?  Whatsa matter?”  He put a callused hand along your cheek, searching your eyes for an explanation.  You could only look back down at the book in your hands.

“Is our marriage over?”  You asked him, tears starting to fall.  His brows came together in confusion and he spoke softly.

“What?  What do you...what do you mean, sweetheart?”  You flipped back to the front cover of the book, smoothing out the note from “Sofia”.  

“Who’s Sofia Flores?” You held your breath, waiting for him to look guilty, ashamed, abashed at being found out, but you saw realization flutter across his eyes and his face relaxed; he released a puff of air...almost a small laugh, and he stood, leaning carefully on the desk next to you, wiping a hand across his face.

“No.  No, sweetheart...it’s not what you think.”  He looked at you for a moment, studying you carefully.  “Do you remember...do you remember me telling you about Lorraine?”  You nod and the next instant, you feel relief come over you.  Lorraine: his former fiancé back in Texas.  He had told you about her once, one late night at the office when you had both sipped a little too much whiskey and started swapping stories about miserable past relationships.  Lorraine: who had always put him down, made him feel like he was never good enough, a piece of shit, who demeaned the things he had found interesting.  You had never met the woman, but you remember feeling that night like you had never hated anyone as much as you hated her for treating Javi so poorly.  You also remember thinking to yourself that night how incredibly wrong someone could be about another human being.  But then again, you hadn’t been engaged to Javier Peña….yet.  Javi sees it click in your face and continues.

“Sofia Flores was my mom.  She gave me this,” he gently takes the book from you, “right after I left Lorraine...right before I came here.  She taught herself English with this.” He held the book up, pride sparking behind his eyes at the memory of his mother.  You nodded, remembering him telling you how she had passed during his first few months in Columbia; it had been sudden and he hadn’t even known she was sick until it was too late.  He hadn’t been able to get back in time to say goodbye…You noticed him swallow hard as he saw the articles about you spread on the desk.  

“What about…”you gesture to the clippings, the photo in your hand. “What about all of these?  Why do you have all this stuff about me stuck in here?  Why don’t you keep these at home?” He looked uncomfortable for a moment, like he was caught at something somehow.

“I, uh….I just...I had ‘em tucked away from...before we were…” He stopped himself, seeming to think carefully about what to say next.  Then he looked from the articles to you and then away again, almost shy.  “I guess...I had a little crush on you when we were partners and...I just never took ‘em out of there after...things changed.”  He took the photo from you, looking at it for a moment, then back at you; for a moment he looked like a little boy waiting to be yelled at for breaking a window with his baseball.  You smiled up at him and his face relaxed, returning the smile with a small one of his own.  He cleared his throat and straightened from the desk, returning the articles and picture back to their spot in the middle of the book and quickly depositing the book into a desk drawer.  He held his hand out to you and pulled you to your feet.  “Hungry?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said, taking a step closer to him and keeping hold of his hand for a moment when he let go.  He looked surprised by your closeness, then smiled down at you again, carefully.  You stood on your tiptoes and carefully kissed him; a chaste, quick kiss lasting only a moment or two, but you felt a current dance between your connected lips, like sparks from an incorrectly attached jumper cable.  His eyes stayed closed for several seconds after you broke the kiss and settled back onto your feet; you smiled at how in awe of the taste of you he seemed to be.  Your smile turned into a grin when he opened his eyes and met your gaze, smiling softly back at you.  “I’m starving, actually.”  

You slid your arm through your husband’s as the two of you left the office and headed for a late lunch.

****

You’re a fuckin’ moron, Peña! Javier had thought to himself instantly when he had walked back into his office and seen her sitting at his desk with the Rumi book in her hand. He’d panicked when he’d heard her say his name and seen the tears in her eyes.  He’d quickly realized the confusion and had breathed easy knowing she hadn’t been angry with him.

 Once more he felt like a creep when he realized she had found the articles and picture he had kept tucked away inside it.  He saw her everyday in clearer situations: her beautiful face on the phone, tongue between her lips, determining if a tip is legitimate; listening through headphones as she giggled trying to seduce an informant; watching beads of sweat drip down her neck and the sound of her heavy pants after she’s finished running down a narco in the dusty streets.  

He’s not proud to admit that he has thrown his imagination to any one of these memories on the occasion when he would not seek out a woman to distract him and he had instead unbuttoned his jeans and pumped himself to the thought of his partner. That seemed to have been happening more and more in recent months, but he hadn’t ever used those photos for THAT.

He kept these for the even more frequent occasion when he would close his office door, stare at her face and reread one of those poems for the millionth time, feeling when he did a balloon expand inside his chest with yearning for her...aching to hold her close to him and whisper those lines in her ear; truths about how he felt about her.  

Now, he refused to acknowledge how much it made his heart sing as they walked through the outdoor market a few minute’s walk from their apartment.  They had returned home and had lunch, no new memories having made an appearance with exposure to their place of work.  She had been frustrated by and he had suggested they go for a walk, get out of the apartment some more...it was a beautiful day after all.

Now, they wandered past the tables and stalls of brightly colored pineapples, papayas, bananas, peppers and avocados, stopping occasionally to buy something for dinner or pausing for her to admire a woven bag.  She spoke Spanish to the merchants easily, a good sign, he thought, that her long term memories were strong.  

He discreetly admired his partner’s profile as she stopped to look at a bright display of flowers, enquiring about price from the kind, toothless, stooped older woman manning the stall.  She paid the lovely worker and put her nose to the large white bouquet of petals and Javi felt his heart nearly stop.  

She was so beautiful.

...It took him a moment to realize something was wrong, but when he noticed her stiffen and her brow furrow, he was next to her in an instant, his hand on her elbow, quietly saying her name.  She looked at him...but didn’t see him for a few moments, her gaze was elsewhere, seeing something else.  He knew she was remembering something.

“I remember…”she started, blinking her eyes and looking back down at the flowers in her hands. “Plumeria…” she said quietly.  “I remember we were next to...a swimming pool?  You and I?  It was nighttime.”  

Javi knew exactly what she had remembered.  He gulped, saying nothing, not wanting to distract her from remembering. She continued following the thread of memory the scent of the flowers had unlocked.

“We were…” Her face flushed suddenly and she glanced up at him, then away again almost immediately.  “...together.  You...had me up against…” she gulped, the blush in her face turning a deeper scarlet.  Javi remembered, too.

They’d made an early exit from Ortiz’s dinner party; she had feigned a headache.  They had believed Ortiz’s lab was beneath his pool, the entrance through the pool house in the back of his home.  While everyone else had been occupied with the forth course and an unknown number of drinks, the two of them had slipped back around the premises, creeping along the sparkling pool, trying to find some clue to get them into the lab, something they could use to get a warrant.  

Javi had heard the noise from the guards making their rounds first, and he had yanked his partner by the elbow, pressing her back up against one of the plumeria trees, shoving one knee between her legs, gripping her ass with one hand and holding her head carefully with the other as he shoved his mouth against hers.  She had fallen into the ruse seamlessly, recognizing instantly what he was doing.  Her hands gripped fistfuls of his hair, one leg coming up to wrap around his waist, drawing her skirt up and giving his hips more access to the space between her legs.  

Even though it was only pretend, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from growing hard...being so close to her sex he had found himself grinding himself into her without thinking, eliciting a small moan from her mouth.  He had torn his lips away and begun devouring her neck, making her gasp into the thick, flower scented air and signaling their location to the guards.  He had snaked his hand up the front of her dress and pulled down, releasing her breast to the cool night air.  She had pulled his head down and thrust her groin along the hard outline of his cock and he had gladly taken the pert nipple into his mouth, relishing in the sensation the soft pebble made between the gentle ministrations of his teeth.  

“Perdón por interrumpir, Señor Sanchez,” The two of them had sprung apart, reacting to Javier’s pseudonym, playing up the caught couple.  Despite the act, though, Javi had looked at her as she’d straightened her dress, running a hair through her hair and he couldn’t help admire her swollen lips from his kisses and the flush on her cheeks.  He had seen something in your eyes, reflecting what he felt himself.  

That hadn’t been all fake.

“I...I don’t remember anything other than...us...against the tree.”  Her voice snapped him back out of the memory; she was staring at the flowers in her hand sadly, grasping for more of the memory.  

He didn’t particularly want her to remember what had happened next.

That night they had been found out.  They had been followed back to their “home” and both beaten, separated for a time in different rooms.  He had heard her yelling and had heard over and over the sound of crashes and fists and palms meeting flesh amidst the sounds of the same happening to him.  He had shouted, too, wanting her to know he was still there, he was still with her, they were still in it together.  Later, after the sicarios had given them both a rest, they had been reunited when they were dragged into “their” bedroom and secured to their respective places, whispering to one another, made to wait through the dark hours of the early morning...until Ortiz’s men had returned when the sun had come up.  

The rest, he didn’t want to think about.

“Well…” His voice was gruff from the thought of how close he had come to losing her that day.  “That’s something.  That was...recent...just a few weeks ago.”  She looked at him curiously, clearly able to see that he was reacting differently to the memory of them kissing passionately beneath a plumeria tree.  She said his name, a question filling the sound.  He looked at her and forced a small smile.  “That’s good.” He said quietly, reaching for her hand.  “C’mon. Let’s go home.”  

+

+

+

+

Javier laid awake in the darkness of the living room, trying not to think about that night again for the millionth time.  The blanket was scratchy on his bare chest; he kicked it off of him and lay there, listening to the sound of the pounding rain outside, the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the apartment, thunder crashing and rumbling loudly.  He hated that he would always have that memory of her, calling out, yelling in terror and panic.  

He sat up….had he dozed off?  He thought he had heard her screaming his name again, just like she had from the other room that fateful night.

Then he heard it again.

“JAVI!!”

He was down the hall and next to her on the bed faster than he could take a breath.  She was curled in a ball, the covers soaked from sweat and kicked off of her, shaking furiously.  In the light from a flash of lightning, he saw that her eyes were closed tightly, her face contorted into a terrified mask.  She was having a nightmare... 

...and was calling out for him.

He carefully placed his hands on her shoulders, gently nudging her, not wanting to frighten her more upon waking, but wanting desperately to rescue her from the terror of her dream.  She screamed as she bolted upright, nearly knocking her head into his.  He gripped her shoulders firmly as her arms flailed out around her, fighting against him.

“Heyheyhey...easy, it’s me….its just me.  It’s Javi.”  She recognized him after a moment, and he continued to murmur that he was there, that she was ok, that he had her, that it had just been a bad dream; she flung herself into his arms.  He held her against him, soothing her, whispering to her like she was a child, feeling her body shake.  He felt warm, wet drops on his chest and knew she was crying.  He gripped his arms around her more tightly, trying with all of his might to will her peace, a feeling of being safe.  

They stayed that way for a long time, him stroking her hair, murmuring into her ear, rocking her gently against him.  Finally, he felt her take a shaky breath and she whispered against his chest:

“It felt so real.  I was tied to a bed and...there was a man...he was trying to…” her voice choked into a sob once more and he felt the tears start to wet his chest again.

“Shhhhh….shhhhhh.  It’s ok.” His voice was hoarse from sleep, cigarettes, fear...memories.  “You’re safe now.  I’ve got you.” He buries his face in her hair and breathes her name. “I won’t let anything happen to you.  I’ve got you.”

More time passes.  Her breathing settles and her tears dry, but he continues to hold her.  He feels the tension in her body release itself, little by little and she takes a deep, shaky breath before pulling back to look at him.  The room is still dark and the rain still pours down outside, but the thunder has passed, is getting softer. 

“It was just a nightmare.” She whispers, almost to herself.

He can’t bring himself to correct her; that it was a memory.  Not tonight, he thinks.

She’s staring into his chest, appearing to think about something carefully.  He moves to unwrap himself from her, to settle her back into bed, but she grips his forearms firmly, stopping him from pulling away.

“Stay.”  She breathes and he almost doesn’t hear it.  He thinks for a moment, telling himself he shouldn’t.  It’s not a good idea.  But then she lifts her eyes to meet his and in the near darkness he sees them sparkle and she whispers: “Please.  Stay with me.”

He doesn’t say anything.  He just carefully bores her backwards until she’s lying on her back, her head on her pillow. He hovers above her, gazing down at her like a lover...like a husband might do before kissing his wife and bringing her to ecstasy…

...He shifts himself to lie next to her, behind her and he pulls her back against his chest, feeling her legs move to tangle with his.   He reaches down to straighten the sheets and pulls them over top of both of them, then wraps his arms around her.  He listens to her breathing get heavier and slow and he’s sure she must be asleep.  Just as he thinks about closing his own eyes, she turns and rolls to face him, wrapping her own arms around him, too and burying her face in his neck.  He’s sure she can feel his pulse pounding frantically, but she simply sighs softly, her breath skimming across his skin.  Her breathing slows and deepens once again.  She’s asleep.

Javi sighs, remembering the taste of her lips during that sweet, innocent kiss in his office earlier that day. Closing his own eyes, he buries his face in her hair, drifting off to sleep with the weight of her in his arms.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 8,  Chapter 9, Chapter 10,  Chapter 11,  Chapter 12,  Chapter 13

[capricious-and-melodramatic]

Brandy

trigger warning: drinking

“Alcohol is the solution to all our problems!” Sera was loudly, waving her drink around high in the air, cheering to Dorian.  “Use alcohol to help a wound, drink alcohol to help a wound. A win/win situation!” Dorian took about long drink of his ale to Sera’s cheers. Emptying the large mug to slam in on the table.

“Who-- who hurt you? I’ll shove so many arrows up their arse th -hic- they won't know what hit them!” Sera rose to Dorian defense, only to sway so much to brought Dorian a belly-laugh. Sera jumped on the table drawing a knife.  

“No one’s hurt me! You have to make sure you don’t get close enough to get hurt.” He informed her. He looked their Ale’s. “Well I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling something a little different.”  

Dorian got himself up from the chair.  

“What, this piss aint good enough? I’m not drinking that shite you call wine. It tastes like vinegar-piss. Not to- not to mention it makes my mouth taste like ass” She climbed down from the table. “Are we stopping? I'm not done yet.”

“The night still young, let’s go get some of the good stuff.” He smiled deviously at Sera. Dorian however didn’t know where the good stuff was kept.  3 weeks they’d been at Skyhold. He only knew of Josie’s locked cellar with all the older wines, there was whatever Bull drank (They were drunk, but not that drunk.) and that was about all he could think of. He didn’t get any of his Tenvinter Liquors to which he was adamant that after the 2 drinking sessions, Sera would drink until she was dead.  

“I bet one of Inky’s got the good shit.” Sera made her to the large stairs of the great hall. She knew what she wanted.  

“Wait! What Are you doing?!” Dorian hissed as quietly as he could (which was evidently, rather loud all things considering) grabbing her arm.  

“Getting the good shit.” She whispered back.

Dorian straightening himself up as some people walked past. He would still be poised and proper, even if he was starting to sway. “What do you--”

Sera grabbed him by the arm and pulled him down. “You don’t think they don’t get some good shit being newly inquis-ed!”  

Dorian stopped for a moment, how he would love to get ‘inquis-ed’ by one very large Vashoth.

Sera’s snickering was brought him out of his lovely day dream. He would have to stash that away for later. “Come on.” She giggled and dragged him onwards.  

The Great Hall was busy enough for people not to notice them slip in. However they wouldn’t be able to slip the gaze of one dwarf who sat near the fire, writing notes. Varric heard a distinct quiet giggle from over the other side of the Hall. He shook his head, “What is that girl up to now?”

No one seemed to notice him and Sera sneaking past everyone, while Sera had suddenly disappeared as most rouges do, he was making his way past the few people. All those year at court were paying off, hopefully he didn’t look as buzzed as he felt.  

Sera popped up once again, almost scaring the shit out Dorian. She told him the door was opened and he was going in. Since one person was easier to sneak in, she was be invisible. It was sound enough for two drunk people fighting being sober.   It seemed to go off without a hitch, they were in. No one was clamming to stop them no orders barked at them, no excuse as to why Dorian was about to go to the inquisitor private quarters.

He was going into the inquisitors Private Quarters. Something didn’t seem right.

“Sera, I don’t--”

“You’re not chickening out on me now Vint?” Sera whispered loudly back.

“I-- I’m no chicken!” Dorian snapped back.

She began to cluck as she ran up the stairs. Dorian followed suit, something urging him to stop her?

They ran up the stars, enough turning corners to make Dorian a little dizzier than he liked. Then to the open space of the Inquisitor's room. One large window slightly open, a fresh breeze coming through. Papers on the table. Sera made her way to the table.  

“Don’t touch anything!”

“How else am I gonna get the good shit?” She opened draws and looked around.   Dorian noticed a glass door cabinet that was unlocked, holding lovely labeled, colored bottles. “I think I found it?” Dorian looked through the glass doors. Sera poked up behind him.  

‘Yeah, yeah, that’s it.” As she opened the door, she suddenly stopped. “What's that?”

Dorian froze. Sera’s eye’s narrowed. She went back to the cabinet gentle opening the doors.  

“You know you could have just asked.” Said a voice from behind Dorian’s shoulder.  

Dorian and Sera jumped out of their skins. Sera bracing herself against the cabinet. The inquisitor let out a warm, hearty laugh.  

“You’re not gonna, you know, kick us out? Because it was Dorian’s idea.” Dorian snapped his head back to Sera.  

“I merely said we should get the good stuff, you were the one who suggested we sneak into the Inquisitor bedroom--”

“How drunk are you too?”  

“Sadly, I've almost sobered up.” Dorian muttered. “I can’t say my friend here is the same.”  

Arn reached pasted Dorian, he’s large, muscled arm reaching for something behind him. Dorian couldn’t stop staring. He pulled out the bottle. “Next time just ask me.”

He poured 3 glasses of bandy. Sera gulped her glass in one shot, making a face like a cat tasting a lemon for the first time. Half looking like she was about to dry reach and fall in love with it.  

“Do you always sneak around in your own quarters?” Dorian asked, taking the glass from Arn’s desk.  

“You two are not very quiet.” Arn laughed

Dorian took a sip of the Brandy. Sweetened with caramel and earthy tones, it was a first.  

“Next time at least wait until I finish reports and then start drinking.” He laughed

Sera took the bottle. “Well finish you’re report and come down with us and start drinking.” Sera trotted down the stars, bottle in hand and a spring in her step.  

Arn looked to Dorian. “You don’t mind me playing catch up?”

“Absolutely not.” Dorian smiled.

[feistypaants-archived]

Between The Pipes [Chapter 8]

Rating: M Words: 2236 Pairing: Kristanna Summary: When a new owner takes over the Arendelle Ice Breakers, Kristoff isn’t sure about his future with the team. That is, until a PR nightmare throws the newest member of the media team, who also just so happens to be the daughter of the new owner, right into his arms. Kristoff and Anna can’t even stand the interviews they have to do together… how on earth are they going to fix this mess? Hockey!AU.

[Chapter Index]

Where To Read: [AO3]

Notes: hehe this was fun. I don’t know if this is something that actually happens or not, but in my world it does! They have to do those studio headshots and stuff somewhere right? 

Anyway, the NHL does these silly things called Puck Personalities and it’s def the inspiration for the last part of this. Here’s a playlist of them if you’re bored and want to watch hockey boys be awkward bc none of them like to be on camera. 

Enjoy!

Gerda wanted her to get some practice today. Some dumb, fluffy media that would just go on the internet when they ran out of things to report on, or if they felt that they needed something to smooth over any rough patches PR-wise. It was just going to be silly questions that were meant to play with the guys, get them comfortable with her, and to give fans something fun to watch that would bring the players down to a more relatable 

So Anna did herself up as nicely as she could. 

Her makeup was natural enough that she didn’t look ridiculous, but emphasized enough for all of her hard work to show up on the camera, she curled her hair and put the front up in a soft braid that circled the back of her head, and she slipped on a still professional but definitely tight black sweater dress, and a soft emerald green sweater, with knee-high black boots over sheer tights. But in her worry that it wouldn’t be what they wanted, she threw a couple more options into the back of her car before heading over to the local studio space that they had rented for the day. 

When she arrived, there were more cars than she was willing to count lines up around the lot, including Kristoff’s truck. Swallowing the lump that was forming in her throat, Anna got out of her car, elected to leave the other clothing so she didn’t look like a crazy person, and walked with purpose towards the studio doors. 

She was immediately greeted by Gerda, who smiled at her warmly. “I see you’ve taken care of hair and makeup, perfect,” she started, leading Anna by the elbow towards the small green room. “There are snacks and drinks back here while you wait. They’re just finishing up the shots for the players in jerseys, and we’ll be able to proceed with your segment soon. 

It was a whirlwind and Anna was grateful she processed anything that was said to her before Gerda ran off to find the next issue she needed to handle. 

There were a couple unfamiliar faces, but Anna’s eyes locked on to the one other female in the room, and let out a sigh of relief when she approached. “You must be Anna,” she smiled, her voice gentle. “Honeymaren, but you can just call me Honey.” Anna’s nose scrunched unwillingly, laughter in expression evident, and Honey smiled in response. “My parents are hippies, what can I say?”

Anna shook her hand before letting out another laugh. “I like it, it’s sweet.”

“... Like Honey?” 

They shared a laugh and Anna felt suddenly more at ease. It was nice to meet someone around her age and her gender in such a male-dominated area. She quickly learned that Honey was the same age as her sister, was in PR, and had been doing this for six years now. “So,” Anna started, clasping her hands together in front of her hips. “Is it always this crazy?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Honey laughed, gesturing to the door. “If you want, we can go watch the videographer for a minute? It’s usually less crowded in the studio room.”

Anna nodded enthusiastically and they were soon on their way, making the usual small talk. They passed a few players who gave them winks and playful gestures, but none seemed too eager to stop and talk with them. Honey told her it was only because they had to go get into their suits for the talking head portion of filming and not because they didn’t want to talk to her, and Anna did her best to brush it off.

“These boys are going to be talking to me plenty over the season, I don’t blame them for not wanting to talk to me right now.”

With a chuckle, Honey pushed open the heavy studio door and nodded, leading Anna in. “I think they’ve just got the goalies left, and then it’ll be your turn!”

Anna realized exactly what that meant and felt her cheeks warm as she glanced up just in time to see Kristoff pulling off his mask to listen to the director, his blonde hair fluffy and falling around his ears in a gentle curl at the end. His face was serious until some comment she couldn’t hear made him laugh, and Anna could feel the warmth in her cheeks spread all the way to her toes. 

So he does smile. And of course it was a really pretty smile, too. 

What good were his looks if they were given to a man with his personality? 

She watched with interest as a photographer slid in to take some headshots, mask on and off, posing as if he were playing, and some just standing. 

“For stat boards,” Honey had chimed in with a grin. 

And then it was the videographers turn, and he made him do some traditional goalie stops. A dive, a slide, all these things that, too Anna, seemed like they would be impossible to do with all that gear and padding. But Kristoff made it look easy. 

They finished up quickly - Kristoff had been doing this for a few years now, and he moved to let their backup goalie do the same. He took his mask off again, shaking his hair loose, and Anna couldn’t say she wasn’t completely struck with his strong jaw and bright grin as he walked towards the exit. The one she was standing right in front of.

“Honeymaren,” he grinned, holding up his fist for a bump from the PR specialist. “Nice to see you as always.” Then his eyes drifted to meet hers, and Anna could swear she saw his pupils expand. “Anna…” 

She swallowed, expecting the worse.

“Don’t be nervous,” he winked, and Anna felt heat pooling in her stomach. “Just have fun with it.”

And then he pushed through them, his gear making him almost double his normal size, which was already more than double her size, and Anna felt herself gawking at him as he left. “That,” she sighed, disbelief in her eyes. “Is the nicest he’s ever been to me.”

Honey let out a loud laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. “Oh, Bjorgman. His bark is worse than his bite, I’ll tell you what.”

Anna wasn’t sure if she believed it, but it was a pleasant surprise nonetheless. 

—

“Thanks for watching IBTV.”

The director made one sharp clap and the lights changed, and Anna let out the biggest breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding. A makeup artist trotted up to her, powdering her forehead and Anna felt distinctly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the whole team. 

“Great, that was excellent, Anna.” He swirled his pointer finger around the room signaling for a reset, and Anna felt herself flush. “One more, okay?” 

She nodded, stepping back to her mark and took in a deep breath as she stood straighter. Risking a glance to the side where she new Gerda and Honey were watching, Anna squinted through the lights when she swore she saw two much bigger bodies beside the women. 

Oh, god damn it. 

Kristoff and Sven were standing there, suited up and hair tamed, watching with grins on their faces. Kristoff just kept his arms crossed tightly over his broad chest as Sven gave her a double thumbs up, and Anna smiled back before switching her attention back to the camera. 

“Hey guys, Anna Arne with IBTV, and today we’re doing something fun.” The director had asked her to be more animated, so she did her best to move naturally. Arms swung wide, fingers spread out for emphasis as she danced through her spiel. “Have you ever wondered who your favorite player idolized when they were a kid? How about their favorite Disney film? Whether or not they like olives?” 

She heard a small chuckle come from the crew and took it as solid encouragement. 

“Well,” she winked, leaning forward as if she were sharing a secret. “Tune in here to find out all of that and more, on Breaking the Ice, your Arendelle Ice Breakers’ weekly interviews.”

The director cut in to send her to her other mark, asking for her to do the outro again, clapping enthusiastically when she nailed it. “Fantastic job, that’s the one!”

Anna couldn’t help herself as she almost literally jumped for joy, pumping her fist as subtly as she could before stepping off the small platform and skipping over to Gerda and Honeymaren, both smiling just as wide as she was.

“You’re a natural,” Honey grinned, patting her arm. “It’s like you belong in front of a camera.” 

Gerda simply nodded in agreement, clear pride evident on her features. “I can’t wait to get you on the ice with the boys.”

Anna had only a moment to relish in the praise before she felt Sven’s heavy arm drape around her shoulders, stealing all of her attention. “All right, Anna! You rocked that.” She flushed as he grinned, turning her around to face Kristoff. “Now, ready to have some real fun?”

And with that, Sven was dragging her down the hall to the bigger studio space, the one with a solid white backdrop that they had been doing the player portraits in. Kristoff was following closely behind, a silent but looming presence. In the regular light of the hallway, Anna was finally able to fully take in how they looked, and grinned. “You guys look so nice!”

Sven’s curls were tamed and defined, slick as they fell over his dark skin, complemented nicely by his maroon suit and brown tie. She wasn’t surprised that he was the type to wear something more out there and daring, but it still filled her with glee to see something so bold. 

Kristoff, alternatively, was wearing a more classic suit, dark grey with a powder blue tie that made his eyes warmer, honey brown and sweet as he laughed at Sven’s antics. Anna only just noticed that his hair was gelled back, stiff and sleek. 

It looked nice, but she weirdly found herself missing the shagginess of it as it brushed over his brows. 

Her cheeks reddened as Kristoff glanced down, catching her staring, and turned her attention back forward.

—

The interviews went well. All the players responded well to her, laughing at some of the more ludicrous questions that included props, and Anna found herself relaxing with each set.

Sven was midway through the lineup, and was as cocky as ever. “Lay it on me, sister,” he laughed as they started, Anna poking at his shoulder. “I’m up for the challenge.”

The questions started easy, just some dumb this or thats, would you rathers, hockey tips, and favorites. Then there was trivia about things not-hockey related such as Disney princesses and 90s television stars. Finally, there were challenges. Can you juggle? Can you beat your teammate in arm wrestling? Can you do a handstand? 

Players were allowed to skip any question they wanted as this was all for fun, but leave it to Sven to take on each and every one.

Anna was belly laughing by the end of it, as he laid on the floor after trying and failing to do a cartwheel. “You should see Kristoff,” he laughed. “He does these in the locker room all the time.”

“That so?”

Anna trotted off the set, knowing it was unconventional, and grabbed the goalie by the arm, dragging him in front of the camera. “Come on, show us.” 

He held his hands up in front of his chest in protest, a blush evident on his cheeks. “Oh, no, no, that’s fine.” 

Sven stood up suddenly, squatting to be the same height as Anna, as they started chanting “Cartwheel, cartwheel, CARTWHEEL!”

“It’s just for warm-up!” He persisted, ears turning red. Sven continued on, even as she let up a little. Anna watched his entire body tense before he let out one heavy sigh and gave in. “Fine, you assholes.”

They’d bleep that out in post, she was sure.

“But if I break anything, you’re paying for it.” And then he was shrugging out of his jacket, and Anna was thoroughly enjoying the stretch of the thin white dress shirt over his muscles, the whole studio was clapping, egging him on. 

And then he did a fucking cartwheel, his whole face red by the end of it. 

She couldn’t hide the surprise. “Wow!” She just about shouted, closing the distance between them. “Where did you learn to do that?”

Kristoff was still blushing, his eyes avoiding hers. “Ugh, I have two sisters,” he laughed, leaning forward to pick up his jacket. “Every day was gymnastics growing up, so… I don’t know, I just picked it up, I guess.” He shrugged it on and Anna tried not to be disappointed about it. “It feels like it gets my blood pumping, so I try to do them to wake up before every game. Maybe it’s all in my head.”

Anna laughed, taking in the genuine smile that had spread on his cheeks. 

“That’s… impressive.”

He tried to run a hand through his hair and frowned as he messed it up, glancing up to the camera. “Yeah, well, now I’m not answering anything else.” 

Anna knew it was a tease when he leaned over to punch the top of Sven’s arm, grinning widely.

[dustedmagazine]

Dust Volume 6, Number 6

Whatever happens, Bobby Conn will always be fabulous

Greetings from the never-ending sameness! It must be Friday since we’re doing a Dust, but we are not exactly sure which Friday and, indeed, which day of the week comes after that. We have not had a haircut in a while, and we’re wearing the most comfortable, least fashionable things we own, but we have not quite given up, because, you see, we’re still listening to music. Here are short missives from our respective quarantines, covering experimental psych, fey orchestral pop, slow rolling sine waves, disco-glittering satire, solitary black metal and assorted other musical manifestations. Contributors included Bill Meyer, Andrew Forell, Jennifer Kelly, Jonathan Shaw and Michael Rosenstein.

Eric Arn & Jasmine Pender — Hydromancy (Feeding Tube)

hydromancy by eric arn & jasmine pender

Hydromancy is the ancient practice of divining the gods’ intentions by staring for long periods into a pool of water. Eric Arn, an American guitarist who has been based in Austria for the last decade and a half, seems to have picked up at least one message from the cosmos, and he is acting upon it. Feeding Tube Records is his home. Hydromancy is his third release on the label, and like its two predecessors, it carves out a unique zone within a large and ever-spreading field of inquiry. Arn’s spent time playing psychedelic rock, free improvisation and solo acoustic explorations, and worked with players from Texas, New England and Vienna. This time he’s partnered with an English cellist, Jasmine Pender, on two side-long ponderances of resonance. The title is apt; the musicians seem to be regarding the surface of their sound, first letting ripples and reflections guide them, but ultimately peering beneath the surface into darker, persistent currents.

Bill Meyer

ARTHUR — Hair of the Dog (Honeymoon)

On his sophomore album, Philadelphia songwriter ARTHUR disguises ruminations on addiction, anxiety, pain and paranoia in summery cloaks of experimental pop. The combination of whimsy and woe is nothing new, but it’s a fine balance. In Hair of the Dog, complex arrangements surround naïve-sounding melodies, hinting at inner turmoil.  

The album incorporates whispers of disco in “No Tengo,” a low key Caleb Giles rap interlude on “Something Sweet,” swinging 1960s horns on “William Penn Island” and a choir of children on “You Are Mine.” The magpie eclecticism holds together beneath a voice that can err on the side of mannered. It is most effective when direct and unadorned as on “Simple Song” where a woozy waltz and detuned guitar bridge underline the poignancy of the lyrics: “In a couple of years/You lose a couple of friends/You lose yourself and you start over again/I don’t have patience/All that I know is addiction.” There is a lot to like here even if at times ARTHUR treads too hard on the path of whimsy.

Andrew Forell

Gaudenz Badrutt — Ganglions (Aussenraum)

Ganglions by Gaudenz Badrutt

“Connect” is the not the first words that 2020 is going to wear out, but it’s in the running. Veteran Swiss electronic musician Gudenz Badrutt could not have foreseen the present situation when he was making this LP, but it speaks to at least one aspect of it. Perhaps the barrages of commercials dropping the word “connect” by corporations interested in currying your subconscious good will has you pondering the networks by which that state is accomplished and sustained. Badrutt’s music is assembled from sine waves and feedback systems, which he layers and interrupts to make sound that flickers and surges like an audio rendering of your nervous system in various states of load-carrying and overload. Listen closely, and you can ponder your place within the system. But if you’re sick of thinking, feeling, and awareness, turn this shit up and it will blot out whatever offends you.

Bill Meyer

  Nat Baldwin — Autonomia I: Body Without Organs (Shinkoyo)

AUTONOMIA I: Body Without Organs by Nat Baldwin

Nat Baldwin is a published novelist as well as a singer and double bassist with several solo records and a long-time stint is a member of the Dirty Projectors on his cv. His versatility does not come at the expense of focus; indeed, Autonomia I (so named because there’s a second, cassette-only volume) show that he knows how to get a lot out of a particular idea. This LP was inspired by a broken bow, which he employs (sometimes in concert with an intact one) on five of the LP’s seven tracks. When one of your tools is unreliable, you have to be ready to scramble, and there are moments when it sounds like he’s trying to recover from or get ahead of his implement’s waywardness. But those also sound like moments of opportunity; whether he’s exploring rattle of a loose part against his bass’s body or using that bow to obtain non-prescribed tensions from his strings, he organizes his instrument’s unusual sounds into quick-moving, provocatively shaped constellations of sound.

Bill Meyer

Bonifrate—Mundo Encoberto (Self-released)

Mundo Encoberto by Bonifrate

Pedro Bonifrate is one-half of the Brazilian psych outfit Guaxe, this solo album (according to Google translate “overcast world”) springs from the same trippy, laid-back but multi-instrumented roots. Lush like the rainforest that surrounds him, playful and full of bright colors, this eight-part composition unfolds in the manner of a particularly vivid dream. “Parte 1” mutates freely over its 11 minute duration, stirring to life in a rush of strings, slipping into beach-y mildly hallucinogenic balladry, trying on a bit of Syd Barret-ish whimsy, crescendoing in clangorous guitar overload. Hard to say if Bonifrate played all the instruments, but the album has an idiosyncratic euphoria, as if it were lifted in one piece from the vivid contours of one person’s mushroom trip.

Jennifer Kelly

 Bobby Conn — Recovery (Tapete)

“It’s a disaster, the one we’ve been waiting for for years, and now we get to see how this thing ends,” croons the one-and-only Bobby Conn in his glam-shuddering, disco-sleek tenor, and sure, 2020 in a nutshell, got it in one, congrats! Who’d have thought that Conn’s arch, satiric performance art could be a form of comfort here at the end of the world? Who’s have supposed his stylized excesses would seem not an iota too much? Conn, as ever, is sharp and topical, pondering all the oppressed sub-groups left out of the “Good Old Days,” (against a swaggering Phil Spector beat), mourning the xxx-rated theaters put out of business by Pornhub in “Bijou,” skewering big data’s intrusions in the synth-operatic glories of “Disposable Future.” But what’s always separated Conn from mere satirists is the elaborate, over-the-top quality of the music he makes. “Recovery” with its scatted bassline, its frenetic syncopation, its funk precision—it all works as music way before you start to chuckle at the lyrics. Conn is as much a character in the long-running graphic novel that plays in his head as a bandleader, but don’t underestimate the bandleader. There’s art underneath all that eyeliner.

Jennifer Kelly

Curanderos — Raven’s Head (Null Zøne)

Raven's Head by Curanderos

If you’re looking for something to cure what ails you in these uncertain times, Raven’s Head might be your balm. You won’t need a prescription, since the tradition of shamanistic healing precedes the AMA, and the particular configuration of healers here — John and Michael Gibbons of Bardo Pond + Scott Verrastro of Kohoutek — models a cooperative approach that more conventional leadership would do well to emulate. The combination of personalities also tips you off to what to expect. Verrastro is a colorist, using the metal parts of his drum kit to keep the listener aware of the dimensions surrounding the listening space, but he also provides just enough forward momentum to keep the music moving at a fogbank-rolling pace. The Gibbons match liquid lead and coarse riff with practiced ease; they’ve spent a lot of time in such cloudy spaces, and they breathe deeply of the inspirational atmosphere.

Bill Meyer

Discovery Zone — Remote Control (Mansions and Millions)

Remote Control by Discovery Zone

“Sophia Again” is a sci-fi mini-story, presenting the conversation between an AI creature and her creator, talking about the self, the meaning of life and the joy of connection, as bubbling arcs of synthesizer sounds jet off into the ether. It is, perhaps, the most literally futuristic of the cuts on this gleaming, synth-centric album, though the whole thing is polished to an other worldly, not quite natural glow. JJ Weihl, the artist behind Discovery Zone, also works in Fenster, a Berlin-based psychedelic pop band of a similarly polished, dance-referring (but not dance) aesthetic. Here, she works solo in luminous abstractions of crystal clear sound. The pleasure comes in the purity and beauty of voices, synths, drum beats, which sound like Sophia might have made them while learning to be human; they are a little too perfect to be wholly man-made.

Jennifer Kelly

 Esoctrilihum — Eternity of Shaog (I, Voidhanger)

Eternity Of Shaog by ESOCTRILIHUM

An epic of esoteric demonology from Ashtâghul’s one-man black metal project Esoctrilihum, Eternity of Shaog presents as ten songs, most of which bear titles like “Exh-Enî Söph (First Passage: Exiled from Sanity)” and “Amenthlys (5th Passage: Through the Yth-Whtu Seal).” One gets the sense that there is a cosmology being built—but even Google has a tough time tracking the references to the many, many Eastern mythic systems in the repertoire. The provisionally good news is that Eternity of Shaog is a bit less musically spastic than its predecessor, The Telluric Ashes of the Ö Vrth Immemorial Gods, an even longer record released just last year. Say what you will, Ashtâghul is prolific. On this new record, you get his signature combination of black metal speed and snarl and an ambitiously (that’s the kind word) proggy compositional sense. The transitions this time around are less violent, the riffs are pretty good and plentiful synths build out to lush soundscapes. The musical textures are rich, but the bad vibes dominate. It’s hard to say what malign presences you’ll be summoning into your home if you play this stuff as loud as seems intended. Maybe keep some holy water handy.

Jonathan Shaw

Fire-Toolz — Rainbow Bridge (Hausu Mountain)

Rainbow Bridge by Fire-Toolz

As Fire-Toolz composer, producer and multi-instrumentalist, Angel Marcloid conjures mosaics from such disparate elements that one wonders how the music hangs together. Yet what at first seems like a chaotic, fractured farrago coalesces into a cohesive picture of her world that simultaneously bewilders and awes. Catholic in source and meticulous in construction Rainbow Bridge is an uncompromising and often stunning dash through Marcloid’s mind. Treated vocals that evoke death metal or JG Thirwell at his most outré, passages of twinkling synth and arena guitar, elements of 1980s Japanese ambient music, fusion jazz and Chiptune slot together like Jenga blocks that wobble but never quite collapse.

Marcloid’s project of musical excavation, reclamation and transformation perhaps mirrors her experience as a non-binary transgender person and the atomization of many tracks on Rainbow Bridge read as a meditation on the contingency of identity and the struggle for place within/outside social constructs that define acceptability and “taste”. On the other hand, sit back, push play and prepare to drift along with the ambient flow then be jolted from reverie by glitch and noise. Much like the world really.

Andrew Forell       

 Jacaszek — Music for Film (Ghostly)

Music for Film by Jacaszek

Music for Film collects the Polish composer Jacaszek’s scores for three movies — the 2019 documentary He Dreams of Giants, the 2008 project Golgota wrocławska and the 2017 film November. Haunted, evocative, disquieting and gorgeous, these ten soundscapes infuse the sounds of electronics, strings and samples with dread. “The Iron Bridge” turns sampled voices and slow throbs of cello into dance with death and memory, while “Liina” picks up eerie vibrations just out of focus, like a camera accidentally recording a ghost. “Dance” hurls electric bolts of tremulous sound—they sizzle with aftertones—then picks out a morose melody in plucked strings. All is dark, subdued, ominous but velvety, sensually smooth. Not having seen the films, I can’t guess the subject matter, but let’s assume there’s no laugh track.

Jennifer Kelly  

 Kontrabassduo Studer-Frey — Zeit (Leo)

Double bassists Peter K Frey and Daniel Studer has spent the better part of the 21st century performing as a duo, but they don’t seem to have felt pressured to rush out a recording documenting their music. This CD includes selections from 2004, 2007, and 2018 that were made at home, in concert, and in the studio. But despite the variety of sources and occasions, this album feels quite cohesive, which is a testament to integrity of their partnership. They rarely play similarly at any given moment, but their contrasting techniques and frequency ranges evince a balance makes even the tracks with contributions by clarinetist Jürg Frey and cellist Alfred Zimmerlin feel like the work of one massive, multi-bodied bass.

Bill Meyer

 Marlin’s Dreaming — Quotidian (Self-Released)

Quotidian by Marlin's Dreaming

The trick of putting soft, flickery voices in front of raging guitars is not a new one, but it’s still worth trying, especially as well as Marlin’s Dreaming does on “Outward Crying.” This sweeping, soaring, but fundamentally introspective tune blasts and blares in a sensitive way, the guitar noise parting like drapes for the singer’s disconsolate confession that he’s leaving this town. The town in question is Auckland, New Zealand, and you can certainly make connections to antipodal fuzz icons, especially the Verlaines. Yet there’s a bit of romantic swoon here in cuts like “Sink or Swim,” which links Marlin’s Dreaming’s diffident lo-fi pop with the baroque gestures of Roxy Music. This is the band’s second album and rather poised given their short history. Marlin’s Dreaming out loud in soft colors and blistering fuzz, and it’s a good one.

Jennifer Kelly

 Christian Rønn & Aram Shelton—Multiring (Astral Spirits)

Multiring by Christian Rønn & Aram Shelton

Some musicians stake their claim within a particular locale, and others tour the world. Alto saxophonist Aram Shelton’s done a bit of both. You could say he’s a serial resident; over the past couple decades he’s been based in Chicago, Oakland, Copenhagen, and now, Budapest. But his recording history lags behind him. His latest release is a cassette recorded in April 2018, and it stands apart from anything he’s done to date. Credit for that lies partly with his choice of partner, Danish keyboardist Christian Rønn. Rønn’s instrument here is a Wurlitzer electric piano, augmented with effects that play up its reverberant qualities, but played without much reference to the way people used to play the thing when it was omnipresent in the 1960s and 1970s. Instead of nailing down a groove, Rønn posts reverberant signposts that Shelton can snake through or lays out undulating surfaces that the saxophonist can sail over. Either way, Shelton plays with a darker and softer tone than has been his wont in the past, casting a pall of eerie foreboding over this gradually evolving music.

Bill Meyer

Snekkestad / Guy / Fernandez — The Swiftest Traveller (Trost)

The Swiftest Traveler by Snekkestad / Guy / Fernandez

Englishman double bassist Barry Guy (b. 1947) has been shuttling between free and composed musical zones for over half a century, longer than the similarly versatile Scandinavian reeds and brass multi-threat Torben Snekkestad (b. 1973) has been alive. Catalan pianist Agusti Fernández (b. 1954) traverses similar terrain. And all three shift fluidly between conventional virtuosity and astutely applied extended techniques. The trio’s rapport is so strong that one supposes that however the album got its title, it wasn’t the result of some musical contest. They’re builders, not destroyers. Still, the rapidity with which these three musicians move from event to event is undeniable. Sparse stasis morphs into quick runs up and down the keyboard; a dense, high-velocity onslaught transforms into intricate, three-part counterpoint. The quickness with which the music changes and the completeness that it expresses from moment to moment make this a very satisfying performance.

Bill Meyer  

 Various Artists — Quilted Flowers: 1940s Albanian & Epirot Recordings from the Balkan Label (Canary Recordings)

Quilted Flowers: 1940s Albanian & Epirot Recordings from the Balkan Label by Canary Records

The word “Balkanized” has the dubious distinction of having acquired extra-regional meaning, to the point where it now signifies a whole divided into smaller, mutually hostile regions. But some of the Balkan musicians who moved to New York City pulled together to play on each other’s gigs and recordings. The Albanian multi-instrumentalist, Ajdan Asllan, who ran the Balkan record label, partnered with musicians from Greece and Bulgaria on both a musical and business level, and kept the company running into the LP age. This collection pulls 11 sides of instrumental and vocal music that originated on his home turf, but if your ears have previously pricked up in response to rural music from Greece or Anatolia, you will want to hear this stuff. A pair of clarinets or a violin usually carry the melodies, sometimes chased by sharp-pitched vocals that spread out in ragged but lusty unison, and always carried by unevenly accented rhythms articulated by vigorously strummed stringed instruments.

Bill Meyer

 Otomo Yoshihide & Chris Pitsiokos — Live in Florence (Astral Spirits)

Live in Florence by Otomo Yoshihide & Chris Pitsiokos

Live in Florence documents a meeting between Otomo Yoshihide on guitar and turntables and Chris Pitsiokos on alto sax and electronics at the Tempo Reale Festival in Florence, Italy. This was the final date of a six-day European tour by the duo, and they’re primed from the first crackled sputters and blasts. The two thrive on these sorts of boundary-crushing forays and their seven short improvisations careen along with frenetic, brawny energy. The two deploy jump-cut pacing and shredded attacks from piercing overtones and feedback to frayed overblown sax and turntable crackle to manically angular reed lines and searing electronic bursts to chafed sax amplifications and thundering rumbles. Even on pieces where they start things out a bit more subdued, the two quickly ratchet up the intensity with torrid, barely-controlled vigor. There’s a slight respite on the sixth piece, with Otomo’s chiming guitar harmonics laying a resonant field for Pitsiokos’s breathy chirps and bent tones but even here, they arc to waves of feedback and skirling reed fusillades by the end. The final piece starts with shattered electronics and spitting reeds and mounts into bellowing din, exploding to the finish of the exhilarating 37-minute set.

Michael Rosenstein

[thenixkat]

Thoughts and HCs on Horks

Hork-Bajir know how to use fire. Specifically how to set up smokeless fires safely on wooden platforms. 

- Lightning storms sometimes caused fires, which horks quickly moved to put out since they live in and eat trees. At some point someone got the idea to try and catch a fire instead of killing it. Someone discovered that cooked bark is delicious and then everyone wanted some tame fire. Also fire makes homes warm. 

-Father Deep has a cold season, folks want to be warm.

-Add to that we see horks grinding bark, presumably into powder. So, bark bread.

-Just a hork-bajir bread culture. Fit Fit bread vs Stoola bread. Fruit jams and nut spreads. Syrup, so many different kinds and flavors. Ciders. Just horks getting fucking wasted on fermented ciders or syrups at an end of year harvest festival. (also imagine hork-bajir dancing, just cutting buck wild and gettin down)

-The arn did not like their tree farmers playing with fire and tried to brutally murder some to teach a lesson. Hence the horks being good with smokeless fires. Of course the arn are lazy and horks are persistent so eventually, the arn give up on that front.

Hork-Bajir just really fail the mirror test. That hork-bajir on that shiny flat surface is clearly not them, they are them, pls stop says that thing is them it's not. Same thing for pictures. 

Like they can/have learned about written languages and how to read (Galard and Yeerkish, English much later) and teach each other about them. They just don’t get it like? The weirdo aliens just see shit in squiggles and smudges and then are rude to anyone who doesn't. 

-Music rhythms tho? They get that shit. They get that shit so deeply. They have multiple musical languages using different kinds of instruments. The singing tree is the biggest and furthest singing, but they have so many. Drums, strings, things you blow into. They make multi-layered meaningful songs. 

-human music is a trip. It says weird shit in their musical languages but some of it really slaps. They like classical and jazz and hiphop/rap best. They go ham for classical rap remixes.

Horks have very very good memory. They can recall shit almost perfectly. Their oral history stretches back to the very invention of language on their world. SOmeone wronged someone and didn’t try to make it right? The wronged person’s family will remember this for generations. SHade will be thrown for the rest of time.

Hork-Bajir tribes can have ~6000 members max before resources run thin and people start getting on eachother’s nerves. About half that is more normal. Horks generally know everyone in their tribe, maybe not well, but they know everyone’s faces and names and immediate relatives. 

Horks are farmers. They know about parasites and pests. 

-Gall-making tree parasites. Galls are delicious. But only on certain parts of certain trees, otherwise, they can hurt the tree. They do tree surgery. Medicines for trees.

-horks major in plant pathology. They may not describe it in scientific terms but like, nobody knows more about trees than them. Nobody. They know their trees, they figure out aliens trees pretty quickly. (no, horks don’t believe the andalites stories of talking trees, they think the space deer are just hearing shit with their telepathy)

-’Fungi’ is also tasty. Good source of certain vitamins and protein. Also ‘yeast’ for bread and beer. Being able to stop or control rot is important.

Plant-based tech. Like we got the singing trees. But also like carpentry. Just well-made tree houses and platforms.

-Rope! Tree fiber based rope. Edible and multiuse! Make nets under areas where babies play! Rope ladders and bridges to help elderly and disabled horks get around. Also, the use of vines to make more permanent structures.

- Plant fiber clothing for when it gets cold! Horks are endothermic, they wanna keep warm. Granted, they also have no nudity taboo so they just kinda get naked when it's hot.

Non-plant-based tech! Good rocks for starting fires! ...that’s all I got.

The Outside!

- The rest of the world outside of the valleys. We know that ‘snakes’ and ‘lizards’ live out there. Grass, liches, and moss equivalents probably also live out there. Also the water that flows into the valleys has to come from somewhere.

- Father Deep, Mother Sky, and The Outside.

- Where dreams meet reality. A place to go to have visions and do deep soul searching. A dangerous safe haven since monsters are way too big to survive out there.

-Outside dwelling hork-bajir. Smaller, stay low to the ground when not near their trees, better at handling low oxygen. Took some seeds and saplings and said fuck the valleys and Father Deep’s monsters and just fucking left. Still a decent population out there.

Horks throw out mutants like its no one’s business. 

- Seers are the most culturally significant. Plenty of stories of seers who showed new ways to the people.

- But also the remaining populations of hork-bajir are descended from time anomaly mutants who were just kinda immune to space-time diseases.

-Also mutant horks that live several times longer than other horks, maybe even immortal unless killed? Good for info on past stuff.

[terresdebrumestories]

Clark Kent, of Krypton - 1/4: Kal-El

FANDOM: DC’s cinematic universe. RATING: Mature. WORDCOUNT: 20 404 (Fic total: ~98k words) PAIRING(S): Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne (main focus is on Clark, though). CHARACTER(S): Kal-El | Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Jor-El, Lara Lor-Van, Kara Zor-El, Zor-El, Martha Kent, Alfred Pennyworth, Diana Prince, Barry Allen, Arthur Curry, Victor Stone, John Stewart, J’onn J’onn, plus a quick cameo by Lois Lane. GENRE: Alternate Universe (canon divergence), transition fic with romance. TRIGGER WARNING(S): A great deal of anxiety and self loathing, especially in parts one and two. Some descriptions are heavily inspired by my experience of dysphoria-induced dissociation. SUMMARY: Batman crashes on Krypton a few days before the Turn of the Year celebrations and Kal-El's life takes a sharp turn to the left, on a path that will ultimately lead him to becoming Clark Kent.

OTHER CHAPTERS: [II. Shadow] [III. Superman] [IV. Clark Kent] ALSO AVAILABLE: [On AO3] [On Dreamwidth]

AUTHOR’S NOTES AND THANKS: Seven months of work and nearly a hundred thousand words! How's that for a first foray in a fandom, uh? I'm actually pretty proud of myself on that one, and I hope you all will enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! But before we start, there's a number of people I need to thank:

@susiecarter​, for getting me into this pairing (seriously, go read her stories!), cheerleading me through the writing process, and then betaing the whole monster in absolute record time!

@stuvyx​ for the AMAZING comic pages which you can find here and here, and for the banners used in the official @superbatbigbang masterpost. Go shower her with praise for her work! :D

The Mod Squad @superbatbigbang, whose instructions and work were impeccable and easy to understand even for me and my silly brain

The OfficialMovieSoundtrack channel on YouTube, for compiling the complete Wonder Woman score: I listened to this more than any other music while writing CKoK.

The jewish nerds of tumblr, who’ve been (and still are) spreading the word about Superman’s origins and the character’s original meanings and principles, which in turn had a rather large influence on Clark’s personality in this fic. I hope the bits with Martha will come off as respectful as I tried to make them.

And lastly, a tiny thanks to DC and Mr. Snyder, for deciding to cast Henry Cavill and his jawline as Clark Kent but also making him just not-how-I-wanted enough (and in the right way) to spark me into telling this story.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Lord Bel-Lor exclaims in lilting Council, with a hiccup of delighted surprise. “I would have expected the whole of El to know of this by now.”

 Kal-El, strategically stationed close to one of the potted plants meant to shelter the refreshments table from the dancing area, presses his lips together while the young Zod dignitary tries very hard not to sound too eager about incoming gossip. Kal swallows around a lump in his throat, but remains silent. His aunt and uncle’s Turn of the Year ball is one of the most important events of the year, and it wouldn’t do for him to cause a fuss.

 He stands in place, fingers tightening around his drink, and darts a quick look around. Lady Ona-Set has found her customary seat a few feet to his right, advanced age and a rather poor sense of rhythm having long ago banded together to keep her from the dance floor. Further to the left, close to one of five internal balconies, Lady Ra-Ny and her spouse have gathered a small but agitated-looking group of Worker dignitaries from Lot and Zod’s delegations. They seem to be engaged in a rather heated debate, hushed as it is. But the rest of the guests have, for the most part, elected to dance or make good use of the balconies allowing them to gaze over the minuscule shapes of their lavish homes, several thousand feet below.

 There was a time when El’s elite lived closer to their rulers. A long time ago, the Citadel of El was filled with habitations floor to mountain-high ceiling: the royal family lived in the last few city-wide floors, the lords and ladies shared the following quarter of the space, and the common people divided themselves between the Citadel grounds and the Outside. Then the Lords and Ladies of the Principality rebelled against King Hyr-El, who resolved the situation with a bloodbath first, and the destruction of a solid third of the Citadel’s inner buildings second.

 Ever since then, the Stateroom of Peace has floated, alone, in the vast emptiness left by the old families’ houses; the new Citadel Lords and Ladies made new homes on the Citadel Grounds, and pushed former merchants to become Mountain Lords and Ladies in city-domes of their own. The Stateroom—which, as its name implies, is used for every Guild Council meeting and many other official occasions—also serves as a ballroom for religious occasions such as the Turn of the Year, during which all of Krypton celebrates yet another cycle of close collaboration between Rao, the Helping God, and his brother-husband Vohc, the Builder. These are, at least, the Stateroom’s official uses.

 There is, however, a third—and chiefly preferred—activity that takes place here: gossiping. Kal has been privy to much of it throughout his near-thirty years of life, and he is largely unsurprised to find his family once again at the center of attention as Citadel Lord Bel-Lor proceeds to share the latest news of the Citadel Princes and Princesses of El.

 It goes like this: two days before this very ball, a mysterious spacecraft crashed on Lady Mon-Ka’s property. The precise patch of land in question, bordering the Citadel, had been deemed unfit for cultivation and left in disuse for quite some time, rarely visited and even more rarely monitored. Perhaps that was why no one raised the alarm—or perhaps, as Lady Kam-Leang remarks, Lady Mon-Ka was simply suffering from the effects of the energy depletion afflicting all of Krypton, and could not afford to keep her sophisticated surveillance system in a functioning state. Whatever the reason, no one at the time thought to investigate the craft.

 “No one, that is, but the Shadow of El,” Lord Bel-Lor says with a storyteller’s instinct for dramatics.

 Kal drains his flute of liquor in one go while the Zod dignitary dutifully asks about the Shadow of El. Lord Bel-Lor declines to delve into much detail, aware as he is that extensive knowledge of the Shadow won’t garner him any favor at court, but there is more than enough there to earn several exclamations of surprise and one shocked ‘No!’. The Shadow of El, he explains, is a disturbance to the peace, a master criminal helping other criminals escape well-earned justice...but alas, the people of the Citadel have taken a shine to them.

 “Something to do with old legends,” Lady Lin-Na says in a disdainful tone. “You must have heard of the Dark Sun.”

 “Only in passing,” the Zodian admits. “I hear they are causing some trouble.”

 “Inconsequential,” Lady Lin-Na dismisses, several other voices humming in approval, including her husband's. “But they did find their name in one of our old legends, in which Rao must go through a magical sleep, and a darker version of him—Rao’s dream self, if you will—takes it upon themselves to help protect the world during the sun’s long absence... Because the Gods may not interfere in the affairs of mortals in person, the Dark Sun casts a Shadow of themselves on Krypton, so that it may fight the monsters trying to take over the world.”

 Several voices try to be the first to express their disapproval and disdain towards the very idea, Council and Ellon overlapping in the conversation until Lord Bel-Lor clicks his tongue to reestablish silence. Kal-El picks up another drink—his third this evening—and ignores Lady Ona-Set’s judgmental glare as he sips at it, knuckles white around the stem.

 There is no true way to tell what exactly transpired in that disused field. What is known, however, is that by the time Lady Mon-Ka was made aware of the smoking ruins on her property, the Shadow of El had scooped the spacecraft’s pilot out of the wreckage and taken them to the Citadel. They appeared on the main external balcony with an alien in their arms and the light of the sun behind them, striking Lara Lor-Van and Jor-El almost dumb with awe. And the Shadow of El commanded them to take care of the alien, for the spacecraft had reached Krypton on the day of Vohc’s comet, and its pilot might therefore be an envoy of the God.

 Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van, known throughout El for their piety, took the alien in. By the time Kal-El emerged from his labs six or seven hours after dawn, groggy and sporting wrinkle marks from his pillow all over his face, the entire household was scrambling to accommodate both this badly-injured and unexpected new responsibility of theirs, and the ire of Zor-El, Citadel King of El and rather exasperated older brother, who had no patience for his younger sibling and sister-in-law’s latest religious fancy.

 “I fail to understand,” the Zodri dignitary says in hushed tones while Kal braces himself for the inevitable turn of the conversation from this point on, “why Citadel royals would comply with a criminal’s instructions.”

 “I forget sometimes,” Lord Dar Ran-No says with a smile painfully obvious in his tone, “how little of our internal politics is understood outside of El.”

 Kal listens to the giggles that follow the word ‘politics’ and resists the urge to mime gagging into his glass. It isn’t so much Lady Ona-Set he worries about—she has little affection for Bel-Lor, or any of the Citadel Lords for that matter—but rather the foreign delegations taking part in the celebrations. What the Zodri envoy is about to discover will make its way into every available ear before the end of the night; no two ways about that. Kal can almost hear General Dru-Zod teasing Zor-El about it already. At the very least, however, he does have the power to avoid bringing even more attention to himself with an untimely departure. With a deep breath, Kal forces himself not to empty his Ulian liquor in one go, choosing instead to soothe the tense ache in his neck with a slow overview of the room.

 The dancing is slow tonight, even by court standards, and most of the guests are still busy digesting the vast array of refined dishes they spent the better part of three hours sampling over the luxurious buffet. The light, as red as El’s famed sunsets, sparkles over jewelry and shining fabric. Lady Ra-Ny, her spouse and their group have retreated to one of the internal balconies, Warrior-looking men scattered in close proximity while Zor-El stands in the middle of the group. All over the dance floor, people laugh, voices loud and smiles sharp with the delight of mostly harmless gossip.

 Behind Kal, the chuckles have faded, and as Dar Ran-No feigns reluctance to share his knowledge, Kal prays in vain for the ground to open up and swallow him.

 “Something you must know,” the Citadel Lord says in a delighted tone that makes Kal slouch even further than he usually does, “is that Their Majesties have never been the sort to resist...scientific curiosity.”

 More giggles, and Kal overhears two voices sharing the title of a certain book in hushed Ellon.

 “A very specific sort of scientific curiosity,” Lord Bel-Lor chimes in, improper meaning exactly as clear now as it always is.

 More laughter. Kal doesn’t quite screw his eyes shut, but he does look down at the ground, feeling redder than the sun. In his armpit and in his ears, blood pulses with the sharp painfulness of shame, and he forces himself to relax his grip on his flute of liquor or risk breaking it. It takes everything he has to use a polite tone to send away the servant offering him a drink, instead of begging them to leave him alone.

 “I must admit,” the Zodri dignitary says with what sounds like genuine curiosity, “I am quite incapable of guessing what you are driving at.”

 “Do you truly not know?”

 “To be fair, Lord Bel-Lor,” Lady Kam-Leang says in an indulgent tone, “the young man doesn’t look much older than the Prince himself.”

 “Prince Kal-El? What does he have to do with his parents’ scientific endeavors?”

 At least two people snort at that, loud and undignified, and Kal’s face heats up even further, stomach sinking fast and low in his belly. Dar Ran-No’s voice sounds tight when he explains, in the usual embarrassing amount of detail, what exactly Kal has to do with his parents’ scientific endeavors.

 “That is revolting!” the Zodri dignitary exclaims, in a strained hiss that sends cold shivers down Kal’s spine. “Who would even conceive of something so—so—”

 “I believe it has been called primitive.”

 Kal somehow restrains himself from muttering unflattering things into his drink, but only just. To his left, Lady Ona-Set sits with her eyes closed, head tilted toward Kal, mouth hanging slightly open; but the lady shows no sign of drooling. Old she may be, but the gene for degenerative hearing has been eliminated from the collective gene pool for almost seven centuries, and she has always had a reputation for gossiping. No need to encourage that particular trait with entertaining dramatics on his part, especially when she can’t possibly be having any trouble hearing when Dan Ran-No continues:

 “Primitive or no, it was in direct keeping with their previous endeavors...and neither of Their Majesties has ever made a secret of it. When the—what was the word they used for it? I forget.”

 “The birthing,” Kam-Leang supplies, voice curling with a sort of fascinated distaste around the archaic word. “That was what they called it.”

 “Right,” Bel-Lor acquiesces with a scoff, “the birthing. Both Prince Jor-El and Princess Lara Lor-Van had been religious before, you must understand, but after the—uh—the birthing, they became quite convinced the child was a miracle of the Gods. A gift from Rao himself.”

 “Surely they didn’t—”

 “Oh, yes, they did,” Bel-Lor all but squeaks; Lady Kam-Leang and her husband both hush him.

 Kal winces at the sound, fully aware that this particular piece of gossip has lost none of its power in the twenty-nine years since his birth. He doesn’t even need to put any particular effort into picturing the looks on the Ellon nobles’ faces: wide eyes and delighted grins, vaguely hidden behind fluttering fans and flutes of sparkling Nyen wine. They have sported it at regular intervals throughout Kal’s life, and he can only assume the Zodri envoy likewise looks very much the same as every other dignitary ever has: as enraptured as his predecessors were by the scandalous yet fascinating story of the last natural birth of Krypton. There is, however, more to this story, and this time Kal does down what is left of his liquor before they speak again, wishing for all the world he’d thought to grab some of the fermented torquats Dru-Zod brought along as a gift. At least he would have had something good to chew on while waiting out the night’s agony.

 “They tried to have the child blessed by the priests of Rao—”

 “They were, of course, refused,” Lady Kam-Leang states with piercing finality. “The official reason was that to give the child such a name was an affront to the Gods no priest could ever be tempted to forgive—”

 “Truly?” the dignitary asks, genuinely puzzled. “I fail to see the problem with it.”

 “Because you are unfamiliar with Ellon,” Dar Ran-No says, “or you would know ‘Kal-El’ is the light of the sun.”

 “Although,” Lady Kam-Leang remarks, “things would perhaps not have been so bad if they hadn’t gone further still. For years afterwards, Their Majesties and their followers—yes, they do still have a handful of them—insisted on calling their offspring a miracle. A herald of great things to come.”

 Kal is...acutely familiar with that line. It is old habit, by now, to swallow the bitter shame that comes with it.

 “I heard rumors,” Lord Bel-Lor continues, “that Their Majesties wished to attempt birthing a second child, but it seems the Gods intended for the prince to be a one-time phenomenon.”

 “Some people in the Guild of Believers have whispered that this must be a divine punishment for the Els’ arrogance. I do not know that I agree,” Dar Ran-No says in a slightly pinched tone, “but the lack of a second ‘miracle’ did certainly temper Jor-El’s dreams of having a messiah for a son.”

 “But of course,” Bel-Lor adds, picking up where his fellow Citadel Lord left off, “if the other rumors are true, and Their Majesties are being plagued with a much more biological problem….”

 At least one person chokes on a drink. Another one, perhaps two, coughs. Kal assumes the high-pitched, quickly-aborted laughter belongs to the Zodri dignitary, although he wouldn’t be able to swear to it. Face burning even as the rest of him turns to ice, he makes a tremendous effort to keep his gaze on the ground and take deep breaths until the corners of his eyes stop stinging. Inside his chest, his heart throws itself against his ribs like a wild animal trying to escape a cage, and Kal has to blink several times before he can bring the patterns on the floor back into focus.

 The balconies are overcrowded, the object of too many mocking eyes and surrounded by the imposing silhouettes of Nyen Warriors. But they are the only place where Kal can hope to find a little fresh air—and peace, if he can be allowed to make use of the one occupied by his uncle and his friends, rather than any of the other four—until he has remained here for the full four hours required of him, and is allowed to retreat to the safety of his labs.

 He braces himself and, carefully avoiding Lady Ona-Set’s suddenly alert gaze, begins to make his way around the ballroom.

“Good morning, Kal-El,” Krypto says when Kal emerges from his labs, with no sleep under his belt and Kryo on his heels. “Their Majesties wished me to remind you of the king’s visit tonight.”

 Kal nods, always more tongue-tied than he’d like in presence of his mother’s hunit. Krypto has always been pleasant to him, programming far too stringent to allow even for the impression of disrespect in its tone; but it is an extension of Lara Lor-Van, and that is enough to keep Kal on his toes.

 “I remember,” he tells the hunit, “thank you. In fact, I was on my way to wash up and rest. I should like to be fit for polite company tonight.”

 “Good,” Krypto says the same way it always has, the one that makes Kal feel like he’s still a little boy. “Lady Lara also wishes you to know the doctors have officially released our guest from bed rest.”

 “Oh,” Kal says, heart rate picking up. “I suppose that is good news.”

 It will mean one more person to keep in mind, one more presence to navigate around in the palace, and Kal’s head aches just thinking of it—but it is still good that the alien didn’t die. They cannot, after all, be held responsible for Kal’s issues.

 “Quite,” Krypto replies in its usual toneless voice. “Their Majesties ask that you remember the name of House El must not be tarnished. Dinner should be served at the customary hour.”

 Stomach sinking to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees, Kal nods around the lump in his throat, head lowering almost of its own volition. He stands still as Krypto, ever unaffected by displays of emotion, extends him bland wishes for satisfactory repose and floats away towards the main rooms of his family’s apartments. The Lesser House of El may have lost much of the respect they once enjoyed, after Kal’s birth, but their living quarters do still occupy a solid third of the Citadel’s upper dome. Even living here his whole life, Kal has gone numerous stretches of several days—once as much as two weeks—without encountering his parents. The sight of Krypto leaving him to go and report their conversation to his mother is as familiar an image as Kal has ever known.

 He stands alone in the corridor for a moment, breathing in and out at consciously regular intervals while Kryo asks if he’d like a massage to be added to his personal agenda for the night. He nods, of course: a little help relaxing can’t hurt, after all, and he is going to need every ounce of confidence he can get today. That, and his sore arms will definitely thank him.

 “Your heart rate is elevated,” Kryo says after a short silence.

 “I know,” Kal says, heart picking up its speed again as he tenses in anticipation of Kryo’s predictable remark:

 “I am compelled to let you know your current readings are quite far above average.”

 “I know,” Kal says again, and breathes in deep to avoid snapping at it.

 It isn’t the hunit’s fault, after all, that these reminders were programmed into it. Some things, Kal has changed over the years; but he never did figure out how to make the hunit less judgmental without messing up its programming beyond repair, and so the tone has stayed. It's proven useful in the long run, in that Kryo's unaltered demeanor hides all the things that aren’t the way Kal’s parents wanted them to be, but it doesn’t mean the hunit is never annoying. Kal has practice with this, though, and so it is simple—if not effortless—to keep his tone in check when he says:

 “Don’t worry, Kryo, I’ll be fine tonight.”

 “You are a prince of El,” Kryo says, automatically beginning one of the most irritating conversational routines in his repertoire. “You are—”

 “Bound to interact with strangers from time to time,” Kal cuts in, “yes, I realize.”

 “Irrational behaviors due to feelings of inadequacy—”

 “Kryo. You are well aware I dislike it when you talk about me like this.”

 Kryo goes quiet, but doesn’t apologize. Contrition is not a state hunit were ever designed to emulate. They are far too matter-of-fact for that. Kal, for his part, breathes in deep again, and forces his shoulders to unwind as he finally walks away from the access stairs to his labs and strides toward his rooms. He has Kryo perform a general scan to locate the rest in the household—only in the part of the Citadel assigned to Kal’s parents, however—and is all but scolded for it. The other hunits of the palace are complaining, it seems, about the frequency of pings of that nature they tend to receive.

 “It is never a good thing to render house hunits dissatisfied.”

 Hunits are devoid of emotion, incapable of satisfaction or dissatisfaction by design. What Kryo is truly saying is that Kal’s use of household scans is above average and will therefore be reported; but the emotional vocabulary makes the whole thing sound just a tad less pathetic, and so Kal sighs and nods rather than correct the hunit. Besides, his higher reasoning functions are begging further out of this conversation with every step he takes toward his bed. No point in trying to argue in these conditions. He is in the middle of a jaw-cracking yawn, his entire being crying out for sleep, when the black-and-gray silhouette of his parents’ guest stops him.

 The alien, standing by the guests’ library, is tall by Ellon standards, though the people of Zod might find them of average size. Their anatomical model is familiar enough to be reassuring: four limbs with hands and feet, shoulders on the broader side but still within the limits of what Kal would call normal. The muscles seem too well-defined to be natural, although Kryo maintains that all staff accounts state the alien looks perfectly Ellon-like under their clothes. Kal has never seen them out of their clothes, though, and so the impressive shape of the alien’s body retains all its power as far as he is concerned.

 The main difference between him and the alien lies in the head. Where Kal’s is somewhat round at the top—though perhaps a little squarer than average around the jaw—with the ordinary short round ears of Kryptonians, the alien’s has two protruding appendages at the top, aligned approximately above where ears would be. They jut out of the alien’s cowl in menacing straight lines and narrow to frighteningly sharp-looking points. Kal...believes Kryo when it says the alien doesn’t actually possess ears—or horns—that look like this. The hunit is, after all, unable to lie to him. But that knowledge doesn’t quell the eerie feeling of strangeness that tightens Kal’s chest every time he looks at them.

 The alien’s most noticeable feature, however, is not so much their silhouette as their stance. There is no hint of groveling in it, none of the wary tension displayed by visiting envoys from neighboring planets. Not that those envoys cower, exactly, but they are always clearly conscious of the galaxy’s painful history with Krypton, and therefore never fully at ease. This alien—Vohc’s alien, as Kal has heard some call them—carries themselves with the easy authority of a Citadel Lord in the king’s confidence. Back straight, head high; no hint of doubt in their own worth, their own place, their own right to remain.

 The sight of it shrivels something already small and wrinkled in Kal’s soul, makes him want to shrink back in the darkness and hide from the alien’s presence...for, sent by Vohc or not, this alien certainly does seem capable of things Kal couldn’t even dream of; and the thought of being found wanting compared to someone who, according to the court, does not even have the decency to be from the known universe, let alone Krypton, is… distressing.

 It is, therefore, unfortunate that acting on that self-effacing impulse would bring more shame to Kal’s house than his continued failure to prove himself worthy of attention.

 “Good evening,” Kal manages after a deep, steadying breath, pulse hammering away so hard he can feel it in his clasped palms. “May I help you?”

 In front of him, the alien’s head tilts to the right in what must be—might be; hopefully is—a sign of incomprehension, and Kal almost gives into the impulse to slap himself in the forehead. The alien is not from any recognizable planet, let alone a known species. They did not respond to any of the local languages stored in the House’s courtesy translators, never mind Council or Ellon. Why, then, Kal would be silly enough to assume they would understand is certainly a mystery for the ages. Not the first of its kind, it is true, but painful nonetheless.

 Swallowing a sigh, Kal draws on his vague memories of learning Council as a child and starts again:

 “I am Kal-El,” he says in Ellon.

 He waits for a few seconds, taps his fingers to the middle of his forehead, and repeats: “Kal-El.”

 “I am Batman,” the alien says.

 The words are clearly unpracticed on their tongue, the gesture all wrong. No one in El would tap their chest to indicate personhood, after all. Still, these things can be forgiven; it is the alien’s grammar that poses a significant problem. None of the politeness markers fit their position: a nobody—for all anyone knows, at any rate—addressing...well, essentially another nobody, but of royal blood. Many at court would have had Batman’s hide for that sort of an affront, accidental though it may be.

 Batman is lucky, though: Kal has dealt with much worse than people addressing him as if he were a lower-ranked but still respected guest. It is easy, then, to quell the sliver of pleased surprise—and the subsequent shame at how readily swayed Kal is—rising in his chest; to muster a stiff smile and a nod and, when Batman does not seem willing to communicate any further, flee toward his quarters.

It takes Kal a long while before he can fall into a nap, and then it takes an even longer time for him to wake up properly once the evening comes. It isn’t that El’s simple tunics of straight lines and slashed sleeves take all that long to put on, really. It’s just...well, frankly, it’s just that Kal is somewhat clumsier than average. He tends to bang into furniture and trip on his own feet more than other people do, and existing in a near-constant state of sleep-deprived grogginess does not help. Science is worth it, he knows. It doesn’t make it any less awkward to step into the Fire dining room almost three minutes late and watch six pairs of eyes turn to him.

 Kal’s uncle, King Zor-El, is a proud man, taller and bulkier even than his brother Jor—a rare build, for Thinkers. He sits in state at the head of the table with an ease Kal knows he would never be able to replicate, gaze a strange mixture of fondness and disappointment. Force of habit, perhaps. Either way, Zor-El does not say anything about Kal’s tardiness. A simple raise of his eyebrow; the pinched look on Kal’s parents’ faces, the amused gaze that passes between Sol Ka-Zod—Kal’s aunt—and her stepdaughter...all of these are familiar enough to be set aside. Not easily, not quite. But they are set aside, and that means Kal is free to look around the rest of the room, and marvel.

 The Fire dining room is one of the smaller, cozier rooms of similar function in the Lesser House of El’s apartments. At the back, a fire burns year-round, for the rooms closest to the center of the dome tend to be colder, and fire has always been Rao’s way of welcoming guests. In front of the fire sits the table, around which Kal’s family has arranged itself amidst the flowing lines of curved columns, floral motifs carved into the very bones of the building.

There, to the right of Kal’s usual chair, sits Batman. Their back is still as impeccably straight as it was this morning, their shoulders just as steady, their jaw just as strong. This time, however, the slant of their lips, below their cowl, curls into something...well. Perhaps not quite a smile. Not a smirk, either. But there is the seed of an expression there, Kal is fairly sure, that could become either of those things; and it is such a novelty compared to the usual reactions he garners that as he seats himself Kal can’t help but blush, looking down at his hands until he feels in control of himself again.

 The meal is well underway by the time Kal comes back to himself, silten salads half-eaten and roasted keltar being rolled into the room. To Kal’s right, Batman has taken their gloves off to eat, and their hands look very much like Kal’s hands—a little bigger, maybe, in keeping with their owner’s size, but nothing strange. Nothing that would be out of proportion for a Kryptonian, at the very least. They catch the eye somehow, at least as far as Kal is concerned. Batman’s silhouette was so imposing this morning, so surprisingly regal for someone people have barely hesitated to classify as a barbarian; it is hard not to be surprised when it turns out they eat like a regular person.

 It wouldn’t do to stare, however, and striking up a conversation right now would mean talking over the main guests, an ill-advised course of action.

 “I don’t think the Melokariel Proposition will ever be accepted,” Kal’s father is saying when Kal finally dares to raise his eyes away from his plate. “Nor do I think it should.”

 Kal darts a glance over the table, unsurprised to find his cousin raising her eyebrows quite high into her glass of Ulian liquor. The reaction is, Kal supposes, understandable. As the first in line to take over the throne of El, Kara has been invited to every single one of her father and uncle’s twice-weekly dinners since the tender age of twelve, and is therefore even more familiar with Jor-El’s way of gearing up for a fight. Or, well. A debate, as he calls it.

 Notorious for his incompetence and disinterest in politics, Kal returns Kara’s gesture nonetheless. He might not know the ins and outs of this Proposition as well as she does, but he does know his parents, and the thought of another family argument beginning is about as annoying as it is stressful by now. At least he knows he won’t be asked to participate. Kal’s horrendous lack of social acuity, cultural refinement, or specialization has been exposed, discussed, debated, and condemned more than enough for a lifetime; he isn’t keen on sparking that particular conversation again by asking about the Proposition or, Rao forbid, trying to change the topic. He will get through this in silence, like he always has, and count himself lucky for it.

 “Ever the retrograde, brother,” Zor-El says while a servant takes his empty plate and replaces it with the largest keltar of the lot. “If I were to listen to you, we would be working our way back to the days of primitive savagery.”

 There is no need to look up to know Zor-El has nodded in Kal’s direction, the circumstances of his birth ever a sore point for the family. He dares a glance to the right instead, and blinks when he finds Batman looking down at the table coil they were handed along with their meat. There is nothing strange about the tool that Kal can see, though accidents do happen, so he turns back to the left when his father, having most likely run through his usual defenses of Kal’s conception—helped along by his wife, of course—snaps:

 “In any case, the fact that Krypton does not possess the necessary resources to—”

 “We have talked about this before, Jor,” Zor says in a warning tone. “Krypton will not debase itself by going around begging colonies for their scraps.”

 “Ex colonies,” Kara points out, mild but clear. “The Green Lanterns saw to that.”

 Queen Sol Ka-Zod elbows her stepdaughter in the side, but Kal has never seen his cousin heed that particular warning before. His aunt cannot be faulted for the gesture, as it is unseemly for an heir to the throne to dissociate herself from the ruling monarch so openly—even if only at the family table; but then again the only thing worse than that would be for Kara to have no opinion at all. As it is, the jab passes, and the conversation returns to its topic of choice for the past nine months or so: the Melokariel Proposition.

 Kal, knowing no one will think to ask for his opinion on the topic, takes a look to his right again, and freezes. Batman, despite maintaining as dignified a posture as can be, is making an unimaginable mess of their food. Bits of it have strayed from their plate; the rest stains both their hands and their forks...and that is when Kal realizes this should have been an entirely predictable outcome. What were the chances, after all, that Batman learned to use proper cutlery on whatever backwater planet they came from? The cost of forgetting your manners—and therefore, your place—is high on Krypton, however, and Kal is too well-aware of this to sit there and do nothing. He reaches over, ready to take action, when Zor raises his voice:

 “Mining the core is the only way to survive,” he says in a tone full of rebuke, catching Batman’s attention without effort.

 “So say Peacekeepers,” Jor retorts—too loud, too fast. “They have always been quick to demand and slow to think, but—”

 “Jor!” Kal’s mother exclaims, half reproof and half horror, at the same time as Zor warns:

 “It would do you good to remember which Guild your queen came from, brother.”

 Despite the fire, the atmosphere of the room grows chilly, and Kal has to force his fingers to relax as he closes them around his fork and table coil. He tilts his head to the side when the alien looks at him, left hand extended palm up toward Batman, coil hanging between his thumb and forefinger, and asks, “May I help you?”

 Batman looks at Kal for a few moments—or at least, they keep still, with their optical lenses pointed in the appropriate direction—before they nod. Kal nods in return and, in a practiced gesture, lifts the keltar’s nearest limb with his own fork, loops the coil around it, and slices it off the animal’s body by spreading his fingers. Batman makes no sound, and does not give any indication that they watched Kal's actions particularly closely, but when Kal outfits them with a coil of their own, Batman imitates the gesture almost perfectly, and then repeats it with diligence. There is something surprisingly circumspect in the way they move, as if trying to master the gesture in as little time as possible. It seems strange, to Kal, who tends to observe things for far too long before he makes a move, but it works in Batman’s favor, and they are eating cleanly in no time. Just in time, in fact, to hear Kal’s father snap:

 “If Tsiahm-Lo does vote in favor of the Proposition, he will truly lose the right to call himself the Wise King of anything, let alone Laborers!”

 “Jor-El!” Sol exclaims, obviously shocked.

 Even Kal’s mother doesn’t dare speak in support of her husband after that sort of claim, and it is easy for Kal to feel the assembly tense—even down to Batman—as Zor leans forward and says in a low voice:

 “I would guard my words if I were you, Jor. There are those who would consider such a statement dangerously close to treason.”

 The table is grimly silent for a moment, fragile balance poised on the edge of a knife, as Kal watches his father reconsider his words, swallow, and say:

 “Forgive me, everyone. I don’t know what came over me. Obviously, I misspoke.”

 On the opposite side of the table Lara, Sol and Kara all look distinctly relieved, though Kal can’t quite manage to relax his shoulders. He hunches in on himself a little closer instead, ignoring the way Batman’s attention seems to have moved away from their food and toward the conversation on the more interesting side of the table.

 Kara is the first to speak again.

 “If nothing else,” she says in a firm tone, “I don’t believe anyone should consider the Proposition without also considering its alternative.”

 The rest of the table mumbles their assent, until Sol and Lara join in and, soon enough, the debate veers away from the Melokariel Proposition itself and onto the merits of Krypton’s old colonial programs. Kal, who has little interest in joining that discussion either, presses his lips together and turns back to his food for the rest of the meal. Batman requires almost no further help, except when dessert comes and they seem more than a little perplexed by the singing flowers set atop the cakes.

 “You can eat them,” Kal says when Batman clears their throat and tilts their head toward their plate.

 “You?” Batman repeats, head tilted, while gesturing with their hand like they’re bringing something to their mouth.

 It isn’t the gesture Kal would use to signify eating, but context makes it easy to interpret. Kal repeats the verb for Batman’s benefit, rectifiescorrections their pronunciation to something more understandable than their first attempt, and starts thinking.

 There is no telling when—or if—Batman will leave Krypton. The Shadow of El passed along no word of anyone else in the alien’s spacecraft, and no one has reached out to El looking for a lost companion since the day before yesterday. There is a possibility—how much of one is impossible to tell, but the chance is real nonetheless—that no one is coming to rescue them. If so, they will need to integrate. They cannot possibly be expected to remain incapable of communication forever, and the odds of anyone volunteering to take them to a neighboring planet are minimal at best. As for waiting for his parents to think of Batman’s well-being...Kal would frankly rather not. And yet Batman will need to adapt and find a place in Ellon society.

 They will need to speak, Kal realizes. To learn the things they don’t know, to figure out the rules and customs of this place—for otherwise they leave themselves open to ridicule, contempt, or worse. As a man with experience dealing with two of these things, Kal finds himself loath to leave Batman to deal with them alone. Not when he knows he can, perhaps, do something about it.

 Kal is no expert linguist. In point of fact, he isn’t even a teacher. He is willing to help, though, and willing to spend some time trying to figure out the best way to help Batman around...which, he guesses, makes him the only choice available. It might be a bad idea. He has other things to do, after all. Responsibilities he cannot shirk. He is a Citadel Prince of El, though, and those responsibilities do extend to taking care of guests.

 He might not be the best choice for this, but if no one else will make time for the task, he will.

Raising his head at breakfast the next morning only to find Batman standing in front of him with the same serious expression they have always displayed is a surprise for Kal. He would say that he hadn’t expected the alien to seek him out quite that fast, but the truth is he hadn’t expected Batman to seek him out at all. Besides, it is long past breakfast time. Kal is still there, it is true, but that is only because he tends to work all night and barely emerges from his labs in time to ingest something before he collapses on his bed and sleeps most of the day away. Batman can’t possibly have missed that fact. Can they?

 Whatever the reason, the alien does not seem ready to stop looking at Kal in a way that makes him feel as though his use of his table coil is being assessed and found wanting. This is not, it is true, an uncommon sentiment for Kal. Most of his life has been spent in self-conscious discomfort. But the familiarity of the sensation does nothing to prevent a blush from rising into Kal’s ears until he feels like they are about to catch on fire.

 “Excuse me,” he tells the alien in an attempt to relieve some of the tension, “may I help you?”

 Batman remains stock still for a moment. Nothing in their expression shifts exactly, except perhaps for a certain sense of...looking for something. ‘Hesitation’ seems like too strong a sentiment, somehow, though it comes closest to what Kal perceives. Deliberation, then. Batman indulges in a few more seconds of it before they nod and take a seat in front of Kal. Behind him, Kal feels Kryo hover closer, perhaps out of a sense of misplaced protection, but the hunit does not do anything else.

 Meanwhile Batman has extended a hand and is pointing at Kal’s table coil, saying something in what Kal assumes is their birth language. He blinks, still a little too groggy to process this in a timely manner, and he is fairly sure he sees Batman’s lips tighten—a sure sign of exasperation on a Kryptonian—before they point at Kal:

 “I am Kal-El,” they say. Then, pointing at themselves: “I am Batman.”

 They point at the coil again then, and Kal blushes harder when he realizes the question was actually quite simple, and he should have understood it right away. He pushes past it, however, and answers with flaming cheeks:

 “This is a table coil.”

 “This is a table coil,” Batman repeats, pronunciation quite close to Kal’s.

 “Table coil,” Kal repeats nonetheless, just to make sure the alien will understand that only these two words designate the object they are asking about.

 That, and to make sure Batman won’t mispronounce it and accidentally refer to a very intimate part of the anatomy by accident.

 Batman, as has been the case so far, proves themselves a diligent learner, and manages a perfect rendition on the second try. Kal beams. He doesn’t stop to think, then, that Batman may not have been asking for a full vocabulary lesson when he points at his fork and says:

 “This is a fork .”

 “This is a fork,” Batman repeats, eyes fixed down on the table.

 Kal nods, grin widening despite himself, a thin bubble of pride growing in his chest.

 “This is a glass .”

 “This is a glass.”

 Kal walks Batman through several other eating implements—a plate, a spoon, a napkin—ever more pleased when Batman keeps getting the pronunciation right in two, sometimes three attempts at the most. They name all the items set on the table, eventually, and Kal imagines things will stop there for a moment, but then Batman points at the table itself and says, “This is….” with a tilt of their head.

 “This is a table,” Kal informs them. Then, because he can’t think of a better way to explain the question, he seizes his glass again and, with a tilt of his head similar to Batman’s, asks: “What is this?”

 Batman nods at that, mouth slanting...well, not into a smile, maybe, but a more relaxed angle, at least. Something that seems to hint Batman has finally found something worth considering in Kal, and, well. It would be a lie to say it does not affect him. There is something—giddy, almost, but also rewarding about this. About knowing he is useful here and that what he is doing right now will be—perhaps ‘appreciated' is the wrong word. Batman would be well within their rights to consider teaching them the language a demonstration of basic courtesy on the part of their hosts. Even so, whatever Batman learns and remembers this morning will be useful to them in the future. The sentiment is exhilarating. It loosens Kal’s shoulders, make him more willing to smile as he tries to mime the concept of a room in order to explain the word ‘parlor’.

 By the time they stop, almost an hour later—and then only because Kryo reminds Kal today is the day of his annual health examination—Kal has had time to fill his chest with so much satisfaction at a job well done he feels almost no self-consciousness at the gesticulating he has to engage in to explain that he needs to leave. Batman nods, somewhat less stiff than they usually seem to be, and then says two words—at least it sounds like two distinct words—in their language.

 Kal, caught off guard, nods back, close-lipped and tenser than he would like to be, and doesn’t look back as he leaves the room at an appropriately sedate pace, Kryo hovering at his elbow. He is in the process of trying to breathe his heartbeat into something more acceptable when the questions—the sudden uncertainty—become too much to handle, and he asks, “That probably meant thank you, didn’t it? No reason for them to—”

 To what, exactly? Mock Kal? Judge him? Insult him? None of these possibilities make any rational sense. Context, and Batman’s attitude, both point towards the alien’s words being some form of thanks but—but what if it wasn’t? Kal is familiar with his mind's tendencies. Its ability to twist even the most innocuous things into catastrophes has been a part of his existence for as long as he remembers, and he knows better than to listen to it without reserve.

 But still, a persistent part of him asks, what if he made a fool of himself this morning and did not realize it? What if Batman was only indulging him and could not hold it back any longer? What if they found Kal the dullest, most profoundly boring creature they have met in their entire existence, and are now determined to avoid him at any cost? The chances are slim—very slim, even—but….

 “You are panicking again,” Kryo says in its usual dispassionate tone.

 Kal does not hush it, but he does think about it. These concerns of his are...irrational, most of the time. He knows this. Not always, though. Kal has made a mess of things without meaning to before, has been found wanting in many and varied respects—numerous times, even—and Batman...well. It did seem, for a moment there, like Batman didn’t completely despise spending an extended period of time in Kal’s company. That is a good sign. But others have pretended as much before, and Kal should have remembered that; should have paid more attention to what he was doing, put more care into remaining—unobtrusive. Yes, that would be the right word. He knows how dull he is after all, should keep it in mind lest he keep making the same mistakes he made today—too solicitous, he’s sure, treating Batman like an imbecile or...or whatever else he did, really. It will come to him, he knows.

 “Kal,” Kryo points out again as they round a corridor towards the palace doctors’ offices, “you are panicking again. Calm down.”

 Never has that particular command been of any help in the past, but Kal has long since given up on trying to get it out of Kryo’s programming. He bites down on his instinctive rejection of the advice and breathes in deep instead. Then he asks, “Would you calculate the probability of what Batman said meaning ‘thank you’, please?”

 “Situational elements suggest an 85% chance that that would be an appropriate translation of their words,” Kryo replies. “The scarcity of available data means linguistic calculations might take as long as four weeks to process. Do you wish me to proceed?”

 “No, thank you,” Kal says.

 Eighty-five percent, he tells himself even as he knocks on the door to the doctor’s office. That doesn’t sound so bad. Granted, there is still a fifteen percent chance he misread the situation entirely. A fifteen percent chance Batman was seeking him for very different reasons—although he cannot fathom what those reasons might have been—and he only managed to annoy them beyond belief. Fifteen percent chances are more than enough to send his heart racing; more than enough to half convince him he should, perhaps, consider shutting himself off from the world for good, if only it would ensure he never made that sort of mistake again.

 “Good morning, Your Majesty,” the head physician says when she opens the door.

 She gives Kal a familiar once over, takes his expression in—and this time, Kal knows he is not imagining the exasperation. Sighing, he follow her lead and tries to steel himself for the upcoming assessment and the myriad of little embarrassments that come with it.

  The examination goes well enough, except for a few awkward bruises and wounds Kal has to admit he got from lugging heavy objects around in his labs—“If you’ll beg my pardon, Your Majesty, I know people lighter than these plants of yours,” the doctor says. Kal gives her an awkward smile and changes the topic; something new to be needlessly embarrassed about. The plants are nothing big, truly, nothing anyone would find really remarkable. Kal is known for being chiefly interested in botany, though, and most people do not associate this with sprained ankles or bruised ribs; so every instance of someone finding out must be followed by an uneasy reminder that Kal does not live a dangerous life at all but is, rather, ridiculously clumsy...and getting clumsier as the years go by.

 Still, he does escape the doctor’s office eventually, relief more than palpable in every single one of his veins. Then he gets to his laboratories, settles down behind the floor-to-ceiling, one-way window, and proceeds to lose himself in work.

 He is in the middle of a—lengthening—break several hours later, when Kara’s voice rings from the top of the stairs and bounces against the spherical ceiling of the comparatively minuscule room:

 “I might wish to update your security protocols,” she says, her footsteps gradually losing themselves in Kal’s small forest of growing plants. “They barely reacted when I approached the door.”

 “Of course they did,” Kal says without looking away from his current notes, “they know you. Besides, it wouldn’t do to give anyone the impression I’m trying to hide something in here, would it?”

 Kara hums from where, if the rustling is to be trusted, she is poking at Kal’s morose-looking keva vines. Not that he takes poor care of them—he hardly does anything else with his days, after all. But Krypton’s atmosphere has been profoundly changed by the ever-more-intensive mining projects grinding away at its soil, filling the air with more dust than many plants find it possible to survive. Some biomes have been able to adapt on their own in the northern parts of the planet, where mining activity has been subdued by the lack of remaining material worth the effort. But El is one of the least-affected Principalities. The worst of the work is yet to come, here, and while the king—in his wisdom—has remained steadfastly convinced no problem could arise from an intensification of industrial production, Kal has always been more...anxious.

 It was easy to combine this with his scientific curiosity and indulge in the sort of pet project none of his family members could truly disapprove of, despite his lack of formal education on the topic. Kara, for her part, has never quite seemed to understand Kal’s enthusiasm for his test subjects, and barely bothers to feign an apology when she accidentally snaps a leaf off a luat bush.

 “They seem to be doing better,” she says with a polite smile even as she places the broken leaf back into the luat’s force-field, the atmosphere set to mimic a seventy percent air pollution rate. She wipes her hand clean with a nearby rag before she continues: “Perhaps you are finally succeeding.”

 “We did move from a five percent survival rate to ten,” Kal replies without mirth.

 “Ah. Well...at least there is progress?”

 Kal tilts his head in concession, and then stiffens when Kara finally walks up to his desk and leans over his shoulder. The working lights, brighter than any other in the lab, must obstruct her view: she reaches for Kal’s papers, and although his first instinct is to grab after them, he knows better than to attempt it. Kara has, after all, been training all her life never to take no for an answer. Not at face value, in any case. Kal hesitates. Fidgets. At last, when he is sure Kara must have completed at least her second reading of what notes he has, he can’t help but ignore the skepticism in her expression and ask:

 “What do you think?”

 Kara’s lips purse into a doubtful expression, and she chews on her tongue for a second. Curbing her answer to sound more diplomatic, then. Perhaps Kal should warn her to get rid of the tell.

 “I can’t say that I have much expertise in linguistics,” Kara says at last.

 Biting down on a sigh, Kal reaches for his notes again, and meets no resistance from his cousin. He eyes his teaching plan for what must be the hundredth time today, and thinks.

Batman’s species is unknown on Krypton. Taking care of them has worked out all right so far, but nothing says they won’t be confronted with unexpected problems later on. They must be able to satisfy their basic needs on their own, which means they must be able to obtain food, drinks, sleeping accommodations and hygiene products. This implies naming said items, and learning how to ask lower-ranked individuals for services and thank them appropriately afterwards. Other things will come, such as asking for and understanding directions to various places, greeting individuals of various ranks and, of course, learning to make some form of conversation with the royal family without provoking an incident.

Kal is in the process of revising what he should focus on first and which verbal form to prioritize—desperately trying to remember his first lessons in any language in the process—when Kara sighs, sits on his desk next to him and asks:

 “How long do you believe this will take?”

 “A few months, I suppose?” Kal hazards. “They seem to be a fast learner, and they have more pressing motivation to learn Ellon than I did to learn La’u—”

 “I never understood why you even chose to learn La’u when you didn’t have to,” Kara interjects with a wink.

 Being ten years Kal’s senior means Kara was well into her La’u lessons by the time Kal started grasping the basics of Council, but he did hear his tutors rejoice about his prowess enough to imagine the sort of pains it must have caused Kara to learn it. Frequency-based languages are a struggle for anyone more used to words, but the fact that La’u uses deeper frequencies for more polite speech can hardly have helped Kara and her light voice. In any case, Kal himself struggled enough with the language that he cannot fully blame his cousin for her surprise.

 Still, the specifics of La’u are not the point, and Kal continues:

 “Hopefully they at least know what conjugations are, but we cannot be sure, and if they do not, it could add months of teaching in order for them to grasp the basics. And after that—”

 “After that?” Kara exclaims, but Kal is surveying his teaching plan again and only half paying attention to his cousin when he says:

 “Do not worry, I only intend to teach them Court Member forms, at first. That should serve them well enough until—”

 “Kal, I wasn’t—don’t you think you are taking on quite a lot of responsibility with this?”

 Something shrivels in Kal’s chest, a hopeful seed squashed to the ground by a distracted boot, and he hunches in on himself before he even realizes it. He does attempt to deflect the question with a shrug, but Kara would not be Kara if she could be satisfied with a non-answer of that sort.

 “Kal. You are a Citadel Prince. You are a busy man—”

 “I do believe you are confusing our timetables,” Kal mutters, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

 “Even so,” Kara insists, after clearing her throat, “your plants take up quite a lot of time and work, especially the nocturnal ones.”

 “I am well aware,” Kal tells the piece of paper he wrote Batman’s lesson plan on, “but even so, I am not half as busy as you are. I think I should be able to handle this.”

 With a shake of her head, Kara clicks her tongue and rises from the desk, walking to the disused elevator shaft that crosses Kal’s lab and knocking on it with her knuckles. “You know I believe in this project of yours, Kal. There is a reason I wanted to get involved. I know you will continue to give it your best effort—but I also worry you might be taking on responsibilities that are not yours.”

 “Batman is a guest under my family’s roof,” Kal points out, trying to keep his tone mild despite the sudden spike of irritation in his chest. “I do have responsibilities—”

 “There are plenty of tutors in our service—”

 “I’m quite aware,” Kal replies with more bitterness than he thought he had in store for the memory of his old teachers. “I remember my time with them, and I would rather spare Batman that.”

 “I know you did not enjoy your basic studies,” Kara starts, “but perhaps if you hadn’t been so difficult, things wouldn’t have been so hard for you.”

 Kal gapes for a moment, breath stolen by the sharp stab of pain in his chest at Kara’s words. She means well, he knows. And perhaps...perhaps, in some ways, she is right. It is possible—not probable, but possible—that Kal caving in to his teachers’ demands to specialize in the learnings of one Guild would have made his youth easier. It isn’t the done thing, after all, to ignore traditional limits the way Kal does. To defy genetic marking and engage in activities best left to those who were engineered for them. Still, what was he supposed to do?

 The very source of his fame is that Kal does not have any Guild markers in his genome. That he is, in fact, the only Kryptonian to have lived without them in centuries and, if the way his life has gone so far is to be taken as an example, for centuries to come. Why Vohc allowed him to be created—why Rao did not do him the mercy of never allowing his mother’s pregnancy to come to term at all—is a mystery for the ages. Still, the fact remains that he would never have been accepted in any Guild, no matter how well he studied. Believers, Workers, Thinkers…none of them would have wanted him. Why else would Kal’s teachers have scoffed when he asked if he would ever be allowed to learn any of the Guilds’ languages?

 It is most likely that Kara believes what she is saying. She has always been kind to Kal, and treated him as an equal, if something of an incomprehensible one. But the truth is that Kal’s tutors were ever unprepared for him—and he was a son of Krypton. How they would react to an alien, Kal would rather not find out. Not, in any case, if it means taking the risk of making Batman feel the way Kal did during his training.

 Taking a deep breath, Kal forces himself to straighten his shoulders as much as he can and, sidestepping the ever-delicate subject of his former tutors’ treatment of him, says, “Perhaps you are right. Even so, I have already invested time and effort in this project. I should very much like to bring it to fruition. I have talked with Batman—”

 “Is that his name?”

 “It is. Though we cannot know for sure whether they are a he—or if this concept even exists where they come from.”

 Kara concedes the point with a nod.

 “They seem to be an interesting person,” Kal continues. “I would like to get to know them better, but I cannot do that unless they learn to communicate with us and I spend some time with them. Teaching them Ellon seems like the ideal way to accomplish both of these things.

 Silence falls around them, and Kara fixes her gaze on Kal for a long time, a skeptical moue firmly set on her lips.

 “Very well,” she says at last, sighing in defeat the way she would never allow herself to if Kal were anyone else. It fills his answering sigh with gratitude. “Although I fail to understand what makes him—them—more interesting than any of the other aliens you have met and failed to befriend before.”

 She kisses Kal’s forehead before she goes, not noticing how still he has gone. He has to be still. He would cry if he weren’t, the shame of his own inadequacy catching up with him with the force of a laser blast. He tries to explain it later, only to himself—only in the privacy of his own head—but he can’t quite put it into words without finally breaking down into sobs: the way it felt to have Batman see him as a simple stranger, rather than a well-established failure .

 It is, sadly enough, a practiced routine to ignore Kryo’s bland inquiries about his health.

  It takes Kal some time, after his and Kara’s non-fight in his lab, to realize she must not have come to see him so they could discuss his newfound interest for the art of teaching. In fact, it takes him a full night of reflection—earning him several bruises and possibly a cracked rib that could otherwise have been easily avoided. Kara is busy all of the next morning, and Kal uses that time to sleep like the dead for a while longer, before he goes to visit her in the upper levels of the royal palace.

 “I understand,” she says when Kal is done apologizing, eyes on the floor as if he were still a little boy of ten trying to live up to his adult cousin’s expectations. “I suppose I wasn’t at my best myself.”

 Kal nods, struck mute now that he has said his piece, and waits for Kara to set what she was working on aside and add:

 “I wanted to ask what you thought of the Turn of the Year Ball. You did not dance much.”

 “You know I mislike it,” Kal says with an embarrassed shrug. “It accomplishes nothing save providing the court more fodder for gossip.”

 He glances up just in time to catch Kara’s knowing look, and feels himself blush. It shouldn’t be an embarrassment, for her to know what the court has to say about Kal. He has been a source of gossip for longer than he can remember, after all, and she must have been aware of this long before he ever began to suspect there was something wrong with him. Still, discussing a source of humiliation is not the same as being aware of its existence, and for a moment Kal finds himself quite unable to speak.

 “I understand,” Kara says with the same soft tone she always uses in these conversations of theirs. “I imagine you wanted some fresh air after that.”

 “I tried, but the main balcony was rather occupied,” Kal remarks, forcing himself to take his hands out from behind his back, only to twist them together again at his front. “Lady Ra-Ny was there.”

 “Well,” Kara says, her tone as mild as her eyes are sharp, “she does like her space. Did you see who else was there?”

 “Lord Ko Li-Van of Ul, Lord Nej Tar-Plak from Po—along with his lady wife—”

 “Ce-Qod? I thought she was too sickly to travel.”

 Kal gives a nonchalant shrug, dragging his eyes back down to the ground, heart hammering in his chest.

 “So did several others in their assembly,” he says. “One must assume she made an effort for the sake of the opportunity to meet your father.”

 “Indeed,” Kara replies, thoughtful.

 Kal glances up and finds her looking down at her work, though her pen hand is not moving.

 “It seems quite a lot of Worker Princes and Princesses were hoping for the honor of meeting our king, this week. One can only wonder why.”

 She looks up then, straight into Kal’s eyes, and he shrugs.

 “Perhaps they were simply hoping to present him with well-wishing gifts for the Turn of the Year. I did hear some of them trade ideas among themselves. I believe Shadow’s limbs were invoked more than once; or, failing that, some form of garment patterned with Dark Suns.”

 “Well, thank you, Kal,” Kara tells him after a long silence, features and shoulders as stiff as stone. “You always do pick up the best gossip.”

 Kal, who knows the way his cousin looks when she needs to think on something, nods, and makes his way back to his family’s level of the palace.

  Once he is back in his family’s dwellings, Kal decides it would be best not to put off his teaching project. The prospect of approaching Batman might be mildly terrifying—though the memory of their willingness to tolerate Kal helps—but it is a necessary step for anything to happen. Besides, teaching or no teaching, it would not do to leave Batman to their own devices like an inconvenient visitor one tries to get rid of, having been followed home.

 He finds Batman, after some searching, in one of the smaller libraries of the palace, not too far from the guests’ quarters. Neither the apartments nor the library have seen much use in many years, and the silence around them is enough to set Kal’s nerves on alert, but Batman looks unbothered by it. They've taken a seat by one of the curved windows, relaxed pose incongruous in contrast to the stiffness of their clothes—perhaps Kal should see about having something else made for them—with a book on their lap and something close to a scowl on their mouth.

 Kal steps closer, and recognizes the cover of The Adventures of Flamebird . The character is a rather popular hero in El legend: a servant of Rao who went around the world helping those they could—for their gender was never revealed, if indeed they had even had one—and did so well on their quest that the Sun God himself gave them a home atop the highest mountain of the world and allowed them to call themselves Xen-El: Xen of the light, under the protection of the Helper God himself. The story itself was nothing truly original, merely a collection of legends that had lived in El for millennia before Kal’s great grandparents were even conceived...but Kal spent many a solitary hour poring over this book, devouring Flamebird’s adventures, their discovery, and their friendship with Nightwing, who rose in service of Vohc and became the first true Thinker of Krypton.

 The book itself, in fact, shows the wear of such a love. It is creased and bent where multiple sets of hands were cajoled into holding it open for Kal...and later on, from many instances of bringing it along on official travels or solitary explorations, until the order was finally given to find it a home in the guests’ library. Kal’s lips twist with the memories. There are entire sentences of the work still carved into his mind. They are not, unfortunately, the ones his parents wanted him to learn—these were lost to time, but Kal retains the vague impression of certitude coming from them, the edge of despair creeping into their voices until they could no longer cling to the hope that Kal would, one day, reveal himself as Rao’s heir and lead El back to its former glory. Nonetheless, some parts of this book Kal could recite without looking at them, and he cannot help but smile when he sees such a beloved item in the hands of someone he hopes to come to know and respect in the future.

 Batman must be attempting to teach themselves Ellon with this book. It is a commendable effort, and something Kal might have attempted in their situation, but if the alien’s face is anything to go by the experiment is not quite yielding the expected results. Then again, as far as Kal knows, Krypton’s alphabet is quite unique in the galaxy, so unless Batman is somehow familiar with something similar, it is hardly a surprise that they are finding it hard to make sense of.

 Stepping closer, Kal clears his throat and says, “I might be able to help with that.”

 It is unclear whether Batman was already aware of Kal’s presence or if they simply have commendable control of their body’s reactions. Either way, they give no sign of surprise that Kal can see. The window does offer quite the vantage point over the library, it is true. Its round frame dominates a circular room, covered floor to ceiling with the yields of thousands of years of book collecting. The truly rare editions, made of organic fibers rather than the synthetic paper everyone uses nowadays, are of course stored in the master library. Still, this particular collection is nothing to blush at, and Kal inhales the dusty smell of many books collected together with a form of reverence, even as he waits for Batman’s response.

 The alien, for their part, hasn’t moved at all since Kal entered, as if waiting to see what might happen next. The image puts Kal in mind of a predator surveying its hunting ground...although, perhaps, with more benevolence than most. It would seem...unlikely, to most, for a royal guest to keep track of people’s comings and goings around here. Then again, those same people would also deem it impossible for Kal to notice half as much as he does, and so he does not entirely dismiss the possibility.

 He endures Batman’s scrutiny instead, resisting the urge to flush and hunch in on himself even further than he already does. Thankfully, after a long moment of contemplation, Batman says something in their own language—Kal could slap himself for expecting anything more, really. Of course, Batman wouldn’t be able to answer. That is the entire point of this conversation, isn’t it? Rao, Kal. Keep up.

 “I would,” Kal starts, and winces again. Simple words, in this situation, must be best. He tries again: “I want to help you speak Ellon.”

 Batman stays silent again, the cowl obscuring their expression in a way that leaves Kal at a complete loss. He does not have the strength to wait as long as he did the first time around, though, and so he steps forward, points at The Adventures of Flamebird and its colorful pages, and says, “This is a book.”

 He might, possibly, have imagined the way Batman’s lips quirk into the not-quite-smile Kal is beginning to suspect is their best approximation of an encouraging expression. Regardless, no rebuttal or rejection comes, and Kal allows himself to sigh in relief when Batman dutifully repeats the word. Then, Batman gestures for Kal to sit down next to them and Kal takes a place on the windowsill with rather more giddy enthusiasm than he’d expected to feel.

 “May I?” he asks, hand hovering over the book.

 He waits for Batman to push the collection into his hand and flips through the pages to the beginning of Flamebird and the Secret Lake . There, he points at the illustration and says:

 “This is water.”

 “Water,” Batman repeats with a small nod.

 Kal beams at them before he can think better of it, then flips through a few more pages to the part where Flamebird serves one of the old Lords of Krypton to prevent a servant from losing their place in the palace; points at the picture of a glass, and asks:

 “What is this?”

 “This is a glass,” Batman says.

 Kal grins again, and goes through several more illustrations, naming objects and checking back on Batman’s memory at regular intervals. It is easy to find the material he needs, the book so beloved it feels like he might be able to find specific pages without even looking. At some point, he drops it in his excitement, and thanks Batman when they pick it up for him, but otherwise a solid half hour is spent on nothing but new vocabulary. Until, that is, Kal realizes he cannot possibly expect Batman to memorize all of this without any sort of support.

 He manages to refrain from apologizing—although only because knows Batman would not understand the words—as he rises from his seat and goes to fetch Batman something to write on. He is not, technically, supposed to use the blank books stored at the bottom of the shelves, but then no one ever does, and he does not think they have been counted even once since he was born. He finds one with a black cover and the El coat of arms in silver embossing on the front, the lined pages inside ideal for a long list of vocabulary, and brings it back up to the windowsill.

 “Thank you,” Batman says, and Kal gasps and blanches.

 “Oh Rao, no, no! You can’t address me this way, you have no idea how much trouble—”

 Kal cuts himself off, face and neck heated enough to cook on them. Of course Batman has no idea what they've done. Kal should have anticipated this, even: they did run into this particular problem before. Kal...well, he does not mind what is technically disrespect. Quite the contrary, in fact. But others? Oh, others definitely will mind, quick though they are to forget Kal is a Citadel Prince when their lust for gossip overtakes them. Batman, of course, is unaware of the problem, and does not have enough understanding of Ellon for Kal to explain it to them as of yet, not without running the risk of confusing them for a long time to come—which means the situation calls for some social gymnastics.

 So, Batman is an alien. In theory, this would make them lower-ranked than any Kryptonian, let alone an Ellon in their own Principality. They are, however, also a guest of the royal family, however reluctant their hosts. This, in turn, will protect them from quite a lot of negative reactions, despite Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van’s disgrace. Servants’ modes of speaking are, of course, quite out of the question; but Batman cannot be allowed to address Citadel Lords and Ladies like equals either, or they will end up in a world of trouble. Which means they probably ought to talk like a Mountain Lord then, or at least as if close to them in status. It is, after all, unlikely that they will run into anyone ranking any lower than that while they are staying in the palace, and if they are to visit other parts of El...well, hopefully, they will wait until they can communicate better before they attempt it.

 “Let’s try again,” Kal offers, once his grammar is decided. “’Thank you’.”

 “Thank you,” Batman repeats, something in the way they move making Kal wonder if they have picked up on some of the social cues involved.

 Regardless, they do not seem eager to question the new, quite different version of the phrase, and Kal beams again, hard enough to push the embarrassment of his earlier mistake almost out of his mind. He ignores the lingering traces of it for the time being in order to pull Batman’s notebook open, pen a rapid sketch of a glass in the left hand margin, and label the drawing in his most careful schoolboy handwriting. He hands Batman the pen when they tap his wrist, and repeats the word when asked, impressed when Batman adds notes in what looks like two different alphabets of their home world.

 They archive the rest of what Batman has learned so far in the same manner, Kal flipping through the pages of The Adventures of Flamebird between words, finding his favorite illustrations without much effort, even though it has been years. After the words come sentences, and Batman puts them through the same process as the rest, writing down both the way they are to be pronounced and what Kal assumes is a translation below the Kryptonian letters. Then, after a while, Batman speaks again, in that strange language of theirs.

 Kal turns back to them, only for them to point down at the book and repeat whatever they were saying. The words, obviously, are entirely opaque, but the sentiment behind them seems easy to interpret, and Kal decides to go out on a limb in order to answer.

 “This is one of my favorite books.”

 He clutches the book to his chest with a wider smile than he remembers sporting in years, excited to meet someone whose reaction to the stories does not range from fond amusement to open disinterest for a collection of children’s tales.

 “Favorite books,” Batman repeats, and Kal beams again, closing the book to point at the cover.

 “They are Flamebird,” he tells Batman. “The legends say they were the very first El of Krypton.”

 Batman looks—not invested in the topic, perhaps, but mildly interested, if their mouth is any indication. No more disinterested than before, at any rate. And Kal—Kal has had few occasions to discuss a book he is passionate about in his life, his family not much for fiction. This, most likely, explains how he manages to spend over three hours talking Batman’s ears off about the book and why, in the end, even the mortifying certitude he must have bored the alien almost to tears isn’t quite enough to prevent him from seeking their company the next day.

  Batman progresses much faster than Kal expected. It takes them only two weeks to remember the numerous words Kal plied them with during their first lesson—something of a mistake, perhaps, to throw so many words at them and expect they would remember them all so soon—and then only about a week after that to grow quite at ease in asking for what they need at the dining table. Where before Kal used to remain silent while his parents or the rest of his family discussed one topic or another, he is now able to put this time to good use helping Batman improve their mastery of Ellon with an enthusiasm he does not remember feeling for the rest of his work before.

 He does not neglect his studies, of course, and Kara eventually stops feeling the need to ask if he is still fit to take care of his nocturnal plants. He does, however, spend most of his afternoons in the guests’ library with Batman, learning bits and pieces of Batman’s language through their alphabet of sound, and engaging in more and more complex discussions about Flamebird and the various legends surrounding them.

 He convinces Batman to let themselves be measured—with their uniform on—during the second week, and presents them with a black and cowled variation on the latest fads in Ellon fashion, the slashed sleeves of their new tunic opening up to reveal lighter gray underneath, and the strange motif of Batman’s original outfit embossed on a breastplate similar to what even Kal has taken to wearing on a regular basis.

 “Thank you,” Batman says when they receive the gift, although Kal is rather unsurprised to find their expression as mild as ever.

 “You are quite welcome,” he says. “I know the old one is cleaned every night, but I also know how uncomfortable it can be to wear the same thing every day.”

 He cannot be sure Batman truly glances up at him at the words, covered as their face is, but he does get the impression of it nonetheless. They have, after all, been spending almost all their time together these days—save for the one evening his uncle received a small group of Worker Princes and Princesses in the Stateroom of Peace, and Kal put his family’s absence to good use, excusing himself early to work on his nocturnal specimens. Such proximity makes it easier to understand someone’s expression, limited though their shared vocabulary may be, and so Kal is, perhaps, not caught as wholly off guard as he could have been when Batman asks, “Is this Nightwing?”

 Despite having anticipated the question, Kal blushes. It is one thing to draw inspiration from a legendary hero for a friend’s outfit, it is quite another to have them pick up on it. Not that Kal is too concerned about anyone else understanding the reference, seeing as Nightwing had fallen into disrepute long before he was born.

 “Perhaps,” he hedges, though it does not feel like Batman believes him.

 Nightwing was once as popular a legendary character as Flamebird, at least in El. He was, after all, the very first Thinker, and Thinkers are El’s favored Guild. Many Els have been engineered to be Thinkers in the past, and Kal’s family members are no exception. Why, his father even married into his own Guild, a rather unusual choice for royals. But where Nightwing, and his patron God Vohc, was once revered and respected as a leader of the people and a Builder of great things, later centuries turned him from ambitious to proud, from charismatic to authoritarian, from an instigator of beneficial change to an agent of chaos.

 In El, at least, it is Rao who now presides over the Gods, guiding them with his light to follow the rituals set thousands of years before by early Ellons. Flamebird, too timid and too tangled in the story of Nightwing, has also been largely relegated to the role of fairytale character, following in Rao’s footsteps with unwavering loyalty and teaching the young how to make their parents proud. A worthy goal, Jor-El used to say when Kal was little; and Kal’s destiny, his mother would add. To make them proud. Not that it did them—or Kal—any good but then the future is a hard thing to predict, and Kal did not turn out to resemble Rao in the slightest.

It was, perhaps, quite inevitable that Kal would never meet anyone who shared his preference for the older versions of the tales.

 “I like it,” Batman says at last.

 The tears catching in Kal’s throat are a surprise but he does, thankfully, manage to keep them from falling.

  Weeks turn into a month, and then another beyond that. Batman continues to progress in Ellon at astonishing speed, his—not their, as he tells Kal at the end of his first month on Krypton—ability to pick up on a word’s meaning and the complex grammatical structures of Ellon beyond anything Kal has ever heard of. Not, of course, that many people are willing to discuss much of their lives with him, language learning included, but still. He did read a few books on the theory of language acquisition, after all, and from what he sees either Batman comes from an especially quick-witted species, or he is even more exceptional than Kal suspected.

 Eventually, Kal’s parents start talking to him a little. Nothing more than idle conversation in between more important errands, but it is still progress, and an occasion for Batman to practice his skills with someone other than Kal. It...worries Kal, in the beginning. A selfish reaction, he knows—but Batman is smart, with a dry sense of humor Kal can’t help but grin at, and prone to engage in the sort of verbal sparring that makes Kal feel more alive, somehow. Talking to him—existing next to him—is a breath of fresh air. It is the very first time Kal has met someone who doesn't merely tolerate him, but rather, for some reason, seems to appreciate him.

 So it is...understandable, perhaps, if not honorable, that he fears losing this once Jor and Lara start addressing Batman over the dining table. He won’t do anything to stop it, of course. Knows better than to keep someone he has come to care for more than he ever planned to from making new friends and building himself a life on Krypton and in El...but there is still a part of him that sighs in relief once it becomes obvious something about the Prince and Princess of El’s conversation displeases Batman. Not much. Not enough for him to shun them entirely. Just—just enough for Kal to pick up on it and feel selfishly, shamefully glad.

 Kal is, in all honesty, not as good a person as he wishes he could be.

 Nevertheless, Batman does not desert Kal, and when the time comes for him to be invited to one of King Jor’s minor receptions, he appears on Kal’s doorstep long before they are to join the rest of the palace’s occupants for the descent into the Stateroom.

 He looks—well, Kal has always known Batman looked good, even in the strange, almost goofy outfit he brought from this Earth of his. Shoulders like his cannot be disguised by what is clearly thought of as a set of armor. The softer fabrics of El’s ceremonial outfits, however, the elegant work of the decorative breastplate and the geometrical embroideries—all of these combine to reveal a body no one would have to blush at. A body Kal may well be thinking of a tad more often than he is supposed to, hidden as it is behind its layers of clothes.

 “I would offer my assistance,” Kal says when he has made sure he isn’t staring, “but it seems to me like you have everything under control.”

 “Contrary to what everyone seems to think, there are things I am quite able to handle on this planet.”

 Kal chuckles despite himself, and hides the smile that lingers on his face by busying himself with the fastenings of his tunic. It has only been a week since Batman started talking to him as an equal and while Kal should, by all accounts, maintain a proper distance between him and someone so insignificant in Kryptonian society, he finds he does not want to. What does it matter, that Batman is a nobody from nowhere, if he is Kal’s friend?

 “Well, the outfit suits you well,” Kal tells Batman as he finishes putting his breastplate in place.

 “Black does seem to be my color,” Batman agrees, a dry blankness to his tone that makes Kal smile again, “even when everyone else satisfies themselves with the darkest khaki s I’ve ever seen.”

 It takes a bit of time for Kal to understand what khaki means and provide a decent translation. When that is done, though, he cannot help but agree with Batman as to the rather monochromatic state of Kryptonian fashion. Most fabrics that Kal is familiar with are dark and muted, as if the light had been leached out of them, so that the solid black and gray of Batman’s outfits seem almost bright by comparison. It is a good look on his friend, though, and Kal finds himself toying with the idea of saying so as they move to join the rest of his family at the entrance to the Way Down.

 “It is a fancier name than it needs,” Kal admits, rubbing at his neck in embarrassment, once Batman asks about it. “But it is the only way to reach the Stateroom of Peace from here, so….”

 “The only way?”

 “There are the service elevators, I suppose,” Kal says with a shrug.

 There used to be five of those, actually, disseminated at various points around the palace, until the lower botany labs were built and one of the shafts had to be closed; one of Kal’s ancestors disliked the coming and going of servants so close to them. Nowadays the serving staff use the four remaining—small and uncomfortable—service shafts, deliveries are made through a specific balcony, and Kal’s family uses the Way Down, voices echoing against the room-wide walls of polished metal. The feeling of it is rather like sitting in an egg meant to welcome forty adult Kryptonians, and Kal cannot help but wonder how much of his discomfort every time he goes down rests on that particular architectural choice and how much is simply due to what he knows he will have to face downstairs.

 “You live in a fortress,” Batman says after a pause.

 His gaze is still firmly set forward, his shoulders unmoved. Yet there is something in his tone that squeezes at Kal’s heart, a sort of tightness he isn’t sure he can figure out on his own. It leaves him nervous and tense, more hunched than he would like as he fiddles with the hems of his sleeves.

 His father, when he notices it, pulls Kal's hands apart without a word.

 “It is unbecoming,” Kal’s mother says with a shake of her head. “You must rid yourself of this habit, Kal.”

 Kal leaves his cuffs alone and mumbles an apology, though he can’t help but try and explain himself.

 “No one is as fond of these occasions as they would like to appear,” Jor-El replies as the seven of them step into the elevator, “but you cannot shame our House with that sort of ridiculous behavior.”

 Resisting the urge to wrap his arms around his midsection—a much bigger embarrassment than simple fiddling—Kal nods at the ground. It is, in all honesty, a good thing that Batman is here. Kal has no desire for his friend to realize how pathetic he can be just yet—or perhaps ever—and so it is easier to keep his shoulders straight than it would usually be. Besides, while Kal has no illusion about the interest people may find in him—very little, if any—Batman still hasn’t tired of him. In fact, the alien has treated him with something not unlike a form of fondness, like tolerating a faulty but well-worn hunit. It isn’t much. Kal knows it isn’t much. It is, however, better than he remembers ever knowing elsewhere, and it helps him keep his self-consciousness at bay as he takes a small step away from his family and toward Batman.

 They both stay quiet during the ride down, Batman having learned by now not to expect too much conversation from Kal’s parents. Brilliant scientists they may both be, but they are not teachers, nor very patient. And so, despite the keenness of Batman’s mind, behind that strange cowl of his, he has been forced to content with Kal as his only company...until, that is, rumors of his progress reached the Citadel Lord and Ladies, and he was invited to this latest function.

 “Are you always this nervous?” Batman asks just before they exit the elevator.

 Kal would like to have the conversational skill and the confidence to answer ‘often enough’, but in truth it is not that much of an exaggeration to say, “Yes.”

 Batman, thankfully, is not prone to clicking his tongue, shaking his head or, indeed, acknowledging his emotions or opinions in any voluntary way at all. This is good, because while Kal is slowly learning to read the alien—the man, he should probably call him—it makes it easier to pretend Batman doesn’t think he is being ridiculous for this. Kal squares his shoulders instead, breathing in and bracing himself just as the doors to the Stateroom open and the members of the royal family are introduced by order of importance.

 The Stateroom, far too vast for this fairly intimate assembly, has been divided in two for the night. At the front, closest to the exit of the Way Down, stands the royal table, at which Batman, Kal, and the rest of the family will sit on display for all the court to see for the duration of dinner. Then the assembly will move to the back of the room for the evening’s first dance—a mandatory exercise, Kal has been informed—and the other points of interest. There are professional dancers, two magicians, three jugglers, and one woman whose business is in fire; Kal would rather spend the evening admiring them all than dance for even a few minutes, but that is, unfortunately, not an option.

 By Kal’s side, Batman seems decidedly unperturbed by the crowd, the noise, and the myriad of occasions one has to embarrass themselves in this sort of public setting. He moves the way he has always done, head held high as a king’s, back unbowed, step unafraid. He behaves, in fact, more like a prince than Kal knows how to.

 As soon as the first nobles have paid their respects to the king and come to engage the mysterious resident of the palace, Batman slips into an almost liquid version of himself. His mouth stretches into a smile, the set of his shoulders mellows, and even his voice softens enough to become almost unrecognizable. It is like watching the man become another part of himself entirely, and Kal would gape if he were not as aware of their audience as he is.

 He follows Batman at a distance instead, watching him charm Citadel Lord after Citadel Lady, easy and practiced despite the still-obvious gaps in his vocabulary. It is a talent Kal could never cultivate, and a deep sense of shame settles in his chest, almost obscuring the pride he feels in his friend’s talent. The assembly, predictably enough, pays him little mind. Kal is used to that treatment, however, and while it is never pleasant it is easier, with Batman here, to push past the stopping power of indifferent disdain and listen to the gossip circulating in the room.

 If, that is, multiple talks of financial transactions can be considered gossip. Kal is...too well-known as an incompetent to join any of the conversation, but mining projects seem to be all the rage in El, and more than one Lord or Lady is already considering what to do for the king’s birthday, in six months’ time.

 Slowly, Kal trails Batman through the dining half of the Stateroom, wondering if this was how Kara felt when she was first allowed in polite society twenty-five years ago. They make small talk with many people, Batman coming up with a new way of calling Krypton grandiose for each pair of ears that would not accept anything less, and answering countless variations of the question: “What is your favorite thing in El?”

 No one, Kal notices, asks whether Batman misses his home planet at all. Not that he would answer—in Kal's experience, attempts to make the man open up about his emotions go about as well as punching the wall of the Citadel and expecting a door to open. Still, Kal cannot help but think the asking of that question matters, perhaps even as much as the answer. He might be biased, of course. Trying to bolster his own importance. Even so, he is glad he had the mind to ask this, at least once.

 They make their way back to the front of the room, where the dining bell will soon call them and the rest of the royals. Cold golden light shines over the room in waves, like a winter sun filtered through water. It gives the whole scene an eerie look, as if seen in a dream, though Kal does not remember it feeling like this before. Eventually, he and this mellowed version of Batman catch up to a small group composed of Kal’s family, all caught in conversation with General Dru-Zod.

 “You don’t like him?” Batman asks, tone flat enough to almost turn it into an affirmation.

 “I don’t believe he is very fond of me either,” Kal mutters in return, trying and failing to sidestep the question.

 He is under no illusion that Batman missed the evasion, of course. Still, the man has the kindness not to laugh at the childish sentiment, though Kal can’t help but feel like he wants to. Batman approaches the conversational circle, but Kal knows where his own place in this particular configuration is and stands by a nearby table instead, just far enough behind his parents to affect ignorance should any courtly eye wander his way. He can’t be sure Batman glancing at him through the lenses of his cowl is anything more than a figment of his imagination, but he does give a little shrug just the same. Just in case. It is good, after all, for Batman to have more interesting things to do than content himself with Kal’s company all day. This evening will do him good, and if it means he makes better friends than Kal in the process, well, it will have—it will be alright. Perfectly fine.

 As it is, though, none of the speakers pay Batman much attention, and Kal watches General Dru-Zod as he clinks his glass against Zor-El’s first, and Kara’s second.

 “To a most excellent deal,” he says.

 The small circle sips on what Kal assumes is one of the Zodri wines the general is so fond of, unbothered by Batman’s empty hands. The silence settles around them as they savor the taste, Kal’s uncle swishing the wine around his mouth before declaring it absolutely delicious. Kara sways after her second sip, closing her eyes and saying, “Forgive me, this is perhaps a little strong,” as if Kal hadn’t seen her drink men twice her size under a table.

 “Strong wine for a strong future,” Dru-Zod replies, self-assured. “This proposition is a boon from the Gods!”

 “This proposition hasn’t been signed yet,” Kal’s mother counters in a quiet, yet firm voice.

 Around her, the air tenses. Batman, caught between her and Dru-Zod’s piercing gaze, remains unmoved, while Kal’s shoulders bunch together even as he looks away. He knows these people’s faces well enough by now: there is no need for him to look at them to imagine the pursing of his cousin’s lips, the frown on his aunt’s face. The tightness of his uncle’s jaw when he hisses, “Sister.”

 “I am but speaking the truth,” Lara replies, still in an undertone. “You and all your Laborer friends may rejoice all you want, but none of your pretty gifts will amount to anything if Tsiahm-Lo changes his mind at the last second.”

 “Gifts have nothing to do with his decision,” Kal’s aunt replies in a mild, somewhat miffed tone. “His Majesty is perfectly capable of making his own choices, and no one here has any close contact with him.”

 “Not directly,” Kara remarks.

 Kal almost hears the air grow tense after her words. He cannot fathom Batman’s expression has changed much...nor that anyone else looks very pleased. Not with the heaviness of the silence around them. Still, he keeps his eyes turned away from his family, sweeping in wide arcs over the Stateroom and its crowd of milling nobility, the performers entertaining the crowd until the royal family finally feels the need to eat. Lady Ona-Set, robes swishing around her, wanders between tables, no doubt lamenting the excessively modern arrangements of cutlery.

 “Nevertheless,” Jor says with a tone of finality, “it would do Tsiahm-Lo good, rethinking his position. The Melokariel Proposition is pure folly, and my father—”

 Lady Ona-Set must have stirred some dust: something tickles at Kal’s nose and he finds himself sneezing three times in rapid succession.

 “Perhaps we should not speak of this where a foreigner can hear,” Kara interrupts Jor, switching to Council.

 “Perhaps you are right,” Dru-Zod replies, “although there is nothing much more to be discussed. Krypton has been stagnating for far too long, and this project will serve to revive it.”

 “You are a fool if you believe that,” Jor retorts with enough feeling to turn Kal’s head towards him, “and so are the Wise—”

 “Jor!” Zor and Lara hiss at the same time.

 On his chair, Kal stiffens. It is not done, to openly disagree with the Wise Council. Their hearing is quite keen and their new militia, specifically trained in Kandor to help unify the planet under one rule, has lengthened the reach of their arm. El holds some power in Krypton’s politics and retains its own police force, still—as does Zod and the distant Principality of Quod—but even Kal has heard whispers of how briefly prisoners taken by the Council’s militia remain in Ellon prisons. When, that is, they visit them at all. Even for royals, it is not done, to openly disagree with the Wise Council.

 For a moment, Kal thinks his family members will attempt to resurrect the topic and keep the conversation going. They spend a long time looking pensively at their glasses instead and then, without a word, the king leads his entourage up to the main table.

 The meal starts quietly enough, but the conversation on Kal’s right picks up again by the time the first dishes are brought out. To his left, Batman eyes the various foods with a tight pinch to his lips, and Kal smiles, even as he points out his favorites as well as one thing he is not very fond of but believes Batman might enjoy. They are well into the meal—in silence, for Batman is not one for idle chatter—when Batman asks, “What does your grandfather have to do with the Melokariel Proposition?”

 Kal almost chokes on his glass of water, and has to reach for a napkin with some urgency to cover the blunder. He is flushing, he knows it, and his heart is pounding hard when he answers with a question of his own.

 “Whatever do you mean?”

 “Your grandfather,” Batman repeats without looking away from his food, perfect profile insufficient for Kal to figure out what he is thinking. “Your family was talking about the Melokariel Proposition earlier. Your grandfather was mentioned, but I fail to understand how he is related to it.”

 For the barest moment, Kal gapes. He is, after all, widely known for his disinterest in the Melokariel Proposition, and his utter inability to change that fact. That Batman would have questions about it had never crossed his mind, let alone that he would come to Kal of all people for answers.

 “I’m afraid,” he says with some difficulty, cheeks burning with too-familiar shame, “you misunderstand me. I meant I don’t know what the Melokariel Proposition is.”

 Batman’s head turns toward him. The man’s eyes are invisible, and yet Kal still wishes he could squirm away from them.

 “The Melokariel Proposition,” Batman repeats. “I have been here more than two and a half months, and I’ve heard it discussed at least twice a week since then.”

 “Then,” Kal admits, shoulders drooping almost of their own accord, “you have a better mind for these sorts of things than I do.”

 There is no change in Batman’s posture, no indication in his expression or on his face that what he has just heard displeased him. This does not in any way prevent Kal from feeling like a great divide has suddenly opened up between them.

  Kal collapses at the door to the elevator shaft in his labs with a grunt of relief, and takes a couple of minutes to get his breathing back under control. His outfit rearranges into more palace-appropriate garments with a tickle, the slick feeling of dirty water and blood sending his stomach reeling. He wishes sometimes that he could just use one of the regular elevators for these outings of his. The scrutiny that would bring him, however...it would be ill advised, at best. And an unnecessary complication besides. So, abandoned shaft it is, though the necessity of the scheme does not prevent Kal from snorting, from time to time, as he tries to picture his parents’ expressions should they learn of this habit of his.

 “Avoiding servants?” Kryo asks when Kal slowly pushes himself to his feet.

 “Always a success,” Kal replies, and does not watch Kryo bob up and down in acknowledgment.

 His entire body is sorer than it has been a while, bruises growing on top of bruises. Tonight was not a good night. Multiple incidents; he’ll have to tell his family tomorrow. A dozen plants dead. Significant structural damage—well, no, that he can’t share. They would want to see it if he did, and it isn’t as though Kal could show them. In any case, it will be at least three days until Kal can afford to leave his work again.

 Three days might be pushing his luck a little, Kal knows. Two would arouse less suspicion. But the truth is, this is not an effort Kal is willing to expend, not when his only wish is to lie down and sleep for an entire week undisturbed. He may have to, at some point—Batman still has questions about the workings of El in particular and Krypton in general, and Kal is still the only one willing to answer him. Even that, though, has lost quite a lot of its appeal.

 Teaching Batman about his surroundings used to be a breath of fresh air, a dream of spring in the middle of winter. Ever since the ball, though, Batman has been—it feels like something broke. And—it makes sense. Somewhat. Kal was—he has never been an interesting person to begin with. A subject of morbid fascination, maybe. A specimen for the study of Krypton’s society. A cautionary tale for those foolish enough to dream of following into Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van’s hubris-filled footsteps, reminding them that wishing for Krypton’s next great leader will only get them someone like Kal.

 An interesting person, though? Not really.

 The thought twists at Kal’s gut, but he swallows the hard truth nonetheless. Tears won’t change things that are, and so he gulps them down and makes himself face the facts while he walks to the showers at the back of the labs. He is uninteresting. That, he knew. But at the very least, Batman used to find him—useful. Tolerable, maybe. A companion of limited worth, but still preferable to complete solitude and then...well, then, Kal did not see Batman for almost two weeks.

 Three weeks in, and they have finally resumed their usual study sessions, but it is easy to see the tone of them has shifted. There are as many questions as there have ever been, as many topics to touch upon. Batman still teaches whatever English Kal is willing to learn. But where before these moments flowed like long exchanges between friends, it seems to Kal Batman is now merely perusing a list of references, gathering information to examine it at a later date. Seeking pointers to guide his solitary studies rather than answers from someone he trusts. It is—it makes sense. Kal should have known it would happen. Batman has figured him out and moved on. He should have known. He should have. He should.

 But he did not, and tonight more than ever the thought twists inside him, clawing at his throat and the corners of his eyes in a way it hasn’t in the three months and some weeks since Batman crash-landed on Krypton.

 It is no use, spending so much time thinking of this. Kal knows this, and tries to push the thoughts out of his mind as he steps under the shower. Clearly, Batman was unwilling to bother with someone uninterested by the topic of the Melokariel Proposition. That is that; no more to say on the subject.

 Although it does, of course, beg the question of why Batman has become so invested in that project in the first place. What does an alien who did not even come from this galaxy care about a strictly Kryptonian affair? Everyone, after all, keeps repeating the truth that no neighboring planet will be affected, let alone Batman’s distant and unknown solar system. Why, then, has the man developed such curiosity about it? That he did not know of Krypton’s existence even while passing by it close enough to crash on it after an accident, Kal can believe. Light-speed spacecrafts are all equipped with automated pilots, and Batman did say he was traveling on business, attempting to reach friends who had required his help. The lack of help, too, is unsurprising. Batman did not have any way to communicate for a long time, and no one—not even Kal, he realizes, wincing—thought to offer help in getting him back home.

 But why would he grow so passionate about the Melokariel Proposition as to reject Kal on the sole basis of his lack of interest in it?

 “Would you like me to order some breakfast to be brought up?” Kryo asks when Kal emerges from his shower in a hurry and immediately shoves himself into his now-anthracite tunic.

 “In two hours, please,” Kal replies. “I have something to do, first.”

 It must be the space making him paranoid. It must be. There is too much of an echo, down there, too much darkness, like a cave of insanely regular proportions. Still, the doubt clings to Kal’s skin as he strides across the space, drooping leaves brushing at his face and arms as he goes on, wishing desperately for answers—or, failing that, for some way to stop thinking altogether...two things he might, in fact, be able to find in the same place.

 The Adventures of Flamebird has always been a source of comfort to him, well-worn pages and cover a soothing sight of their own by now. It would do him good to hold it, to lose himself in the myriad of tales it contains and the distant, unknowable lands of Krypton in its earliest days. It would ease his mind; soothe him enough, perhaps, to let him sleep and forget the night’s casualties, at least long enough to survive. And since the book has been residing in Batman’s bedchamber for several weeks now, perhaps Kal will manage to seize whatever feeble courage he has and ask some of the questions that, he can tell, will not leave him alone otherwise.

 He has no desire to do it. Kal is many things, but brave is not one of them, and the fear of losing whatever shreds of Batman’s friendship he still has stops him in his tracks at the bifurcation between the guests’ quarters and the royal apartments. He is, however, a Prince of El. Not the most glorious of them, and not a particularly good one, either; but if he suspects something strange is going on in the palace, it is his duty to examine it. He must do this, and he must do this fairly—he cannot let his desire for friendship blind him to whatever reasons Batman might have to research a planet-wide project involving so much energy...and if those reasons come with ill intent, then Kal will have to stop the man. Friend or no.

 Kal knows his duty, he truly does, but he cannot deny that relief washes over him, a few minutes later, when Batman does not answer the knock on his door. For a brief moment, the urge to forget about all of this seizes him, and he almost turns back. But tonight has been a bad night, and a dozen pe—plants have been lost by his fault. Four of them only saplings. He should have—done many things. He did not, and now they are lost, and that knowledge is what spurs him on to push Batman’s door open. The book can wait, though Kal will miss its presence tonight; his questions cannot.

 Making no noise across the carpeted floor is an easy feat, with shoes as light and supple as socks. Even then Kal is wary. Batman, he has learned, sleeps lightly. And, these days, most likely in short stretches. The first, Batman has admitted to him directly. The second, Kal is forced to assume from what he has seen of the man. He naps at random times, and is irritated and bad-tempered when left to sleep longer than he meant to. He has the uncanny ability to fall asleep anywhere, without needing to adopt an even vaguely horizontal position. All of these are symptoms Kal recognizes from his own poor sleeping habits, ways to get some rest between his nightly work and the demands of a princely life. It is neither healthy nor agreeable, but Kal has grown used to it, and he is at least capable of recognizing the signs of it in another, when faced with them.

 All of this, of course, can mean only one thing: something has come to disrupt Batman’s sleeping patterns since he distanced himself from Kal. Something that probably can’t  be the fault of any other Kryptonian, for Kal is still the only one to speak to Batman with any regularity, and he knows perfectly well no work was given to the man besides making sure he does not accidentally insult his hosts, or his hosts’ guests. The question now is to find out what, exactly, that something is.

 Kal, stomach heavy as a stone, crosses from Batman’s living quarters into his bedchamber without a sound, relieved to find the man asleep with his back to the door. He is snoring, too, soft and regular, and Kal allows himself a relieved breath before he creeps closer, knowing Batman well enough by now to realize nothing of importance in his Kryptonian life will be kept out of his reach.

 Batman’s Earth outfit rests on a dummy by the bedside, mended torso, yellow belt and all. To the right of that, immediately left of the bed, the crimson glow of the moon washes over a pile of books—some Kal recognizes, some he doesn’t—with some kind of sharp-looking weapon and, at the top, a bracelet of some kind sporting the all-too-familiar symbol of the Green Lanterns. Kal can’t help but stare at it for far longer than he should before he grabs it, shoves it into a brand-new inside pocket of his tunic, and has to put all his focus into exiting as quietly as he came in.

 He stops outside of Batman’s quarters for a moment, grateful for Kryo and its never ending watch as he tries to sort through his thoughts. A Green Lantern! In the palace! If anyone knew this—no. Better not think of it. Not, at any rate, until Kal has decided what to do about this information. He is not thinking clearly, he knows. Cannot possibly handle this information with the amount of care and objectivity it requires on his own, not without several days to ponder it, and he does not have that kind of time. This in turn can mean but one thing: he needs counsel, and not from Kryo, which does not know the meaning of affection. No, he needs someone whom he can trust, and someone who will understand, at least in part, the dilemma he finds himself in.

 With a clear path in mind at last, Kal sighs, braces himself, and sets off toward the upper levels of the royal palace.

  Kara’s pillow slaps him in the face with enough force to disorient him for a moment, and Kal only owes the lack of a second blow to the sharpness of her reflexes. She hisses imprecations at him for a while, until he pulls out Batman’s bracelet and cuts her short. Without a word, Kara reaches for the item, scowling when Kal pulls it out of her reach on reflex. She sits up straighter and asks:

 “Where did you get this? I swear to the Gods, Kal, if you contacted the Green Lanterns—”

 “Do you truly think I would be so foolish?” Kal hisses back.

 There are those on Krypton who have managed to get in touch with the Green Lanterns and remained on the planet, but Kal has never contacted any of them directly, though he is working with them after a fashion. The Green Lanterns’ name may only serve as a curse in the higher circles of Krypton, but the general population is hardly fond of them either.

 “Then where in Vohc’s name did you find this?”

 “Batman’s room, as a matter of fact,” Kal admits.

 Kara mutters something that sounds a lot like ‘Rao help us’ with the deepest scowl Kal has ever seen on her face. He supposes he cannot blame her for it. She looks him straight in the eyes then, still frowning, and Kal has to force himself to hold her gaze, to show her without words that he is not entirely careless but merely out of his depth.

 Eventually, Kara’s face goes through a complicated movement and, with the twist of her mouth that signals questions too delicate to be dealt with immediately, she asks, “Are you sure no one else knows?”

 Kal nods with a sigh of relief. He can’t know for sure what Kara’s advice will be, but whatever happens next, at least he can have some control over the situation, and maybe—hopefully—spare Batman the worst outcomes. Colluding with the Green Lanterns would send him to jail, at best—and not an Ellon one, at that. Kal may not be an expert on the topic, but he knows his uncle: there are not many things in this world that tighten Zor-El’s jaw with a mere mention, and the people who leave El for Kandorian cells tend not to come back.

 “Good,” Kara says.

 “Do you think the Lanterns could have sent him here on purpose?” Kal asks, heart in his throat. “I don’t think so, but I—I don’t know that I can tell what I wish to be the truth apart from what really is.”

 Kara clicks her tongue as she scoots to the edge of her bed and crushes Kal into a brusque hug.

 “They would have to be stupid to do that,” she says after she releases him. “Much though Krypton’s power may be….”

 “Diminished?”

 For once, Kara’s distinctly unimpressed look leaves Kal mostly unaffected. Krypton has been steadily declining for several centuries now, and the Wise Council’s reach has only grown upon Krypton these past decades, not beyond it.

 “Let’s call it that,” Kara begrudges after a beat. “Nevertheless, we are still a force to be reckoned with. It would be foolish of them to come look for trouble our way when we have respected the terms of the Treaty. Especially with Leaark and Axor at each other’s throats, at any rate.”

 Kal does not know what is going on between those two planets exactly, although he understands some kind of blood feud is involved. Still, it does not take a genius to grasp why the Green Lanterns would be keeping an eye on that rather than spying on a long-dormant enemy who has made no effort to communicate with the rest of the galaxy since the Independence Wars. The thought releases something in Kal’s chest, but only for a short while.

 Just because Kara sees things this way, after all, does not mean her father would agree, to say nothing of the Wise Council. Kal wouldn’t expect them to care whether a friend of the Lanterns came to Krypton by design or by accident. And Batman...well, even assuming he was lying when he said he knew nothing of Krypton when he landed there, his species, his planet, and even his solar system have no presence in Krypton’s database. There is nothing, intergalactic law or otherwise, to forbid Batman from associating with the Lanterns from Earth, so why should he be punished for it?

 But then, of course, there is also the matter of his latest activities.

 “I think,” Kal says with a heavy heart, “we still need to keep an eye on him.”

 Relating his reasoning to Kara only takes a few minutes, but Kal still feels like he has been speaking forever by the end of it. It is the right thing to do, he knows. Even for Batman’s sake—it wouldn’t do to let him involve himself in something as fraught as the Melokariel Proposition without at least a warning. That thought, however, does not do much to ease the feeling that he is betraying a friend, and he knows he has been too obvious in his worry when Kara loops an arm around his shoulders again.

 “Perhaps you should have a conversation with him, and take his version of things into account before we decide what to do about him. If he is planning to do harm to Krypton, we will need to stop him...but I see no need to punish him if he is only an unlucky traveler a little too curious about things he does not understand.”

 Kal nods, too afraid to voice the thought weighing on his mind: Batman seems too smart not to have any notion of what he is doing. Kal is still hoping all of this is an unfortunate misunderstanding, but already his heart sinks with the possibility of tragedy.

 “He hasn’t been friendly toward me since your father’s latest ball,” he admits, glad that he manages to keep the tears clogging his throat out of his voice. “I doubt he would listen to me even if I tried to broach the topic...and it is too risky to have that conversation in the more public places of the palace.”

 “Well,” Kara sighs, settling back under the covers, “the other you, then.”

[jeremystrele]

11 Mirrors That Are Having A Moment!

11 Mirrors That Are Having A Moment!

Interiors

Lauren Li

Photo – Caitlin Mills for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli

Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files.

I’m not here to tell you that mirrors are such great additions in a room because they reflect a lovely view, bounce light and can make a room appear bigger. I think we have heard that all before, right?

There is however, something to be said for the versatility and timelessness of mirrors. Plus they are two-dimensional and three-dimensional at the same time. If you already have artwork adorning the walls, then a mirror is just the right thing to mix it up a little – the great thing about adding a mirror is that, unlike artwork, we don’t have to think about if the colours will ‘clash’ in the space.

When selecting a mirror the most important thing to consider is the scale, shape and frame. Here are some tips:

Well hung

Who wants seven years bad luck? Not me. Don’t risk it when it comes to hanging a mirror. Make sure that you are using the correct fixing to suit the wall type, is it a plaster wall or masonry? Maybe the sticky hooks aren’t such a good idea this time! For a heavy mirror it’s well worth calling in the professional art hanger. They may not be as expensive as you think and well worth saving the headache.

Where

Mirrors are so versatile, they can be moved around to the entry, hallway, living room, bedroom etc. and they are guaranteed to work. When considering the placement of the mirror, check that it’s reflecting a view that you want to see. Is it a view of the trees, or the neighbours clothesline? Test it out first.

When hanging a mirror on the wall it’s important to not hang it too high so that it chops the viewers face refection in half. Think about hanging at eye-level for the person experiencing the space, rather than centring to the height of the wall.

How many is too many?

Personally I find too many mirrors in a room can be a bit too much. I don’t want to keep bumping into my own reflection! Depending on the room, I would limit to two mirrors. Instead, I like combining mirrors with artwork in the room.

Type

A large floor mirror that leans against the wall can be transformative in a room, especially when its frameless and layered over with a plants or furniture (as seen above in Josh + Jenna’s amazing dream home!). It really adds depth to a room and can make it feel larger.

The most obvious placement for a wall mirror is is over a fireplace mantle or above a console table in an entry, but incorporating a mirror into a gallery wall arrangement (especially when the shape or frame is characterful) can almost bring as much pizazz as an artwork itself!

A table mirror is a very cute way to create a ‘dressing room’ vibe when placed onto a chest of drawers or table in a bedroom.

A fabulous statement mirror injects loads of personality to a space. It could have coloured mirror glass, a convex mirror, have a funky frame, be a vintage piece or just an interesting shape that means that the fact that it’s a mirror is almost secondary.

Pond Mirror from Ferm Living.

Void mirror from Joshua Space.

Wavy Mirror from Knot Studio.

1. Ferm Living

The organic shapes of the Pond mirror series by Danish brand Ferm Living are the perfect meeting of form and function. Locally you can buy this brand at Design Stuff!

RRP from $559. Find it here. 

2. Joshua Space

No two mirrors are the same in these feature pieces by Joshua Space, hand-made-to-order in Melbourne by Joshua. They come in a range of groovy colours and sizes!

RRP $480 – $1280 (size dependent). Find them here. 

3. Knot Studio

I’m loving these wave shapes that are all the rage right now, they help break up the straight lines of a room. The Wavy mirror from Knot Studio is handcrafted from solid American Oak in Sydney.

RRP from $800. Find it here. 

Left to right: Torre mirror from CCSS. Staffanstorp mirror from Ikea. Mary Arch mirror from McMullin & Co.

4. CCSS

When you need a mirror and a light at the same time, this is for you! The Torre mirror from local brand CCSS is back-lit, which is pure genius! Made in Melbourne and available in some gorgeous colours but if you need it in a custom colour, they can do it!

RRP from $2,630. Find it here. 

5. Ikea

The Staffanstorp wall mirror from Ikea is a great way to bring a little texture and warmth into a space, and is very budget-friendly!

RRP $49. Find it here. 

6. McMullin & Co

The Mary Arch mirror from McMullin & Co is a refined cane design, simple with a lovely natural edge detail. It comes in a floor mirror size too for those big open archway vibes!

RRP from $279. Find it here. 

Floor mirror from Douglas & Bec.

Gabriella (half) mirror from Sarah Ellison.

7. Douglas & Bec

Gorgeously, simple and elegant pieces made by Douglas & Bec in New Zealand. This floor mirror is the perfect addition to the bedroom or even an entry area.

RRP from $2166. Find it here. 

8. Sarah Ellison

Those 70s beachy vibes encapsulated into a mirror. How perfect.

RRP from $795. Find it here. 

Left to right: Iridescent mirror by Studio Roso from Fritz Hansen. Kaari mirror from Middle of Nowhere. Dawn Oval mirror from Middle of Nowhere.

9. Fritz Hansen – Studio Rosso

This iconic Danish brand may be known for design classics of the past by the likes of Arne Jacobson and Hans Wagner, but Lately Fritz Hansen have released some design classics for our time, like these printed iridescent mirrors by Studio Roso. They are are real piece of art on their own!

Find Fritz Hansen at Cult. 

10. Middle of Nowhere

The right amount of ‘simple’ and ‘statement’ shaped mirrors that makes Middle of Nowhere so versatile.

RRP from $248. Find them here. 

Brass Curve mirror from Tigmi Trading.

Argonaute French ceramic mirror from Tigmi Trading.

11. Tigmi Trading

There is something for the minimalist and the maximalist at Tigmi Trading! Each of these pieces are quietly characterful.

RRP from $260. Find them here. 

[ghostlenin]

Review: Piranesi

First, here is my spoiler free review: If you haven’t read Piranesi (2020) by Susanna Clarke yet, do yourself an absolute favor and grab yourself a copy. It reads quickly, and is one of the most beautifully-written and evocative books I’ve read. I loved it. I wholeheartedly and enthusiastically recommend it to anyone who enjoys reading fiction.

If you haven’t read it and you don’t want spoilers, don’t keep reading this review after the picture of the cover below. I read it on the recommendation of someone who’s critical opinion I trust, and they said just to get it and not read anything about what it is - dive right in. 

1. Besides the quality and texture of the prose itself, the most remarkable thing about this book is how vividly it conjures images of the House and its infinite statues. I slowed down my reading many times to more fully feel what the House was (which was often hard to do as the book is really quite the page-turner), and this is definitely one of those instances where - as much as I would love to see these spaces in art or film - any visual representation is going to pale in comparison to what I image it to be.

On that note, in my head, in many of these rooms the walls are painted a deep red, offset against the white marble of the alcoves, plinths, and stairs. Not every room, but many. Curious to know how other people saw them.

2. At the beginning of the book, I imagined the House as a kind of computer simulation or augmented reality space and that “Piranesi” was some kind of sophisticated AI, maybe one of the statues come to life, maybe created as a caretaker, maybe as the Minotaur at the center of the Labyrinth, but one who had softened over time from murderous rage to effuglent wonder. I’m glad I was wrong about that, because once the mystery of who Piranesi, Ketterly,  Arne-Sayles, and Matthew Rose Sorenson are starts unfolding I was like “oh yeah, this is going way better places than I thought.”

3. After finishing it, I looked up people’s reviews on reddit and goodreads and it seemed people were almost competing to grasp at straws to find the meaning, as if there were only one thing this book was about, and I have to admit I was surprised at just how many people weren’t willing to engage with the magic or magical realism of the text. “Obviously, the magic isn’t real, it’s just some guy having a breakdown/experiencing one of a variety of mental illnesses.” To those people, I say: it’s fine to have your opinion, but I’m sad your imaginations are so broken where you can’t suspend your disbelief in the context of the story. Which, of course, is ironic given that a main theme in the book is that to access magic or the great and ancient knowledge you have to cast your mind back to a time before rational thought got its hooks in you.

Other people in their reviews also drew connections between the magic present in this book and in Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, Clarke’s other Big Book, which is a very neat thing to notice: it’s been far too long since I read that one. People also commented on how the magic here seems wild or large or weird or unbounded, but most of those types of statements seemed to imply that was a bad thing; maybe they’ve been made too accustomed to authors like Brandon Sanderson or the huge resurgence of D&D and the spelled-out (ha) rules for magic, like it’s supposed to be a science. Which, again, ironic, given the role and juxtaposition of reason and its anitheses in this book. This is such a frustratingly narrow take on things as limitless as fiction and magic. It’s also - uh oh, it’s cultural criticism time - a very white, male, settler colonial way to conceive of the world. Things only count, are only good, only matter if they can be categorized, cataloged, charted, understood, because then they can be safely used, controlled, managed, owned, and exploited. Other ways of thinking or being are uncomfortable, are lesser, are systematically devalued and degraded, are cast aside, and get labeled things like nonsense, hysteria, lunacy, barbaric, savage, tainted, occult, exotic - turns of phrase and ways of thinking that reinforce patriarchy and white supremacy. This is also made explicit in the Real World sections of the book, including in some of the journal entries. Arne-Sayles is a “transgressive thinker” and roundly dismissed as some New Age kooky gay mystic (as well as an abusive and manipulative asshole, remoreseless sociopath, and likely murderer). Raphael hides the truth from her cop partner, because she knows that the Truth is too far beyond the bounds of rationality for it to be believed. Even the version of Matthew-Piranesi at the end of the book is happy to let others think what they want, whatever convenient fictions they need to make peace with the kidnappings, disappearances, and murders, because he knows what’s really going on - and he uses that knowledge to help. He helps Raphael in navigating the House so she can find a place of meditative peace. He helps Jimmy in acknowledging both his trauma and his truth, and providing him a way to get back to the House.

4. One of the most beautiful messages or meanings I got out of the story is how Clarke presents and discusses the multiplicities of identity that each of us carry and embody and present. Piranesi’s recognition that Matthew lives inside his heart, somewhere, but has just been asleep is both a beautiful and kind depiction of this idea, especially since Piranesi’s identity is one created from trauma and loss. The little biographical blurb on Matthew Rose Sorenson - “the English son of a half-Danish, half-Scottish father and a Ghanaian mother” - functions like a sharp blast of emphasis: not only is Piranesi remembering this other person he was, he must have been, through his journals, but he’s revealing (and being revealed to) that Matthew himself is a multitude. 

Though I didn’t know this until after I read the book, I think it’s especially poignant here to point out that the audiobook is read by Chiwetel Ejiofor.

5. Can we please not have sympathetic cop characters? There’s already too many of them. And I know that only one of them comes off well, albeit with that eye-twitching trope of But She’s Not Like All The Other Girls (Police Version), but come on.

6. The ending of the book, where Matthew-Piranesi, the synthesis of them both and therefore someone entirely new, begins to notice that Statues of the House in the faces of the people walking in the park welled up that knot of emotion that sits high up in the chest. It’s beautiful. It hints at the ways in which the magical moves just under the surface while acknowledging the limits and failings of that surface. It points to something better, and at the end of the day, that is exactly the kind of image I needed to be left with.

[resting-meme-face]

au where 12 takes quill and charlie as companions instead of dumping them off at coal hill school

This would not be a happy story, because I think this is probably somehow A WORSE idea than leaving a bunch of 17-year-olds to guard a space-time incursion and a genocide machine, with only a slave for adult supervision. I think, in our universe, he probably realized this was a bad idea, yet just was not capable of thinking of any actual, you know….good ideas. Because he’s the Doctor.

it’s not that the Doctor thinks of them as projects…it’s just that he thinks he has a lot to offer them in terms of his personal experience

he’s got a well-balanced program for getting over last-of-your-kind-itis. run away, very fast, so then your emotional turmoil can’t catch you

and, okay, so, ultimately, that leads him to occasionally forget that they’re actual separate beings and not an extension of his own psyche that he can simply fix

Stuff about the Arn first, because I think it’s the elephant in the room. Or the elephant in Quill’s brain

there’s no way the Doctor would be cool with it. he might think Quill deserves punishment, but not that. 

but I don’t think he has/had a way to get it out that didn’t seem super suicidal, and while that’s obviously a risk Quill’s prepared to take, it’s not one the Doctor is

so they’re stuck like that, at least, but the Doctor’s like….70% sure he can teach them better moral values that make this situation more tenable and let them grow into better people.

60% sure

kind of

maybe

shit.

Charlie still doesn’t tell anyone about the cabinet. Claims it’s empty. Keeps that to himself, and doesn’t share with anyone that he has the weight of all those souls on his consciousness. To protect them. This slowly develops into a festering neuroses.

Charlie hangs on to every word the Doctor says like it’s gospel. 

Except trying to emulate the Doctor, without much life experience and a poor understanding of moral nuance, gives Charlie just enough rope to hang himself

At least once, quite a lot of people die because Charlie is being princely and making Right Decisions ™ and doing what the Doctor would do

Quill vascillates wildly between thinking the Doctor’s the dumbest creature in the universe, and having a healthy respect for him

The Doctor’s much better suited at dealing with that behavior

But Quill has a far lower rate of obeying the Doctor’s commands than basically any other companion

I mean, he expects companions to, generally, ignore things like, “Stay here and don’t get into any trouble.” But he usually wouldn’t expect much pushback on something like, “Don’t throw that guy into the forcefield to short-circuit it, I’ll just get it with my sonic.” 

And she has to do anything Charlie orders, or whatever she can to protect him, so that complicates things…

And between Charlie’s Sense of Responsibility and Quill’s different moral compass, further restrained by her limited autonomy, that’s about when he realizes he has made some errors in his choice of companions

Oh, that and the Shadowkin following them around 

Because there’s no way Corakinus would let the loose end of the Cabinet pass by, even in this ‘verse. 

And the Doctor, contrary to what he thinks, is no, really, a tidal wave sweeping through time

So, it’s not particularly hard to find, then start wiping out the entirety of any planet that the Doctor’s ventured too along with his other new friends from the Last-Of-Their-Kind Club (exclusive membership, terrible parties)

There’s no way Quill makes it out of this alive.

Actually, she probably dies way before any significant confrontation with the Shadowkin. The amount of times the Doctor’s adventures lead to the party splitting up, and with Quill’s survival rate significantly dropping as soon as she’s away from Charlie? 

Like, I can think of several cliffhangers where if Quill were the companion, she would just end up dead. 

On top of that, Quill would have been eaten by the giant clam in Genesis, and that’s just sad. 

Nope, she’s suuuuuuuuuuuper dead.

And of course an ultimate confrontation with the Shadowkin is gonna take place on Earth. It’s the Doctor’s favorite planet. H

e’s gonna protect it above all else, and there’s no way he hasn’t taken his new ‘buddies’ there. 

Soon as he figures out what’s going on, he goes back to 5 minutes after the last time they left Earth or whatever, to save it

I’m not sure how this ends. 

Either Charlie dies, and that drives the Doctor to genocide the Shadowkin himself

Or Charlie genocides the Shadowkin, and the Doctor and Charlie uneasily part ways

Either way, I think it’s the bad ending. 

God, that was depressing….if anyone else sees a way of this ending up better, please do tell me. I think if a) they could remove the arn somehow and b) Quill and the Doctor find out about the Cabinet being real, then it could have a different ending (and I think b is more likely if a happens), but as it is now, as I see it most likely happening, yeah. Not good. 

Give me an AU or a situation in any of my fandoms, and I’ll expand upon it.

[networkingdefinition]

Architect Quotes

Official Website: Architect Quotes

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• A journalist and an information architect face exactly the same problem – how to give shape to the pile of information in front of you in a way that will make it easy and natural for people to comprehend. I can’t imagine any better preparation for the work I do now. – Jesse James Garrett • A modern, harmonic and lively architecture is the visible sign of authentic democracy. – Walter Gropius • Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest art of all the arts. Painting and sculpture are but images, Are merely shadows cast by outward things On stone or canvas, having in themselves No separate existence. Architecture, Existing in itself, and not in seeming A something it is not, surpasses them As substance shadow. – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

• All architecture is great architecture after sunset; perhaps architecture is really a nocturnal art, like the art of fireworks. – Gilbert K. Chesterton • All architecture is shelter, all great architecture is the design of space that contains, cuddles, exalts, or stimulates the persons in that space. – Philip Johnson • All fine architectural values are human values, else not valuable. – Frank Lloyd Wright • An architect’s most useful tools are an eraser at the drafting board, and a wrecking bar at the site. – Frank Lloyd Wright • And when an architect has designed a house with large windows, which is a necessity today in order to pull the daylight into these very deep houses, then curtains come to play a big role in architecture. – Arne Jacobsen • Architects of grandeur are often the master builders of disillusionment. – Bryant H. McGill • Architects today tend to depreciate themselves, to regard themselves as no more than just ordinary citizens without the power to reform the future. – Kenzo Tange • Architects, painters, and sculptors must recognize anew and learn to grasp the composite character of a building both as an entity and in its separate parts. Only then will their work be imbued with the architectonic spirit which it has lost as salon art. Together let us desire, conceive, and create the new structure of the future, which will embrace architecture and sculpture and painting in one unity and which will one day rise toward heaven from the hands of a million workers like the crystal symbol of a new faith. – Walter Gropius • Architecture begins where engineering ends. – Walter Gropius • Architecture can’t fully represent the chaos and turmoil that are part of the human personality, but you need to put some of that turmoil into the architecture, or it isn’t real. – Frank Stella • Architecture is basically a container of something. I hope they will enjoy not so much the teacup, but the tea. – Yoshio Taniguchi • Architecture is life, or at least it is life itself taking form and therefore it is the truest record of life as it was lived in the world yesterday, as it is lived today or ever will be lived. – Frank Lloyd Wright • Architecture is not based on concrete and steel, and the elements of the soil. It’s based on wonder. – Daniel Libeskind • Architecture is really about well-being. I think that people want to feel good in a space … On the one hand it’s about shelter, but it’s also about pleasure. – Zaha Hadid • Architecture is the art of how to waste space. – Philip Johnson • Architecture is the learned game, correct and magnificent, of forms assembled in the light. – Le Corbusier • Architecture is the reaching out for the truth. – Louis Kahn • Architecture is the triumph of human imagination over materials, methods, and men, to put man into possession of his own earth – Frank Lloyd Wright • Architecture is to make us know and remember who we are. – Geoffrey Jellicoe • Architecture should speak of its time and place, but yearn for timelessness. – Frank Gehry • Architecture, of all the arts, is the one which acts the most slowly, but the most surely, on the soul. – Ernest Dimnet • Artists to my mind are the real architects of change, and not the political legislators who implement change after the fact. – William S. Burroughs • Artists to my mind are the real architects of change. – William S. Burroughs

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Architect', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_architect').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_architect img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Believe me, that was a happy age, before the days of architects, before the days of builders. – Seneca the Younger • Can’t nothing make your life work if you ain’t the architect. – Terry McMillan • Color is a very critical thing. I’ve found that architects don’t like colors. Engineers too. And so somebody has to stand in. Because this is the finish of it. It is the emotional part of a structure. – John Hench • Designed by architects with honorable intentions but hands of palsy. – Jimmy Breslin • Each man the architect of his own fate. – Sallust • Every great architect is – necessarily – a great poet. He must be a great original interpreter of his time, his day, his age. – Frank Lloyd Wright • Everyone used to want to be star architects. That’s no longer the case. – Shigeru Ban • Faber est suae quisque fortunae. Each man is the architect of his own fate. – Appius Claudius Caecus • Form follows profit is the aesthetic principle of our times. – Richard Rogers • Gratitude is an attitude that hooks us up to our source of supply. And the more grateful you are, the closer you become to your maker, to the architect of the universe, to the spiritual core of your being. It’s a phenomenal lesson. – Bob Proctor • He who rejects change is the architect of decay. The only human institution which rejects progress is the cemetery. – Harold Wilson • Home is where you hang your architect. – Clare Boothe Luce • I almost rented a house by an architect named Schindler, but I couldn’t afford it. It was a jewel – Parker Stevenson • I am trying to counter the fixity of architectures, their stolidity, with elements that give an ineffable immaterial quality. – Toyo Ito • I believe that the way people live can be directed a little by architecture. – Tadao Ando • I did a comparison of a school of architects known as the New York Five. I compared their articulation of wall surfaces, which I enjoyed very much – Parker Stevenson • I don’t divide architecture, landscape and gardening; to me they are one. – Luis Barragan • I feel however, that we architects have a special duty and mission… (to contribute) to the socio-cultural development of architecture and urban planning – Kenzo Tange • I feel most strongly about Jerusalem, because architects ultimately have to address that city. – Ben Nicholson • I have an expensive hobby: buying homes, redoing them, tearing them down and building them up the way they want to be built. I want to be an architect. – Sandra Bullock • I have designed the most buildings of any living American architect. – Alexander Jackson Davis • I learn more from creative people in other disciplines than I do even from other architects because I think they have a way of looking at the world that is really important. – Tom Kundig • I think Miss Monroe as architecture is extremely good architecture, and she’s a very natural actress, and a very good one. – Frank Lloyd Wright • I went to visit my father to tell him that I was going to go to college and become an architect – that was my dream. I was like, yeah I graduated from school, but it’s not like you showed up for that. But all he was worried about is whether or not I wanted money from him. – Jake Roberts • If architecture had nothing to do with art, it would be astonishingly easy to build houses, but the architect’s task – his most difficult task – is always that of selecting. – Arne Jacobsen • I’m often called an old-fashioned modernist. But the modernists had the absurd idea that architecture could heal the world. That’s impossible. And today nobody expects architects to have these grand visions any more. – Thom Mayne • In Europe, architects consider themselves artists. They think they’re special when they win a competition. – Helmut Jahn • In those countries with centuries of a craft tradition behind their building methods, techniques are tightly coordinated under the direction of the architect. – Arthur Erickson • It is therefore indisputable that the limbs of architecture are derived from the limbs of man. – Michelangelo • It’s not about your greatness as an architect, but your compassion – Samuel Mockbee • Let architects sing of aesthetics that bring Rich clients in hordes to their knees; Just give me a home, in a great circle dome Where stresses and strains are at ease. – R. Buckminster Fuller • Make big plans; aim high in hope and work, remembering that a noble, logical diagram once recorded will not die. – Daniel Burnham • May I say, finally, that I have no illusions of grandeur; quite to the contrary, I am very humble in my knowledge that through forty years of my life my life has been an open book of service to my fellow architects and for the public good. – Ralph Thomas Walker • Most architects say: I want to use this type of glass, even if it’s too reflective or doesn’t let enough light in. However, the use of a certain type of glass might change the comfort level. – Helmut Jahn • My dad’s an architect and my mom owned a French bakery for twelve years. – Alison Lohman • My father knew the charming side of my mother, and my mother thought that he was attentive and pleasant and was an architect, which was a respectable profession, but I don’t think that they actually got to know one another deeply. – Christopher Durang • My father, Robert Ernst, was teaching as an architect at the technical high school of our city. – Richard Ernst • My passion and great enjoyment for architecture, and the reason the older I get the more I enjoy it, is because I believe we – architects – can effect the quality of life of the people. – Richard Rogers • No architect troubled to design houses that suited people who were to live in them, because that would have meant building a whole range of different houses. It was far cheaper and, above all, timesaving to make them identical. – Michael Ende • No architecture is so haughty as that which is simple. – John Ruskin • Noble life demands a noble architecture for noble uses of noble men. Lack of culture means what it has always meant: ignoble civilization and therefore imminent downfall. – Frank Lloyd Wright • Not many architects have the luxury to reject significant things. – Rem Koolhaas • Nothing requires the architect’s care more than the due proportions of buildings. – Marcus Vitruvius Pollio • One of the great beauties of architecture is that each time, it is like life starting all over again. – Renzo Piano • Organic architecture seeks superior sense of use and a finer sense of comfort, expressed in organic simplicity. – Frank Lloyd Wright • Switzerland is a small, steep country, much more up and down than sideways, and is all stuck over with large brown hotels built on the cuckoo clock style of architecture. – Ernest Hemingway • Sympathetic cracks. A term frequently used by architects and surveyors in terms of ageing houses. I know what they mean. – Ted Dexter • Talking about music is like dancing about architecture. – Steve Martin • The Architect is just one of a series of works which examine the confrontation of innocence and experience, illustrating the complex ethics of power that exist between reader and writer, critic and artist, the human and the divine. – John Scott • The architect, Peter Arens who is the monstrous carbuncle architect, not merely did his design which had won a public competition never get built but his practice suffered financially for some years. – Anthony Holden • The dialogue between client and architect is about as intimate as any conversation you can have, because when you’re talking about building a house, you’re talking about dreams. – Robert A. M. Stern • The first gesture of an architect is to draw a perimeter; in other words, to separate the microclimate from the macro space outside. This in itself is a sacred act. Architecture in itself conveys this idea of limiting space. It’s a limit between the finite and the infinite. From this point of view, all architecture is sacred. – Mario Botta • The great problem of the concert hall is that the shoebox is the ideal shape for acoustics but that no architect worth their names wants to build a shoebox. – Rem Koolhaas • The interesting thing is when we design and architect a server, we don’t design it for Windows or Linux, we design it for both. We don’t really care, as long as we’re selling the one the customer wants. – Michael Dell • The mother art is architecture. Without an architecture of our own we have no soul of our own civilization. – Frank Lloyd Wright • The only legitimate artists in England are the architects. – Benjamin Haydon • The principle of the Gothic architecture is infinity made imaginable. – Samuel Taylor Coleridge • The terrifying and edible beauty of Art Nouveau architecture. – Salvador Dali • The Washingtonian said it shouldn’t be built. The gallery’s East Building is now considered a triumph, and members of the American Association of Architects have voted it one of the best buildings of all time. – J. Carter Brown • There will never be great architects or great architecture without great patrons. – Edwin Lutyens • To provide meaningful architecture is not to parody history, but to articulate it. – Daniel Libeskind • To work in architecture you are so much involved with society, with politics, with bureaucrats. It’s a very complicated process to do large projects. You start to see the society, how it functions, how it works. Then you have a lot of criticism about how it works. – Ai Weiwei • Under capitalism everybody is the architect of his own fortune. – Ludwig von Mises • We are called to be architects of the future, not its victims. – R. Buckminster Fuller • We should have a system of economics that is structure that is organic tools. We do not have it. We are all hanging by our eyebrows from skyhooks economically, just as we are architecturally. – Frank Lloyd Wright • When it comes to getting things done, we need fewer architects and more bricklayers. – Colleen Barrett • When you look at Japanese traditional architecture, you have to look at Japanese culture and its relationship with nature. You can actually live in a harmonious, close contact with nature – this very unique to Japan. – Tadao Ando • Where do architects and designers get their ideas? The answer, of course, is mainly from other architects and designers, so is it mere casuistry to distinguish between tradition and plagiarism? – Nancy Banks-Smith • With a painter or a sculptor, one cannot begin to alter his works, but an architect has to put up with anything, because he makes utility objects – the building is there to be used, and times change. – Arne Jacobsen • You should just enjoy it, but as soon as you decide that it is going to be your career, no matter whether you want to be a doctor or an architect or anything else, you need to work 5 hours a day. – Guy Forget • Your life will be no better than the plans you make and the action you take. You are the architect and builder of your own life, fortune, destiny. – Alfred Armand Montapert

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[equitiesstocks]

Architect Quotes

Official Website: Architect Quotes

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• A journalist and an information architect face exactly the same problem – how to give shape to the pile of information in front of you in a way that will make it easy and natural for people to comprehend. I can’t imagine any better preparation for the work I do now. – Jesse James Garrett • A modern, harmonic and lively architecture is the visible sign of authentic democracy. – Walter Gropius • Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest art of all the arts. Painting and sculpture are but images, Are merely shadows cast by outward things On stone or canvas, having in themselves No separate existence. Architecture, Existing in itself, and not in seeming A something it is not, surpasses them As substance shadow. – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

• All architecture is great architecture after sunset; perhaps architecture is really a nocturnal art, like the art of fireworks. – Gilbert K. Chesterton • All architecture is shelter, all great architecture is the design of space that contains, cuddles, exalts, or stimulates the persons in that space. – Philip Johnson • All fine architectural values are human values, else not valuable. – Frank Lloyd Wright • An architect’s most useful tools are an eraser at the drafting board, and a wrecking bar at the site. – Frank Lloyd Wright • And when an architect has designed a house with large windows, which is a necessity today in order to pull the daylight into these very deep houses, then curtains come to play a big role in architecture. – Arne Jacobsen • Architects of grandeur are often the master builders of disillusionment. – Bryant H. McGill • Architects today tend to depreciate themselves, to regard themselves as no more than just ordinary citizens without the power to reform the future. – Kenzo Tange • Architects, painters, and sculptors must recognize anew and learn to grasp the composite character of a building both as an entity and in its separate parts. Only then will their work be imbued with the architectonic spirit which it has lost as salon art. Together let us desire, conceive, and create the new structure of the future, which will embrace architecture and sculpture and painting in one unity and which will one day rise toward heaven from the hands of a million workers like the crystal symbol of a new faith. – Walter Gropius • Architecture begins where engineering ends. – Walter Gropius • Architecture can’t fully represent the chaos and turmoil that are part of the human personality, but you need to put some of that turmoil into the architecture, or it isn’t real. – Frank Stella • Architecture is basically a container of something. I hope they will enjoy not so much the teacup, but the tea. – Yoshio Taniguchi • Architecture is life, or at least it is life itself taking form and therefore it is the truest record of life as it was lived in the world yesterday, as it is lived today or ever will be lived. – Frank Lloyd Wright • Architecture is not based on concrete and steel, and the elements of the soil. It’s based on wonder. – Daniel Libeskind • Architecture is really about well-being. I think that people want to feel good in a space … On the one hand it’s about shelter, but it’s also about pleasure. – Zaha Hadid • Architecture is the art of how to waste space. – Philip Johnson • Architecture is the learned game, correct and magnificent, of forms assembled in the light. – Le Corbusier • Architecture is the reaching out for the truth. – Louis Kahn • Architecture is the triumph of human imagination over materials, methods, and men, to put man into possession of his own earth – Frank Lloyd Wright • Architecture is to make us know and remember who we are. – Geoffrey Jellicoe • Architecture should speak of its time and place, but yearn for timelessness. – Frank Gehry • Architecture, of all the arts, is the one which acts the most slowly, but the most surely, on the soul. – Ernest Dimnet • Artists to my mind are the real architects of change, and not the political legislators who implement change after the fact. – William S. Burroughs • Artists to my mind are the real architects of change. – William S. Burroughs

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Architect', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_architect').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_architect img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Believe me, that was a happy age, before the days of architects, before the days of builders. – Seneca the Younger • Can’t nothing make your life work if you ain’t the architect. – Terry McMillan • Color is a very critical thing. I’ve found that architects don’t like colors. Engineers too. And so somebody has to stand in. Because this is the finish of it. It is the emotional part of a structure. – John Hench • Designed by architects with honorable intentions but hands of palsy. – Jimmy Breslin • Each man the architect of his own fate. – Sallust • Every great architect is – necessarily – a great poet. He must be a great original interpreter of his time, his day, his age. – Frank Lloyd Wright • Everyone used to want to be star architects. That’s no longer the case. – Shigeru Ban • Faber est suae quisque fortunae. Each man is the architect of his own fate. – Appius Claudius Caecus • Form follows profit is the aesthetic principle of our times. – Richard Rogers • Gratitude is an attitude that hooks us up to our source of supply. And the more grateful you are, the closer you become to your maker, to the architect of the universe, to the spiritual core of your being. It’s a phenomenal lesson. – Bob Proctor • He who rejects change is the architect of decay. The only human institution which rejects progress is the cemetery. – Harold Wilson • Home is where you hang your architect. – Clare Boothe Luce • I almost rented a house by an architect named Schindler, but I couldn’t afford it. It was a jewel – Parker Stevenson • I am trying to counter the fixity of architectures, their stolidity, with elements that give an ineffable immaterial quality. – Toyo Ito • I believe that the way people live can be directed a little by architecture. – Tadao Ando • I did a comparison of a school of architects known as the New York Five. I compared their articulation of wall surfaces, which I enjoyed very much – Parker Stevenson • I don’t divide architecture, landscape and gardening; to me they are one. – Luis Barragan • I feel however, that we architects have a special duty and mission… (to contribute) to the socio-cultural development of architecture and urban planning – Kenzo Tange • I feel most strongly about Jerusalem, because architects ultimately have to address that city. – Ben Nicholson • I have an expensive hobby: buying homes, redoing them, tearing them down and building them up the way they want to be built. I want to be an architect. – Sandra Bullock • I have designed the most buildings of any living American architect. – Alexander Jackson Davis • I learn more from creative people in other disciplines than I do even from other architects because I think they have a way of looking at the world that is really important. – Tom Kundig • I think Miss Monroe as architecture is extremely good architecture, and she’s a very natural actress, and a very good one. – Frank Lloyd Wright • I went to visit my father to tell him that I was going to go to college and become an architect – that was my dream. I was like, yeah I graduated from school, but it’s not like you showed up for that. But all he was worried about is whether or not I wanted money from him. – Jake Roberts • If architecture had nothing to do with art, it would be astonishingly easy to build houses, but the architect’s task – his most difficult task – is always that of selecting. – Arne Jacobsen • I’m often called an old-fashioned modernist. But the modernists had the absurd idea that architecture could heal the world. That’s impossible. And today nobody expects architects to have these grand visions any more. – Thom Mayne • In Europe, architects consider themselves artists. They think they’re special when they win a competition. – Helmut Jahn • In those countries with centuries of a craft tradition behind their building methods, techniques are tightly coordinated under the direction of the architect. – Arthur Erickson • It is therefore indisputable that the limbs of architecture are derived from the limbs of man. – Michelangelo • It’s not about your greatness as an architect, but your compassion – Samuel Mockbee • Let architects sing of aesthetics that bring Rich clients in hordes to their knees; Just give me a home, in a great circle dome Where stresses and strains are at ease. – R. Buckminster Fuller • Make big plans; aim high in hope and work, remembering that a noble, logical diagram once recorded will not die. – Daniel Burnham • May I say, finally, that I have no illusions of grandeur; quite to the contrary, I am very humble in my knowledge that through forty years of my life my life has been an open book of service to my fellow architects and for the public good. – Ralph Thomas Walker • Most architects say: I want to use this type of glass, even if it’s too reflective or doesn’t let enough light in. However, the use of a certain type of glass might change the comfort level. – Helmut Jahn • My dad’s an architect and my mom owned a French bakery for twelve years. – Alison Lohman • My father knew the charming side of my mother, and my mother thought that he was attentive and pleasant and was an architect, which was a respectable profession, but I don’t think that they actually got to know one another deeply. – Christopher Durang • My father, Robert Ernst, was teaching as an architect at the technical high school of our city. – Richard Ernst • My passion and great enjoyment for architecture, and the reason the older I get the more I enjoy it, is because I believe we – architects – can effect the quality of life of the people. – Richard Rogers • No architect troubled to design houses that suited people who were to live in them, because that would have meant building a whole range of different houses. It was far cheaper and, above all, timesaving to make them identical. – Michael Ende • No architecture is so haughty as that which is simple. – John Ruskin • Noble life demands a noble architecture for noble uses of noble men. Lack of culture means what it has always meant: ignoble civilization and therefore imminent downfall. – Frank Lloyd Wright • Not many architects have the luxury to reject significant things. – Rem Koolhaas • Nothing requires the architect’s care more than the due proportions of buildings. – Marcus Vitruvius Pollio • One of the great beauties of architecture is that each time, it is like life starting all over again. – Renzo Piano • Organic architecture seeks superior sense of use and a finer sense of comfort, expressed in organic simplicity. – Frank Lloyd Wright • Switzerland is a small, steep country, much more up and down than sideways, and is all stuck over with large brown hotels built on the cuckoo clock style of architecture. – Ernest Hemingway • Sympathetic cracks. A term frequently used by architects and surveyors in terms of ageing houses. I know what they mean. – Ted Dexter • Talking about music is like dancing about architecture. – Steve Martin • The Architect is just one of a series of works which examine the confrontation of innocence and experience, illustrating the complex ethics of power that exist between reader and writer, critic and artist, the human and the divine. – John Scott • The architect, Peter Arens who is the monstrous carbuncle architect, not merely did his design which had won a public competition never get built but his practice suffered financially for some years. – Anthony Holden • The dialogue between client and architect is about as intimate as any conversation you can have, because when you’re talking about building a house, you’re talking about dreams. – Robert A. M. Stern • The first gesture of an architect is to draw a perimeter; in other words, to separate the microclimate from the macro space outside. This in itself is a sacred act. Architecture in itself conveys this idea of limiting space. It’s a limit between the finite and the infinite. From this point of view, all architecture is sacred. – Mario Botta • The great problem of the concert hall is that the shoebox is the ideal shape for acoustics but that no architect worth their names wants to build a shoebox. – Rem Koolhaas • The interesting thing is when we design and architect a server, we don’t design it for Windows or Linux, we design it for both. We don’t really care, as long as we’re selling the one the customer wants. – Michael Dell • The mother art is architecture. Without an architecture of our own we have no soul of our own civilization. – Frank Lloyd Wright • The only legitimate artists in England are the architects. – Benjamin Haydon • The principle of the Gothic architecture is infinity made imaginable. – Samuel Taylor Coleridge • The terrifying and edible beauty of Art Nouveau architecture. – Salvador Dali • The Washingtonian said it shouldn’t be built. The gallery’s East Building is now considered a triumph, and members of the American Association of Architects have voted it one of the best buildings of all time. – J. Carter Brown • There will never be great architects or great architecture without great patrons. – Edwin Lutyens • To provide meaningful architecture is not to parody history, but to articulate it. – Daniel Libeskind • To work in architecture you are so much involved with society, with politics, with bureaucrats. It’s a very complicated process to do large projects. You start to see the society, how it functions, how it works. Then you have a lot of criticism about how it works. – Ai Weiwei • Under capitalism everybody is the architect of his own fortune. – Ludwig von Mises • We are called to be architects of the future, not its victims. – R. Buckminster Fuller • We should have a system of economics that is structure that is organic tools. We do not have it. We are all hanging by our eyebrows from skyhooks economically, just as we are architecturally. – Frank Lloyd Wright • When it comes to getting things done, we need fewer architects and more bricklayers. – Colleen Barrett • When you look at Japanese traditional architecture, you have to look at Japanese culture and its relationship with nature. You can actually live in a harmonious, close contact with nature – this very unique to Japan. – Tadao Ando • Where do architects and designers get their ideas? The answer, of course, is mainly from other architects and designers, so is it mere casuistry to distinguish between tradition and plagiarism? – Nancy Banks-Smith • With a painter or a sculptor, one cannot begin to alter his works, but an architect has to put up with anything, because he makes utility objects – the building is there to be used, and times change. – Arne Jacobsen • You should just enjoy it, but as soon as you decide that it is going to be your career, no matter whether you want to be a doctor or an architect or anything else, you need to work 5 hours a day. – Guy Forget • Your life will be no better than the plans you make and the action you take. You are the architect and builder of your own life, fortune, destiny. – Alfred Armand Montapert

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[terresdebrumestories]

We were always gonna be forever

✗ TECHNICAL DETAILS

FANDOM: Digimon Adventure 01/02/Tri RATING: General Audiences. WORDCOUNT: 2 431 words PAIRING(S): Taiyama (brand new) CHARACTER(S): Taichi Kamiya & Yamato Ishida, with background cameos from zombies. GENRE: It seemed like the right thing to do. TRIGGER WARNING(S): - SUMMARY: Taichi seems willing to risk his life for the weirdest things. NOTE: I honestly wish I could have done a 10k + fic digging into the how-s and why-s and how much-s of this whle fic (where zombies are, really, more of an excuse than anything else) but alas, I neither have the time nor the energy, so have this instead <3

DIGIOTPWEEK 2017: [Day 1: Coffeeshop AU] [Day 2: Fantasy AU] [Day 3: Profession AU] [Day 4: Mythology AU] [Read on AO3]

“Crap!” Taichi swears once they’ve left the zombies behind them and shoved themselves into an empty alley, “we need to go back!”

He’s patting at the pockets of his ill-fitted cargo shorts, hands growing more restless each times he comes up empty handed, and Yamato’s throat constricts in apprehension.

“Did you lose you Digivice?”

There’s nothing else Yamato would ever consider going back to a compromised zone for, but for this...he’d walk in more dangerous situations than that for a Digivice, no matter whose. There’s the sentimental value, of course—that alone would be enough to make him risk a lot of things for them—but also these things haven’t even begun to lose power after sixteen years of extended use without battery change. They’re the only way they have to help their digimon partners digivolve, act as distress signal, maps and, with a little mastery of the Morse code, communication devices.

They’ve gotten Yamato and the others out of more than one delicate situation, allowed them to rescue Mr. Inoue and Mr. Kido out of a horde of corpses, and generally greatly contributed to their camp’s safety.

Sentiments aside, the Digivices are just too essential to lose.

“Who do you take me for?” Taichi hisses with a look of indignation to make a shier man cower, “Of course I didn’t lose my Digivice!”

“Then what are you making a fuss for? We’re not going back there.”

“But we’ve got to!”

Taichi’s face looks pleading, twisted with distress at the idea of leaving whatever it is behind, but Yamato refuses to be budged. There are at least fifteen corpses in this grocery store. They’re both black and brown with grime and blood as it is, breathing short and heartbeats fast after escaping by the skin of their teeth. Even assuming they survive a second run in the shop, which is a big assumption already, getting this late would mean skipping on their pharmacy run and risking being out of camp at night anyway.

There’s no way Yamato is going to let either of them go back there, especially with Weregarurumon and Greymon stuck at camp to help with the repairs.

“Taichi,” Yamato insists, hoping it’ll be the end of it, “we’re leaving.”

“No!”

They wince at the same time when Taichi’s voice echoes against the buildings on either side of them, the tone of his despair lingering against neatly parked but abandoned cars. It only takes a glance for them to move out of the alleyway, one rattling corpse already moving toward them, and Yamato doesn’t bother repressing a sigh of relief when Taichi moves away from the grocery store and toward the old commercial center their community chose as a base of operation.

They jog rather than run, keeping their strength even as they put some distance between them and danger, slipping into practiced synchronization without needing to think about it. Their hands find each other as they run, the comfort of a familiar gesture easing the knot of fear in Yamato’s guts.

Even through the end of the world, they still have each other, if nothing else.

“We really—” Taichi has to pause so he can gulp more air, sweat drawing lines in the layer of dirt and blood on his forehead before he can finish: “We need to go back. I’ve got to—”

“You’ve got to let go,” Yamato interrupt, waiting until he’s done hissing to breathe in, “I’ll knock you out and put you on my back if I have to but there’s literally nothing in the world I’d be willing to let you risk your life for!”

“But it’s for you!”

Yamato’s too stunned to reply immediately, and the long, plaintive sound of a dying animal punctuates the silence that follows, Taichi’s harsh breathing too loud between them as he tries to get it back to normal. In his chest, Yamato’s heart feels like it’s holding its breath, making itself tiny to leave Yamato’s brain enough space to process the declaration.

“What do you mean, ‘it’s for me’? What was it?”

The emotions warring over Taichi’s face are so intense it’s almost like watching a movie in stop motion: anguish, fear, crimson embarrassment flicker over his features in rapid succession, then something like intense resignation and a deep breath for courage before he says:

“It’s a ring.”

Well. You have to give it to Taichi: he neither stuttered, nor muttered.

Yamato’s brain, on the other hand….

“A what?”

“A ring,” Taichi repeats, face still redder than Koushiro’s hair but head held high, “with your crest on it. Had it custom made and everything.”

There’s Yamato’s what on the what now?

What?

“Why would you even buy me a ring?”

Taichi shrugs, like he’s fully accepted that this is the moment he dies—whether he thinks the cause will be embarrassment or Yamato is still unclear—before he gives a rueful little smile and asks:

“What do people usually buy rings for?”

Oh, okay! There’s something wrong with Yamato’s ears.

Or his brain.

Or maybe the past three months were nothing but a massive set of nightmare, and this is the part where something so weird happens that Yamato wakes up.

“Were you gonna—”

“Yes.”

“Are you—”

“You know me,” Taichi challenges, the red slowly going out of his cheeks, “you tell me if I’m serious.”

Yamato would answer that, he really would! It’s just that his brain doesn’t quite remember how to make his mouth work.

Of course Taichi wouldn’t joke around about proposing, especially not with Yamato. The guy knows what his issues are, how uptight he can be on making words match the exact and real nature of a relationship. Taichi wouldn’t just step all over that with a joke on that topic.

Somehow though, knowing that doesn’t help.

Today should have been an ordinary day, okay? Run into an abandoned store, take what they can carry to help the group survive, run back, try not to get eaten. Rinse and repeat as long as it’s necessary. Instead Yamato is stuck in place in a part of town they’ve got no business in, feeling like a certain bushy-haired someone just drop-kicked him into the Twilight Zone.

“Are you okay?”

Yamato got to the ground, somehow. He can feel the cold of it seeping into his ass, the harsh solidity of a wall with peeling paint at his back. Taichi, crouched down to put their eyes at the same level, has a hand on his shoulder, partly for comfort and partly as a way to keep himself upright.

There’s really no proper answer to that question.

Well. Yamato could go for the familiar route and swear until the static’s gone from his brain. Or, you know, just ask what the fuck is wrong with Taichi.

There’s so much vulnerability in Taichi’s eyes now, an incertitude he rarely ever unveils in front of anyone, Yamato can’t bring himself to do that. Taichi has been the most important person in his life for over sixteen years now, after all, so Yamato knows exactly how much of a gift this level of emotional openness is.

Still….

“We’re not even dating!”

Yamato’s voice pierces at his own ears, too high and strangler to be fully intelligible, but Taichi must get it because he winces, the ‘yeaaaaah, about that….’ written all over the tight tilt of his mouth. At least Yamato isn’t the only one freaking out here.

“I know, it’s stupid,” Taichi apologizes at last, hand moving away from Yamato’s shoulder, “let’s just forget it.”

“Wha—oh no you don’t!”

It’s easy to snatch Taichi’s wrist out of the air and hold it tight, a lifeline as much as a shackle destined to keep him right where he is. It’s an old dynamic between them, this tug of war between their respective brands of emotional constipation and their mutual desire to know what goes on in the other’s head.

It makes it easy to give Taichi a hard stare and warn in a low voice:

“You don’t get to drop a bomb like that and walk away! Start explaining, Yagami.”

Taichi rolls his eyes at that, but his shoulders unwind a little and, to Yamato’s relief, there’s a small smile playing at the edge of his lips.

“Remember when we had dinner with the Russian ambassador?”

“Uh, duh?”

To be fair, it’s Yamato who offered to come along. Taichi was nervous about misstepping or appearing too conciliatory or weak, and since Yamato lived in Russia for a year, he figured a little bit of a cultural bridge couldn’t hurt. It’s not like he minded people thinking he was Taichi’s boyfriend, anyway, so they marked him as a plus one.

Four hours of painfully stiff attempts at polite conversation later, Yamato was about ready to strangle Taichi right then and there if it meant getting out. Also they heard the news about the very first case of Zombie sickness that evening, but it wouldn’t be relevant until the real outbreak three months later.

Anyway. Yes, Yamato does remember.

“You were perfect,” Taichi smiles, as impervious to Yamato’s sarcasm as he ever was, “I swear I’ve heard about you being a perfectly delicious person enough times after that night to last me a lifetime. Your behavior was impeccable through and through.”

“What else was I gonna do? Tap dance on the table?”

Taichi blinks, then snorts at the remark, laughing for longer than the joke truly warrants, but it’s not like Yamato’s about to complain. It’s always been easy for him to make Taichi laugh, but it never got any less rewarding.

“There’s my favorite asshole!” Taichi wheezes after the worst of his laughter has passed, “I missed that.”

“I never stopped—”

“No, I mean...during the meal. At the embassy. Everyone was so charmed and fascinated and I kept thinking it wasn’t you. I wished you’d say something kind of offensive or start making sarcastic quips or whatever. I couldn’t wait until we went home and we’d spend an hour bitching about how ridiculous the thing was.”

The way Taichi’s expression goes from amused to wistful, eyes never leaving Yamato’s before he starts his next sentence is so fascinating, Yamato couldn’t look away even if he tried.

“It took a while before I remembered ‘home’ didn’t mean the same place for both of us.”

Yamato remembers that, too. Not the ‘home’ thing, but he remembers looking at Taichi somewhere just before dessert, hoping for comfort and finding him lost in thought instead, melancholy etched in every inch of his face as he looked down at his hands.

At least now he knows what brought that on.

His voice is more gentle than it normally would be when he asks:

“So you decided proposing was the way to go?”

“To be fair,” Taichi says with a small smile and a helpless shrug, “I did consider offering we shared a flat first, or at least asking you out.”

“Good to know you remember what normal people do.”

Yamato makes sure to squeeze at Taichi’s wrist as he says it, relieved when Taichi’s eyes drift skyward in answer.

“Yes,” he says with the obnoxious patience of one trying to explain something really simple to someone who’s being unusually slow, “I do remember. But I thought about it and I figured...we’re past dating now, aren’t we? I mean. Maybe I’m wrong but...going to restaurants and sitting there like awkward idiots while we ask each other surface-level questions? Really? You already know what I’m looking for in a relationship. I know the things you hate. I know about your messed up brain, and the things that make you cry and everything. So I just—dating’s temporary, you know? And I guess I just…I wanted us to be forever, you know?”

“We were always going to be forever, you idiot.”

Taichi’s mouth goes slack at that, and Yamato snorts as the flush returns to his friend’s cheeks, moisture shining at the corner of his eyes. Taichi wasn’t wrong, with his little speech: they do know each other better than anyone.

They’ve known each other for seventeen years, have been facing death for just as long. They know each other’s ticks and quirks, like how Taichi knows what angles to use to get Yamato to budge out of a position his stubbornness would normally keep him into, or how acutely aware Yamato is that he can leave Taichi gutted with a well-timed bout of emotional straightforwardness.

It’s just as well they care about each other too much to ever intentionally use the other’s weakness to hurt.

“I’ve known that since we first got Omegamon.”

In his more emotional moments, Yamato almost feels like he got his first inkling of it when he realized he could trust Taichi with taking care of Takeru. It wasn’t even a judgment of Taichi’s ability to care for a child, really, more of a statement of Yamato’s ability to trust anyone other than himself.

He’s learned to trust other people since, of course. At least twenty-four of them. It’s just not the same, though. Building Omegamon isn’t like in the fantasy books, where the protagonists get cut open and someone else’s heart is shoved next to their souls, but it does require the knowledge that, should this kind of things happen, it’d be okay.

Yamato would never want what he feels to bush Takeru so closely, for many reasons he couldn’t name if his life depended on it, but with Taichi...yeah. He thinks he could deal with his soul touching Taichi’s.

He’s not sure how to convey that exactly but, lucky for him, he doesn’t have to. Taichi...he’s not always the most emotionally perceptive person in the world, but he gets Yamato in a way no one else does, and they rarely ever have trouble communicating.

Being able to put what he’s feeling in a simple squeeze of his fingers and know he’s been heard is one of the many perks of that.

“So,” Taichi says after a long, pregnant but somehow comfortable silence, “not that I want to ruin the moment or anything but, with regard to what I said….”

On impulse, Yamato leans forward to plant a kiss on Taichi’s cheek, warmth curling in his belly before the words are even out of his mouth.

“I’m sure we can find someone wiling to perform some kind of ceremony.”

Technically, same sex marriages aren’t legal in Japan yet but hey, it’s the zombie apocalypse, and they’ve saved the world three times already.

The law can suck it.