#and the last thing he needs is villagers crawling all over his studio and garden whenver someone gets a damn papercut

[monster-noises]

Been Thinking for some time about the relationship the Villagers have to the Four Lords and going just a little bit Insane about it..

It's like.. we dont get a lot of information about that relationship in-game.. we get one line from the Duke when he's introducing the lords, the fact that the lords all have accumulated... piles of bodies/zombies/lycan's, and a few notes/comments that seem to make..some Weird implications about certain Lords in particular and that's.. about it??

We see at least a little bit of how the village treats Miranda, she is a quasi-religious figure head, there are paintings of her performing miracles and posed in generally very like.. ~divine~ ways all over the village, people do Prayer to her, there is obviously some element of Faith involved, even though she still holds a physical presence.

The lords haven't got those kind of details, they have their church portraits but that's about it, and they dont seem to make any special implications except to show their faces around Miranda's..

And I just??!!!! I gotta know! I gotta know how the villagers saw/see these guys like.. are they Also semi-religious figures? or do they have a much more concrete like.. bureaucratic presence (If you read the dev notes on the concept art though its said that Urias and his brother were the community leaders in the village so??? where did they fit in?) in opposition to Mother Miranda, who plays as the mystical figure head?

Or do they exists as like.. Almost Legends? Folktale sorta figures to tell stories to children about, that are only kind of rooted in fact?

If you consider all four of them are largely reclusive it's entirely possible that to the village their actual existence is arguable(except for Alcina who exists in such close proximity, but even then, perhaps her True Appearance and he goals/deeds are a mystery!) like the notes left by the fisherman seem to imply that they have No Clue that this giant fish what be eating people is Lord Moreau, but the notes from the gardener about Donna imply she is (or possibly was) an, at-least marginally, well-known member of the community! And there's absolutely Nothing about Heisenberg having any interaction with the villagers, this is because I imagine he Doesn't, but he clearly interacts with their dead so what gives????

I could go on and on and on about this and the many questions i have and oooooh i will

But

Being honest

This post is mostly about how fucking hilarious i find the idea that people make prayers/offering to Heisenberg to come Fix Their Shit? Or if it's funnier if they physically have to come to the Factory with these requests....

Like someone leaves a small offering of good quality scrap metal in the church by his portrait and hope that whatever is wrong with their truck gets figured out... he's got a camera in there to watch out for it, and he goes late in the night to collect the scrap, and fuck it while he's here he'll fix the truck. Not that he /cares/ or /wants to/ it's just a good opportunity to pilfer even more exrra scrap from a villager.. that's all...

Or a villager coming all the way down to the bridge with some scrap to exchange and just getting straight up shouted at over the loud speaker...

Both Very Funny possibilities that are almost Definitely getting drawn someday.

[aggresivelyfriendly]

Hi all! I’m back with new fic!!

 This one is a doozy and deals with some complicated issues- such as a relationship between a man and woman separated by 20 years but connected by the woman’s son. Fair warning! If I haven’t scared you off- let’s see where these peeps take us!!!

Also-This piece wouldn’t have been without @bleedinglove4h, @nocontrolforlouis, and @dirtystyles who made all the amazing art!! They are amazing!!

 Prologue-The Creation of Adam

"What in the bloody fuck?" Jo asked herself whilst stress eating a chocolate bar in her pantry. It had been a shit show of a day.

She'd woken up in the morning with a giant grin on her face. Her boy, her Ethan, was coming home today and she hadn't seen him in three months. Their school schedules should have lined up perfectly, the theoretical perk of having a child at university when you yourself were a professor. But her upstanding young man had taken it upon himself to get a work study job straight off in his first semester.

"Mum, I know you will help me, but I want to help you as much as I can, too. Plus, you have the baby, so there are lots of extra expenses right now," he'd told her on his first actual phone call home. Ethan was right about some things. There were new expenses. Those had more to do with the divorce lawyers than the baby, though. Truth was, other than diapers, the first couple of years were as expensive as you chose to make them. With Ethan, she had been completely on her own. Jo's parents had been livid that she was even considering keeping the baby, especially without a man. She had tried to explain that the man who had got Ethan on her was better off gone, but her mum just couldn't see how she was going to make it on her own. The lack of confidence hurt, but she'd done it. Still was doing it.

She had taken her certification tests and found a school near a housing estate. Those were always turning over teachers. And she loved it, and the students. They had shitty choices to make, but they made rational choices, whether the government saw that or not. Every couple of years, she was able to spot an artistic spirit like her own - someone with an eye. She'd take those ones under her wing and together they would find their medium and Jo would enter them in as many art competitions as she could find. She even got a few to uni that way. It also let her flex her artistic muscles, which were atrophying while she taught general courses

When Ethan got a little older, and they could afford it, she moved out a little farther, to a nice little village. Jo still worked in the city, where she could do the most good, but the apartment she could afford there wasn't a place where she could send Ethan out to play. He needed a garden and space to grow.

He'd brought Harry home when he was 12 years old. They had both been gangly boys, their feet growing faster than they were able to manage. Ethan seemed to use his size well, though. He excelled at soccer, where he had met Harry. And Ethan continued to play long after Harry quit and joined her on the sidelines instead.

Harry was a lovely, fluffy boy. He was all curly hair and teeth and dimples. His pants seemed two sizes too big and his jumpers perhaps a size too small. But he was so well-mannered, helped with the dishes and nudged Ethan when he was giving her a hard time. And he had that spark.

Harry would come 'round sometimes and find his schoolmate was not about the house. Jo would still invite him in lots of times and serve him tea and biscuits while she subtly fished for information on what her son was like at school. Harry was sweet and polite, but astute - she never got anything out of him.

One day, he came in the middle of a painting frenzy. Jo had spoken to her mother and left the conversation simultaneously riddled with guilt and full of resentment. Her mother was a pleasant person, but a dreadful mum. She seemed to like Ethan, but still loathed the idea of him. Jo was angsty and angry, and taking it out on the canvas.

"Oh, hi Harry," she answered the door breathlessly with green and blue fingertips and a speckled tee shirt. "Ethan isn't here. Think I saw him dribbling a ball towards the fields." She gestured with her head.

Harry looked her up and down. Jo hated when Ethan's friends did that, but this wasn't the same obvious ogle she had shut down so many times. His was a look of avid interest for what was on her clothes, not under them.

"What're you doing?" He sounded like she was going to read his tarot cards. A bit of his future in her answer.

"I'm painting." she had answered honestly and wanted to be abrupt and leave the door swinging, even if it hit his sweet face. Jo had some feelings she needed to splash out in bold hues.

"Can I watch?" Harry asked with eyes as wide as the Montana sky.

"Yeah, come on in." Her Englishness asserted itself. "Cuppa?" She wanted to curse politeness.

"Nah, you seem busy. I'm just..." He looked sheepish. "I can tell you're wanting to get back to it, but I just like, want to watch. Ok Miss Joanne?" She hated that too.

"Just Jo, Harry." And she led him back to her tiny sunroom-cum-studio.

He was quiet the entire time he watched her - three full hours - until she started cleaning up the paints.

"Miss Joanne." She gave him an eye roll. "Jo," he showed her a tube with licorice written on it. "Who names the colors?"

"I'm not sure Harry, but I think when you're the painter, you do."

He had looked awed, and that was how she always saw him in her mind's eye. Wide eyed and full cheeked with a silly scarf around his thin neck. Standing in the sunlight watching her paint, getting brave enough to ask questions, and eventually painting alongside her. She was aware that over the three years he spent popping in and out of her studio he had changed, in that way only a very young person can, like going from a raw egg to a cooked one. But she always thought of him as that kid who came to the studio the first time, eyes full of wonder.

That was not how Harry looked when he walked into her kitchen two hours after Ethan. Jo had been rubbing at the spattering of baby puke Zoe had left on her shoulder, the dribble almost making it to her nipple. The screen had been unlatched on the kitchen door, and the smack of it had made her look up.

"Hey Miss Joanne," she hadn't even had time, or tongue to correct him, before he said. "Miss Jo, I mean. Is Ethan about?" He'd rocked up onto his toes and then back to his heels and it was similar to the motion her neck wanted to do in order to follow his form as he made his way into the house and up to Ethan's room.

"Whoa!" Jo found herself saying out loud. That was a fucking butterfly, she thought.

Harry was not the chubby-cheeked awkward boy she remembered. He had been adorable, but that was not the right word to describe him now.

He was wearing jeans two sizes to tight, which he had coupled with a very thin, soft looking green t shirt that clung to him better than any plastic wrap she'd ever found.

"Damn," she muttered. Do not have impure thoughts about your son's best mate. His changes had come over time when she saw him weekly, and she knew they hadn't happened overnight, but they were grander now. Like he'd crawled into a little cocoon and sat there for the three months he'd been at school. He had come out with wings.

Where had all that muscle come from? Jo could clearly see abs and chest and even v lines under that clingy top.

She shook her head blowing out a big breath and released her surprise attraction. She checked the video monitor to find Zoe still sleeping. So she snuck to the pantry to break into her hidden chocolate stash.

Had Harry been looking like that for a while and she had missed it? It must be nearly four months since she saw him last, but she didn't remember his nipples looking like that before. He looked so good, so grown. What was he doing at university to change like that? Had he exchanged time in the library for time at the gym?

The chocolates lowly melted over her tongue and Jo found herself thinking about peeling his shirt off like opening a belgian chocolate, slow and reverently. Her eyes closed involuntarily and she was startled to find her fingers at her own nipple.

Her eyes opened abruptly when she heard the whine from the tiny monitor speaker. Zoe was ramping up, finishing her cat nap earlier that Jo needed her to, she hadn't even gotten the washing done yet. That may have been because she was too busy thinking about getting off with her son's mate in the pantry. She scoffed and pushed her hands down to her sides.

The baby was wiggling, but hadn't flipped yet, so she knew her six month old wasn't entirely awake. She had about five minutes to get up there before the screaming started in earnest.

Jo was throwing in the wash and hitting the button, thinking about how it's been ages since she felt anything sexual. First because Colin's increasing detachment from the pregnancy killed the mood, and then because she was sad about Ethan leaving for school, and then because she was as big as a house. Her dry spell had continued as she found herself once again a single mum of an infant. It was hard to feel sexy on such little sleep. Maybe her thoughts were inappropriate, but Jo was glad to find that part of her wasn't dead, just dormant.

Realization dawned that Zoe wasn't screaming and it had been more than five minutes. A momentary panic seized Jo and she rushed out, smearing melted chocolate on her black yoga pants and throwing the wrapper just outside the bin. She'd have to pick that up later.

On the monitor was a sight that had her covering her mouth. The baby was back to sleep, on Harry's shoulder and her big brother was rubbing her back. Her little arms were bound up under her body and she was almost safe to put down. Just a few more minutes and she'd be back into deep sleep, well, deep for an infant. She saw Ethan motion to the crib and cringed, too soon. She exhaled relief when Harry shook his head 'no' and pointed Ethan out of the room.

Jo watched Harry rock her and felt Ethan come up behind her, he hugged her from behind. Her sweet affectionate boy. She felt bad that he had to be her partner so often as they grew up together, but they were close. Despite their dynamic and because of it.

"She got so big? Do all babies grow like that?" Ethan asked and she could hear him rummaging in the pantry. Her smile was one she couldn't fight. She'd got the shop in and picked up his favorite things on purpose. "Oh mum!" She heard him find his biscuits, the expensive ones she used to buy when he did well on exams. The ones she could only afford once a month, when she got paid.

"Yes, all babies change rapidly. Change almost before your eyes. I imagine it's a shock after a few months." She tried not to layer a guilt trip into her voice, but she missed him. She heard him sigh, so Ethan could hear it too. Jo needed to knock that off, he should have a great time at uni, not worry about his lonely, sad mum struggling at home. And she wanted him to want to come home. She looked from her son who was rapidly eating biscuits to her daughter being gently laid in her crib. Harry's back muscles strained against the green cloth of his shirt.

Speaking of rapid changes.

Jo may not have noticed Harry's entrance into manhood before. The last year the boys were in college, she was falling in love. Colin had seemed ideal, they both worked at the university, and he was an adult male who seemed to have it together. He was her first real relationship since Ethan's twat of a father, not counting a few bad dates and a fuck buddy or two. Since they were both of a certain age, they had rushed things. Jo had rushed to the altar and the maternity ward. By the time she hit six months along in her pregnancy, she knew her marriage wasn't going to last. She could not imagine Colin as a loving father, let alone devoted. She'd had to beg him to come to the appointment where they learned the baby's sex. He had chosen to attend a lecture on horse bridles in Arthurian tales instead. That's when she knew, but she ignored it and tried harder. Until he left when she was right near the end and then couldn't even be bothered to show up for the birth until Jo needed a ride home. Colin had the car seat. Which he left when he dropped them off. New baby and new divorce, all in one go, she was an efficient lass.

But she couldn't help but notice now. Harry was looking full grown and the sight of him with her baby...well, it was doing uncomfortable things to her. Feelings and sensations dormant for the last year were roaring back to life. She barely had time to eat, let alone seek arousal.

"Did Harry's mum have a new baby?" Jo found herself asking after watching him with her own new one before she could rein herself in. Nothing about her felt bridled, let alone her horses.

Ethan came over and slung a cookie filled hand attached to a strong arm around her. "Nah, you would think so though, right? Just has a touch with kids. Only boy I knew who had three regular babysitting gigs!" Ethan sounded proud of his mate and Jo smiled at his sweetness.

"You missed him?" She nudged Ethan's ribs.

"Yeah! Was happy he would be about."

"Why's he home this weekend anyway?" Jo tried to ask plainly, with less interest than she was feeling, obviously.

"Harry lives at home. He goes to your university, Mum! Studies in your department!" Ethan laughed at her fish face.

"Well, I've not had him in any of my classes, I guess. And you'll excuse me love, but I have been a wee bit busy." She poked him in his tickle spot, the one he'd had since he was two and a half and that she fondly remembered prodding when they played tickle monster.

While she was so fucking tired trying to do this again, alone and much older to boot, she couldn't wait to find Zoe's tickle spots.

"Mum, stop looking at me like that." Ethan rolled his eyes affectionately.

"Like what?" Jo hit him upside his cheeky head with the burp cloth and hoped a little spit up made contact.

"Ew, mum! That's wet! Is that wee?" Ethan was frantically wiping his face with a paper cloth.

"Calm down, just spit up!" She guffawed. It felt so good to have her kids under one roof and to be giving Ethan what for.

"What the bloody... that's throw up!"

"Of a sort, it's just breast milk!" She said just to see his face. He paled as Harry walked into the kitchen.

Jo was bent double with laughter and she was aware of just how tight her lounge pants were.

"Mate." He pointed at Ethan. "You see a ghost?"

Jo laughed harder and couldn't even explain why. It was a release she didn't even know she needed. Tears were leaking and she was glad they were happy.

"I wish! Got baptized with my mum's regurgitated breast milk, yech!" Ethan complained while still wiping furiously at his face.

"Mate, the breast milk is better for your skin than what you are doing now. Actually really good for skin." Harry walked over to the fruit bowl and plucked a banana and ate it like he lived there. Jo loved the picture he made.

"How the hell do you know that?" Jo was thinking it, but her son was the one who said it.

"Dunno, think I read it on a flyer at a nurse in or something at school." He shrugged and ate his last bite, tossing the peel and missing the trash can.

Jo picked it up and put it in the bin, with only a small groan. She didn't remember being this sore after long nights with Ethan. "Ethan said you go to Manchester?"

She looked up at Harry then and caught him with his eyes glued to her cleavage. It was the one body part she wished she could take with her post pregnancy and nursing. Her nipples responded to his gaze, and she was right back to feeling that unfamiliar lust he had brought up in her earlier. It felt like a caress, like he'd extended his fingers, not just his gaze, and used the tips to pluck at her. Harry brought his eyes up and for a second he looked like that pink cheeked boy she taught to paint. It was a moment's expression, before his skin tone evened out and he smirked. Those pink cheeks turned out to be contagious.

"MUM!" Ethan said a little too loud and Jo jerked her eyes to him.

"What?" She sniped back. It wasn't nice to be yelled at in your own home, or caught out. Her face soured and she wished for another chocolate when she heard a wail start from upstairs. She looked up to give Ethan a tongue lashing and found him looking sorry, so she let it go and turned with a sigh.

"Do you want me to get her?" Both boys asked in chorus.

That sparked a smile. "No, lovely boys, she needs to nurse." She chuckled under her breath at the look on Ethan's face. "But, you could start dinner, that would be a massive help." Ethan looked like a nineteen year old tasked with a chore, but Harry nodded and shouldered his friend out of the way of the fridge.

They were both good boys, nearly men, and they needed to know how to cook a meal, for themselves, And any lady, or gentleman, lucky enough to catch either. Jo would come shore up the damage later.

The cries were piercing by the time she reached crib side, but when she reached down, Zoe quieted nicely in her arms. She kept eye contact while she emptied Jo's tingling breasts.

Jo was tired, covered in spit up half the time, and hated to be doing this alone again. But these years were short, and she had wished them away with Ethan. She wanted to do better this time.

Jo carried her cooing baby down stairs and set her up in her walker while she helped the boys finish some salad and mash and sausages. It was a curious mix, but nice to not have to cook for a change. She looked around her table and smiled. It was also nice to watch them laugh.

Harry was making Zoe scream with baby giggles by making a popping noise with his cheek, and Ethan was filming it for his insta story. She'd have to ask him if anyone at school was at all interested in his baby sister. The sounds at her table woke her up a little.

By the time she got Zoe down hours later, her feet and head were heavy again. The boys had tossed her about once Jo had declared they were a safe distance from her nursing and mushy peas. At least they were likely to avoid an exorcist-like scene. They'd tickled her and cuddled her and found a tender spot exactly where Ethan's was. Harry had located it and looked at Ethan, "Exactly where yours is!" Which Jo found curious.

Zoe had been riled up, and while Jo wouldn't erase the hours of watching Ethan play with his little sister, she was a little miffed at dealing with the fallout. It took her 10 minutes to get Zoe to latch on, and she was raw from the baby pulling off at every small sound looking for her playmates. As she finally nursed to sleep, Jo kept thinking about her curious interaction with Harry. They had spent lots of time together, usually over tins of paint and canvases, and she had never once seen him look down her shirt.

He was a respectful boy, or gay, and Jo never really thought about him like that at all. He was always handsome, but a baby.

He did not look like a baby anymore and her reaction to him was troubling, to say the least. Jo was sure it was horrible to feel any sort of sexual interest in her son's best mate. But it was just the one time. She'd let it go and focus on and enjoying the long weekend with Ethan. And maybe she'd see Harry around at school.

There was one positive side effect. Her desire that had been buried six feet under with her marriage was back. Jo hadn't even thought about her lady parts since the doctor declared them good as new. Colin had rebuffed her advances as soon as her bump made itself apparent; he found it off-putting. She'd put her interest away as best she could to avoid rejection. It was worrisome to think about what her body may look like after a pregnancy at 40, and if her husband was not into a pregnant body, she had a feeling he would not be able to ignore the stretch marks. Jo had once been flattered by his repeated compliment that she had the face and body of a 25 year old. Now she was just irritated. But her body was back, albeit with better boobs for the term of her breast feeding and some extra tiger stripes where Zoe had made her mark. And everything seemed to be working. It was confusing that Harry was the one to rouse her sleeping libido. Those were thoughts she wanted to avoid. So she left them where they lie and stood gently and square on her toes.

Zoe didn't stir as Jo padded over to the crib. A kiss on the head and deep inhalation of that baby smell before putting her down softly, and Jo was ready to float down to her own bed. She wished there was somebody to carry her to her mattress as she had just done for her baby.

Jo was blearily rubbing her eyes when the bathroom door opened and steam started to pour out. She was just about to admonition Ethan about opening windows unless he wanted to repaint the bathroom when Harry walked right into her. Slick and tan and confusingly covered in tattoos. She wasn't able to make out the shape on his torso before he was pressed up against her, but it was big. So was he, tall. Her nose was at his collarbone and there were swallows on either side. When had he gotten all these tattoos?

"Sorry Miss Joanne." He caught her by the arms and she could smell that body wash she bought Ethan, it smelled different right now.

"You're really wet!" She said stupidly, and looked up to his amused face.

Harry looked cheeky and there were words on the tip of his tongue, poised to spring off like an Olympic diver. Instead he bit his lip and Jo could feel her eyes widen and her nipples contract. "You have a lot of tattoos," she said, and she was surprised by the breathiness suddenly present in her voice.

His arms moved from her elbows to circle around her waist and Harry nodded, "I do, wanna see them?"

He was flirting with her! Was he flirting with her? And she was still pressed up against him. His arms were tighter around her than the corset she wore on her wedding day, at least she assumed so because she was breathless.

"Um, I've, no, not right now." She started to squirm and he grinned and let her go.

She hurried down the stairs and looked back from the middle landing. Harry had a hand on the knot of his towel and a firm shape was just below the tips of his fingers. That made a mental impression, but it didn't press into her mind as much as his face. Harry's eyes looked emerald green and his lip was beneath his teeth.

Jo averted her gaze from his skin and rushed to her room. Rather than straight to bed like she hoped 20 minutes ago, she found herself in her bathroom, doing the skincare routine she had forgotten about 7 months ago at least. Her color was high in her cheeks and she couldn't help but admire it, and herself for a moment before brushing her teeth and shaking herself. Awoken libido indeed, she thought with a glance at her tits.

Jo stripped down to a t-shirt and put shorts by the bed for Zoe's 3am feeding. She needed to get some sleep.

An hour later, she was still shifting around and rubbing her thighs together to alleviate the knot of tension there. Jo finally gave in, and dug through her bedside drawer for the vibrator she resorted to in her second trimester after one too many rebuffs.

It didn't take long, she was so pent up. That wasn't surprising. What was surprising was the pink lipped face she pictured between her thighs as she finished.

This was trouble.

[alivingfire]

in this life

aka rachel writes a bunch of different AUs because sleep is for the weak

read on AO3 here.

In this life, you’re a painter.

Color speaks to you in a way people never could, shades more nuanced than emotions. You blend blue and green and know exactly what the result will be; you blend yourself in social situations and the same cannot be said. You hole up, you burrow. You hermit, your sister says, and she’s teasing but teasing based on truth. You’re okay with the world inside your makeshift studio, because in there you can control everything from the canvas to the ceilings.

You do like some things.

You like the sunflowers in the garden of the house you pass to get to the bakery. You like the way the afternoon light touches the scones in the display case. You like the tiny bakery tables that you couldn’t possibly be expected to share with another person.

You like the smile of the boy at another too-tiny-for-teatime-companions table.

He must be new; you’ve never seen him here before. This is a small village, you’d know if someone like this existed here before this moment. Somehow, you’d have known.

“D’you mind?” he asks, pointing to the chair across from you at the too-tiny bakery table.

Yes, you want to say. Yes, I mind. Yes, go away, I enjoyed the view of you from over there but now you’re far too close and I’m far too clumsy with the words in my mouth and—

“No,” you say. “Please, take a seat.”

There’s no reason for him to have moved to your table. The bakery isn’t even halfway full, no one needed his seat. He’s sipping tea and smiling at you like he knows a secret and thinks it’s something you’ll enjoy.

“Louis,” he says. You assume that’s his name.

“Harry,” you answer.

“Harry,” he repeats. “Your hands are blue, Harry.”

You look down: they are. Well, sort of. Acrylic paint stripes your palms, dusts your knuckles like you’d done it on purpose, trying to play the part of the painter. You didn’t do it on purpose, but you must admit you like the look. There’s blue on your hands in paintbrush-edged stripes: you’d painted the ocean this morning, and it was the same color as this stranger’s eyes.

You look at his hands, just on instinct: they’re green. Familiar paintbrush strokes, familiar colored swaths across his knuckles. Green like jade under a jeweler’s lamp, bright and light, like a high note in a sweet song. He sees you looking and holds up both hands, palms toward you, fingers wiggling.

“Seems we might have something in common,” he says.  

You fall in love easier than you should’ve, Louis’ smile less safe than your routines but a thousand times more intriguing. He coaxes you into the world and you coax him into your studio in return, a balancing act of public and private. The first time your sister walks in and sees someone else there inside your sacred space, she shoots you a conspiratorial wink and even waits until Louis leaves before she pounces, demanding details.

You fall in love in the span of a summer, and you paint blue, blue, blue until your tube runs dry and your hands are permanently cerulean. You haul your canvases and brushes and palette and paints all over creation that summer, because sometimes Louis wants to paint a beach scene and a photo just won’t do, and sometimes he wants to paint the exact color of the cappuccino he got at that specific cafe in London, and it’s only three months into this whirlwind of painting all across Britain that you realize he’s slyly been dating you and you didn’t even notice.

You fall in love and realize that you’re now the type of person those too-tiny bakery tables are meant for, your knees brushing Louis’ underneath as you linger over a scone.  

You fall in love over a shared canvas, something so incredibly intimate that the butterflies move from your stomach to your hands, making your usually sure strokes shaky. It’s the first of many, Louis promises, stepping back and staring at what the two of you have made together in awe. “This,” he says, “this is important.” And you know what he’s saying is you, Harry Styles, you are important.

In a gallery, twenty years later, that first collaboration hangs in a place of pride, and when someone offers a ridiculous sum to take it home, you look over at your husband, green paint smudged on the inside of his wrist and barely hidden by his suit jacket cuff, and you smile.

“No,” you say. “No, I think we’d better keep this for ourselves.” 

In this life, you’re a drifter.

You were born with a suitcase in your hand, as your mother says. You have a ship tattooed on your bicep because you know the idea of home is transient, connected to people instead of places. You spent your childhood tracking mud in from your adventures through the patch of woods behind your house, your bicycle basket equipped with all your exploring necessities: flashlight, compass, beef jerky. You’d tie a bandana around your forehead to keep the summer sweat out of your eyes, and you wouldn’t return until the fireflies lit the way home.

When your friends leave home for college at eighteen, you follow them out — but not for school. You’ve always learned more from the asphalt of the open road than from textbooks. You take your hard-earned money from your high school job flipping burgers and throw it all at a Triumph Bonneville, sold to you by a neighbor who bought it new in a fit of midlife crisis. It’s shiny and warm under your thighs and you shiver as it rumbles to life the first time.

Your saddlebags are mostly empty when you leave your little hometown, but they fill up soon enough. You collect trinkets from Route 66 sideshows and you buy a couple of notebooks to keep track of what you see and do. You do odd jobs when you find them — you mow an old lady’s yard in Kansas City, you hand out flyers for a business in Seattle, you paint a few houses in Tampa. Cities are good for quick cash, but you like the small towns better: little patches of history and strangeness in the middle of nowhere.

You drive the Million Dollar Highway through the Rockies and stop off in Telluride, a boutique town framed by snowcaps and vistas. You can’t afford a hotel room here — tourist traps like this don’t tend to have a Super 8 for the poorer folks — but you do find a dive bar a few blocks off Main Street, a local haunt where regulars go to watch a game or shoot the shit without having to deal with out-of-towners. You slip onto a stool at the bar and are only jostled a little by an exuberant group of men in Broncos jerseys.

“What can I get you?” a bartender asks, and you look away from the little television over the bar — the Broncos just scored, hence the exuberation — and, suddenly, lose your breath.

“What do you recommend?” you ask. The bartender smiles, a touch of a dimple kissed into his cheek. His small, capable hands wipe a rag over a clean pint glass, and he swipes it one last time before turning and pouring you a drink.

“This is a local brew,” he says, sliding the full glass to you. It’s foaming beautifully, deep brown and bubbling like a geyser.

“What’s it called?” you ask, taking a sip. It sits heavy on your tongue, sweet on the way down.

“Face Down,” he tells you, and you can’t help it:

“Only if you ask nicely,” and his grin grows wider.

“I’m off at ten,” he offers.

“I’ll be here,” you promise.

You flirt until he’s off his shift, and then you flirt as you walk to another bar (“Can’t drink where I work, you know the drill”), and then you flirt until you fall into his bed, a little twin mattress in an apartment barely bigger than the matchbox he procures to light two cigarettes afterward.

“So, are you just passing through?” Louis asks, propped up against the wall. His bare chest shines with sweat in the light from the moon outside, windows thrown open wide to catch a breeze and cool the room. The cherry glow of his cigarette flares as he inhales. You exhale your own stream of smoke, clouding the air.

“Maybe,” you say. You’ve got your head in his lap, and you turn to quirk a smile up at him. “Do I have a reason to stay?”

He taps out his cig in an ashtray nearby and leans down, stealing your smile with a kiss. Outside, the fireflies gather to let you know: you’ve found your way home.

In this life, you’re a writer.

Or so your degree says, hanging tauntingly on your wall. You’re trained for this! it laughs at you. You paid good money to sit in front of that blank page all day doing nothing!

Words come to you in the middle of the night when your insomnia taps at your temple and the city noise drones, in the middle of a pub crawl with your mates who don’t seem to have a tenth of the worries you do, in the middle of the morning when you’re staggering out of bed, in the middle of a lunch with your sister where she, unsubtly, tells you that she’s got all types of friends she could be setting you up with. Words bombard you like raindrops at the most inconvenient times, and yet they flood away when you have a pen, when you finally dig out your phone and open a new note to try and get it all out.

You read voraciously about the greats, searching for inspiration. Cormac McCarthy struck up conversations with strangers; you try that. You make friends with people at bars, in the queue at Starbucks, online — you have a dozen conversations going at once, but none of them spark anything new. Junot Diaz had a journal; you try that, too, but when your writer’s block extends to that as well, you throw your journal out the window in frustration.

When you read that Michael Chabon suggested throwing out what you’ve done so far and starting over, you snort and, just to be contrary, save a blank word document and then immediately delete it.

You want to write a story about love and loss, about life and language and a million little things. There’s a story in your stomach and your lungs and etched on the inside of your ribcage but you don’t know how to get it out.

In a fit of pique, you go home for a weekend. Your mum always has an open invitation for you to crash with her, to get your head on straight and be coddled just a little until you’re ready to try again. So that’s what you do, packing two pairs of black jeans and a few worn t-shirts and your well-used laptop and grabbing a train north.

You’re not even there a full minute, you realize later. You hop off the train, scuffed boots barely touching Holmes Chapel pavement, when you bump into someone.

“Whoa, there, steady on,” someone says, grabbing you by the arms to keep you upright. You sway, clutching back, until —

“Louis?”

He’s aged like a fine goddamn wine, you think, somehow breathless even in the privacy of your own head. You haven’t seen him since — god, since sixth form, since your halcyon schoolboy days. Louis was the first one to tell you that you should be a writer, the two of you huddled under the blankets at one of a hundred different sleepovers, flashlight in hand as he read your shaky twelve-year-old writing.

“This is great, Hazza,” he’d praised, and you’d felt like spreading imaginary wings and pulling an Icarus. It has only been the recent years that have informed you that Louis wasn’t just your first best friend, but your first childhood crush, too, that wanting his approval was once as natural to you as breathing.

“Harry Styles,” he says, eyes bright. “What brings you back to your humble roots?”

“Needing inspiration,” you tell him, unable as always to keep him away from the truth.

“Well,” he tilts his head, looking thoughtful, “maybe I can help with that.”

The library where the two of you pretended to study and instead you wrote short stories starring Louis as a pirate or a cowboy or a spaceman that he’d act out for you as his one-person audience. The tree in the park you climbed because he told you you couldn’t do it, and when you fell and broke your arm he cried more than you did. The grocery shop where he used to work when he was seventeen, and where you’d show up to distract him when things were slow.

You don’t know how any of this is going to unlock the story in your stomach, but it’s the first time in years you aren’t worried about it. Your best friend — your first best friend, your first love, your first real critic and biggest fan — has you by the hand and is taking you on a reminiscent tour of your shared childhood: you can give up an afternoon of staring at your laptop screen in frustration for this. You’d give up a dozen afternoons for this.

“Remember this place?” Louis asks. It’s dusk now, the whole day spent together. Louis’ hand is warm in yours, and you wonder now if it should’ve been weird, the way your fingers laced together like they were sewn that way.

For the first time today, you aren’t drowning in a pool of sepia memories. You don’t recognize this place, a squat little cottage on the edge of the village. You don’t think you’ve ever seen this quaint little garden, or the apple tree in the front yard. A cat sits lazily in a window, tail flicking idly as she watches the two of you with half-closed eyes.

You don’t want to tell him that you don’t remember this cottage, not when he brought you all the way here, expecting you to remember, expecting you to know what he’s thinking. Instead, you bite your lip and turn to him, thinking he might elaborate with a story that might jog your memory.

“S’pose you wouldn’t, actually,” Louis muses, and your distress eases a little. He stares at the house, the baby blue paint and the warm glow of a lamp inside one of the windows. “Since I never did ask you what I meant to ask.”

“What?”

Louis turns to you, a rueful grin pulling at his mouth. “Remember when we were fifteen, and you said that all you wanted in life was a little country house where you could write and maybe grow a few flowers?” He gestures to the house, as though you haven’t been able to see it this whole time. “Guess I never really did grow out of wanting all your dreams to come true.”

It clicks, then. “Louis, I—” don’t know what to say, don’t know how to say it, don’t know how to thank you for things I didn’t even know you’d done — “I can’t believe this.”

“In a good way, I hope,” he says, still rueful, still sheepish, like he expects you to walk away. He bought your dream house.

It’s a common problem in your life, not being able to expel the words trapped inside you. This time, however, you’ve got another way to express yourself: you spin Louis by the shoulders and kiss him until all the air in the world has gone, and you’re dizzy and grinning.

“Take that as a yes,” Louis says dazedly.

“Ask me,” you say. At Louis’ still-stunned look, you continue: “Ask what you wanted to ask, what you never asked.”

Louis takes your hand in his, holds it to his chest. His heart pounds a tattoo onto the back of your hand, potent despite its invisibility. “Harry Styles,” he speaks slowly, like a long-memorized script he’s finally getting to act out, “don’t go to London to be an author. Stay here, with me, and write your novel here.”

“Yes,” you say, crowding into him, kissing him again, again, “yes, god, of course, of course.”

The words aren’t stuck, not anymore. The words pour out into one book, two. Your editor suggests you move to London, that way you can participate in the big city scene, be photographed with other up-and-comers.

London has a lot of things, but it doesn’t have a little baby blue cottage, nor the boy who bought it for you.

The cat still sits in the windowsill, and in the spring you plant begonias.

In this life, you’re a sports newscaster.

You’re paid to have opinions — that’s the part you like. You’ve watched football since you were a tiny lad, the Gary Pallister home shirt your father gave you falling to your knees until you hit your first growth spurt at age eight.

It’s not as though you’re a presenter, or anything. You’re not even a commentator. You’re a beat reporter, an opinion-guy who’s allowed to stray a little from the unbiased caution that the big names have to stick to. You’re known for your color commentary on social issues in sport and personality pieces, and you’re friendly with quite a few athletes you’ve interviewed. You’re also one of the first fully out Sky Sports reporters, and you’re known for that, too.

Sometimes that’s good. Sometimes, it’s a little harder.

You want to be good at your job, so you study up. You pick up the intricacies of boxing, cricket, golf, tennis. You subscribe to ESPN and start learning those major sports too — basketball, baseball, even the psuedo-rugby with the tight pants that Americans call football.

Your favorite, though, is hockey.

You don’t have a team, don’t know many of the mascots or even the cities where the teams play. You assume that “icing” means spraying someone with ice on purpose, only to find out that’s not the case at all. You took French in school but can’t understand a word that comes out of most of the players’ mouths, jumbled and exertion-slurred, athletes who are nimble on the ice but clumsy off of it.

Except one.

Tomlinson, a short, quick winger for an up-and-coming team in a small New England city you’ve never heard of. You know less than most peewee hockey players and yet even you can see how soft his touch is, how skilled he is at handling the puck, his intelligence on the ice.

And then he does post-game interviews, and those— well. Those are inspiring.

Bright-eyed and sharp-tongued, Tomlinson toes the line of brash and entertaining, waving off compliments and directing all praise to his teammates, his goalie, his coaches and the staff. He’s hard on himself when he makes mistakes but he glows when talking about his team, the hard work they put in to be successful. When a reporter approaches him about his exuberance during a post-goal celebration, Tomlinson’s eyes narrow.

“Price blocked fourteen shots on goal tonight and mine was the only one that went in,” he says, cool and precise. “Should I not be proud of that?”

You can’t help it. You’re a Sky Sports beat reporter, you don’t have anything to do with the NHL or, really, any American sports at all. You’re not even sure if your contract allows you to do this.

You tweet anyway.

@Harry_Styles — 1 minute ago @Louis_Tomlinson deserves more than just being proud of that goal. If he wants suggestions on some other ways to celebrate, I’ve got ideas.

You don’t expect a reply. You probably should’ve.

@Louis_Tomlinson — 3 minutes ago Careful, @Harry_Styles I might take you up on that

It’s not as though you have a massive fanbase, or anything, especially not compared to Tomlinson, but your Twitter followers definitely notice the exchange. You expect the call you get from your boss to be a reprimand, and are surprised instead to see that they want you to discuss Tomlinson’s quote on the show, maybe write an in-depth article. You wear your best TV suit and spend three long minutes passionately defending an athlete’s right to pride in their accomplishments, and you will your blush away when your tweet is obliquely referenced.

“All I’m saying,” you laugh, praying that you’re not bright red, “is that if the guy wants help celebrating, I’m in.”

“I bet you are,” Julian Waters says, grinning a white-toothed smile as he sends the show to commercial break. Once the cameraman gives the all clear signal, he turns to you with a raised eyebrow. “Careful, there,” he says mildly. “Sport fans aren’t exactly known for being the most tolerant, Americans especially.”

“I’ve handled worse,” you assure him — though, maybe that’s not true. In all honesty, you turned your notifications off an hour after Tomlinson’s reply.

Curious about the state of things (and feeling thick-skinned today), you wade back into social media after the few days you’ve been away. Your mentions are a mess of heart-eyed teenage Tomlinson fans who either vehemently love you or hate you, and middle-aged men wearing Falcon jerseys in their profile pictures who want you to know how much of an abomination you are. You dismiss it all, retweeting the Sky Sports account link to the video of the segment you just recorded. A short minute later, your heart double-thuds at a particular notification.

Louis_Tomlinson retweeted your retweet

And then another.

Message from Louis_Tomlinson

Your hands shake as you navigate to the message, expecting simultaneously the worst and the best possible options.

Hey, thanks for the support. I know you’re getting a lot of flack, hope my reply earlier didn’t cause any problems

You tap out an answer: Even if it did, it was worth it.

Tomlinson’s return is quick, as though he, like you, is holding his phone, waiting for your messages. I’d like to thank you in person. Going to be in Rhode Island anytime soon?

You grin delightedly, a little breathless, and dial up your boss. “Hey,” you say when he answers, “how would you feel about me writing that in-depth report on the road?”

Providence is beautiful in March, chilly and frost-coated. At the airport, you spot a familiar, compact frame in the waiting area, hidden beneath a baseball cap and dark sunglasses, holding a sign that says Harry_Styles.

“You didn’t have to pick me up,” you say, and Tomlinson’s smile nearly twinkles.

“Sure I did,” he says. “Can’t neglect my biggest fan.”

There’s a blurry photograph of you at the next Falcons game, up in the box with the families of the other players. It’s nearly too grainy to make out, but there is one decently clear picture of your back, Tomlinson’s name bold across your shoulders.

When your objectivity is questioned you just smile, knowing that, at least when it came to Tomlinson, your objectivity never stood a chance.

In this life, you’re a surf instructor.

It’s not easy, your job. Sure, you live in a tropical paradise, have a saltwater miracle of a view right out your back door, spend your days oceanside or out catching waves with your friends. But for every eager customer there’s a sleazy one, some guy who assumes that “surf instructor” is actually code for “paid beach girlfriend,” who is only there to stare at your chest as you explain the difference in board lengths.

For the most part, you handle your own. Only a few guys push it far enough that you’re uncomfortable rather than just annoyed, and you’ve been taking self-defense lessons for years. You keep pepper spray under the counter and, according to the contract the customers sign, you are authorized to use it if you feel threatened.

Most of the time, you love your job. Saltwater is where you’re meant to be, and your tiny salary comes with enough perks to keep you content forever. You have a hut on the resort beach where you stock boards and wetsuits, and that’s where she first finds you.

“Can you teach beginners?” she asks, tucking a wild strand of hair behind her ear.

You grin. “I can teach anyone.”

She challenges your confidence, though. The first day, your stomach feels bruised from repeating the motion of pushing up off the board and hopping to your feet, over and over and over again. You have sand in your bikini bottoms and you forgot a hair tie, so the ocean breeze whips the salted ends of your hair into your eyes.

Somehow, Louis looks even worse for the wear. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she promises, and while you want to believe her, you’re not so sure she’s right. Most people don’t want to put this much effort in during their vacation — she never even conquered the motion of paddling correctly. Usually, this means you won’t see her again.

She seems to live to challenge your beliefs, though.

Bright and early, she does arrive, hair pushed back with an elastic headband and no-nonsense purse of lips firmly in place. An hour in, she’s mastered the push up. Two hours in, you’re on a board in the shallows, demonstrating how to paddle out.

You have one rule. Well, actually, you have two: the first is pepper spray first, ask questions later. The second, which is more applicable here, is that you don’t get attached to guests.

The resort and the surf lessons are your whole life, but that’s not true for anyone else. Guests are only in your life for a few days, maybe a week at most. In the beginning, you’d promise to keep in touch with those you clicked with: now, a few years in, you know better. You’ve seen too many early friendships wither and die.

So, when Louis asks if you’re doing anything after her lesson one day, you regretfully lie and say you have plans.

You don’t want to. You want to take her to your favorite local spot, wear your tiniest sundress and dance close on the warm sand. You want to trade sangria sweet kisses on a moon-bright beach, and wake up tangled in salty sheets.

But she’s leaving eventually, and you can’t fall for someone who has to leave.

Even if it’s already started.

But… she keeps coming back. Day after day, for a week, then two. You wonder if she’s an extended stay guest — you’re not up on your pop culture, maybe she’s famous. She doesn’t say anything that hints at an end date, and at this point, maybe you don’t want to know.

You don’t go up to the main resort often — no need to, when your customers come to you. But one day, there’s an issue with your check, and you have to sort it out. You throw an extra large tank top over your bikini and call that good enough, not even bothering with shoes. After a short walk up to the resort hotel, you step inside the bright, clean lobby — and freeze.

“So, you can leave the beach,” Louis teases. You’re used to seeing her in her athletic one-piece swimsuit and salt-wild hair; behind the counter at the hotel registration desk, she’s in a simple, pure white shift dress and her pixie cut is tamed, smooth and shiny.

“You’re not a guest,” you say, words feeling dumb even as they leave your mouth.

One side of her mouth quirks up. “Astute of you.”

“You live here.”

“Just as of recently, but yeah, that’s true.” She raises an eyebrow.

“Let me take you out,” you say.

There’s a small, awkward cough. You look over to see a small family, all wearing variations of palm frond and flamingo patterned shirts, the dad waving awkwardly. “Is, uh, is this where we check in?”

“Yes, it is,” Louis says, transitioning easily to a professional smile.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” the dad says, pink-cheeked.

“That’s no problem,” Louis says, waving you on, and grinning at your impatient look. “She can wait.”

That evening, she shows up at the hut, grin still in place. She teases you all throughout dinner for assuming she was some sort of tourist, playfully mocking the way your mouth dropped open when you say her behind the desk, but you find a way to stop her jokes pretty easily, her lips soft and yielding against yours.

The next morning, you shake her awake at dawn and take her for a sunrise surf. She rides a full ten seconds before crashing, and she pulls you into the water to celebrate her progress.

Your kisses taste like ocean, and you send her off to work with an unfocused, blissful smile, a bruise the shape of your mouth hidden under her perfect white dress.

In this life, you’re standing on the X Factor stage, and you’re shaking.

Four other boys — four boys you barely think you could recognize, let alone name — are there with you. Tears have dried tacky on your face, your lip still trembling. Sixteen, and flayed open for the nation to see — that’s showbiz, you guess.

Nicole Sherzinger is holding a microphone at the judge’s table, surveying you. “We have decided,” she says slowly, theatrically, “to put you together as a group.”

Your mind blanks. Your heart crashes in your chest.

A boy you barely know jumps into your arms in joy.

Out in the lobby, out of the view of the cameras, he smiles shakily at you, wild-eyed. “I’m Louis,” he says.

“I’m Harry,” you answer.

In this life, you find him early, and you don’t ever let him go.