#before AND after thermidor

[frevandrest]

Charlotte is all "it's a horrible LIE that I was Fouché's mistress before and after Thermidor!!!" Gurl why would anyone associate you with him? Were you... seen meeting with him or something?

[revolutionarywig]

Frev locations compile

Thought of compiling a list of frev significant locations so it can help with recommendations for anyone who happens to be travelling/visiting! This is only done to my knowledge and not a complete list, please feel free to suggest if you happen to know more locations that I completely missed!

so here is the frev pilgrimage list! Long post warning.

(Note: The items are not in any particular order)

(Note: I typed this post up a long time ago but couldn't finish, a lot of thanks to the people who helped out on contributing information and your patience with me.)

Musée Carnavalet (Paris)

This one is very obvious, it is a must go for seeing a collection of frev related artifacts and paintings, including Couthon’s wheelchair, Robespierre’s hair, the most iconic portraits etc. Also its FREE.

Panthéon (Paris)

You can see the statue of the National Convention deputies. It doesnt have too much related to frev directly, but Rousseau and Voltaire (and Carnot…..) are interred there

La Conciergerie (Paris)

If you want to see the Deseine bust of Robespierre, but cant go to Vizille, there is a copy of it here within Paris at the conciergerie. It is the place where most frev figures as well as Antoinette spent their last monents.

Musée des archives nationales (Paris)

(June 2023) There is a temporary exhibit featuring frev rn which I highly recommend (also its free to go so like GO)

But beyond the temporary exhibit, I believe there are still a few things in permanent collection (Robespierre’s note book page, Antoinette’s last letter in prison, Comte d’Artois’ letter etc), including the famous 9 thermidor table that Robespierre supposedly lied on. the museum is free to visit.

Père la Chaise (Paris)

@robespapier wrote a better post on navigating the cemetery. It helped me so much with finding the graves of Lebas, Elisabeth and Eleonore Duplay! Thank you so much for the guide!

Rue Saint Honoré (Paris)

the current address of the Duplays household is 398 rue saint-honoré, which is now next to a louboutin store…. There is a commemorative plaque there indicating Robespierre’s residence there. Im not sure about going inside the residence….There was construction when I visited and the door was open, heres how it looks on the inside.

SJ’s bust (Paris & Angers)

I have not visited either of the two locations yet, but you can find that white bust of Saint-Just (that seemed to be modelled after the pastel portrait in the Carnavalet) in either Petit Palais (Paris) or Galerie David d’Angers (Angers). @orpheusmori has posted some Petit Palais pictures here @robespapier has posted some Galerie David d'Angers pictures here

Marat sign (Paris)

i have an image of this plaque sitting on my phone, I forgot where it was located until @orpheusmori helped me track the location of it! It is in the Odéon area and should be in the small narrow street with the back side of Le Procope. It commemorates the location as an important area during the French Revolution as well as the place where Marat established his printing shop.

The front of the same building also has another Marat plaque! I didnt know about it before thank you @orpheusmori for finding and contributing the photo! This one is above an Jewellery store (Amour de Pierres) https://maps.app.goo.gl/8X9zgKYpMiLJcULq7

Olympe de Gouges sign (Paris)

Once again, i have a photo of the plaque proving its existence, but I took it years ago and i dont remember where it was exactly.... It was all in the Odéon area, it shouldn’t be too far from the other….

Danton statue (Paris)

there is a Danton statue! Right outside the Odéon metro! You cant miss it. Also the placement of the statue is where he once lived.

Procope (Paris)

Its a really old cafe frequented by a lot of philosophes as well as many frev figures. There is also a bicorn from Napoleon inside. Right now its still a restaurant establishment, and its difficult to visit unless you eat inside….which is expensive…. However ! This whole general Odéon area is full of other frev landmarks (some more mentioned below). Including the metro station which has a bust of Danton.

Versailles revolutionary room (Versailles)

Beyond the royal family, there is a room dedicated to a lot of major Revolutionary Army generals and battles. Theres that one painting of Lafayette if u into that

Musée des armes/Invalides (Paris)

It has a significant collection of military artefacts from the French Revolution and its a really good resource for armory researches. The museum also has a sword that belonged to Lafayette, as well as a sword belonging to Carnot during the Directoire (image below)

Louvre

The Louvre does not have a lot relating to the French Revolution but it has a few significant paintings and a lot of David’s work. One of the Death of Marat copies produced by David’s studio should be in the museum, as well as a painting featuring the battke of fleurus (with SJ cameo)

Tennis court (Versailles)

Near the palace of Versailles you can find the room where the deputies swore the famous oaths. It is free to enter, although last time I went it was undergoing construction, hopefully it should have finished by now.

Musée de la Révolution Française (Vizille)

If you can go to Vizille… GO TO VIZILLE! The easiest way by transport would be to stay at Grenoble then take one of the buses that runs between Grenoble and Vizille. It is a whole museum dedicated to the revolution (and it is free) and the park is really pretty. This is where you can find the statue of Marat,

The Deseine busts including dear Bonbon,

And DJ Saint-Just.

Also special thank you to @citizentaleo for taking me there, I would’ve otherwise been lost in the French mountains lol, thank you!

Maison Robespierre (Arras)

You can visit Robespierre’s residence in Arras. It is possible to visit the inside, but it has a very specific and short opening hours.

I wasn’t able to go in since I was only in Arras for a few hours….But I got to attend a conference by Hervé Leuwers aaa (He is very sweet and I learned quite few new things from the presentation, but thats post for another day)

Robespierre metro stop (Paris suburb)

There is in fact, a Robespierre metro station on line 9! Not much beyond name but at least some credit to him! Alas it is not exactly within Paris and just on the outskirt. (Oh and there is also Voltaire)

Cordeliers club (Paris)

I dont have much information on what happened to the original location of the Cordeliers club and how it was modified, but the location is part of the sorbonne campus now i believe. I'd be very curious if anyone knows more information on this.

Place de la Bastille (Paris)

The Bastille is of course not there anymore, but the ground around the square and including the metro stations near by have traces/marks of where the old prison would have stood.

(and yea the picture was taken during a manif)

Pavillon de flore (Paris)

The pavillon attached to the Louvre and next to the Pont Royale is the Pavillon de Flore, which is where the Committee de Salut Publique worked.

Jacobin club (Paris) Alas the original convent in which the Jacobin gathered is no more and replaced by a commercial centre instead (Passage de Jacobins) . There is a sign however recognizing the place for what it was.

Place de la Concorde (Paris) Originally Place de la Révolution, there is a plaque remembering the executions that took place here near the obelisk.

Maison SJ (Blérancourt) I have not been to Saint-Just's house yet, because it is very hard to commute there without a car. But it certainly is still there and (I believe) maintained by the Saint-Just Association.

Catacombs (Paris) According to wikipedia....The bone remains of many revolutionaries buried in Cimitière Errancis (which has a plaque indicating it in the 8th arrondissement, according to wikipedia) are transferred to the catacombs, including Robespierre, Danton, etc. The catacomb is roughly organized chronologically but there is obviously no sign indicating which bone it actually is.

Cluny La Sorbonne station (Paris) It is on metro line 10 and the waiting tunnel is decorated with signatures of prominent French figures. It doesn't have any actual frev artifacts, but it looks cool and you can spot Robespierre, Danton, and Camille Desmoulins' signatures on the ceiling.

Louis le Grand (Paris) The school that Robespierre attended is still under the same name and still in use as a school! (i've reached the image maximum alas i cannot add more images...)

And that is all I can think of so far! There is surely a lot more that are out there (including outside of France). Once again, please feel free to mention if you know more frev landmarks that I missed out on. And to whoever happens to be travelling I hope you find this list helpful to start with.

[piratekane]

one month.

It’s Ava who insists on a dinner schedule, citing the need for sharing responsibilities evenly. Beatrice is fine cooking. She finds the rote motion of the knife relaxing, the way the blade rocks back and forth as it dices onions and chops carrots. It gives her a way to clear her mind after a particularly grueling day of classes.

After a month of Beatrice cooking and a few nights where Ava convinces her to try new restaurants, ones she wouldn’t usually explore, Ava comes home from class and declares that Beatrice needs to teach her how to cook.

She would be annoyed that she’s being interrupted in the middle of watching a supplementary video on Dan Brown’s Angels and Demons, but the movie itself was problematic. That and Ava has on a top with a polar bear wearing a pair of star sunglasses that she’s cut the bottom off of, so she gets distracted just long enough for Ava to capitalize on her silence.

“Think about it. You teach me to cook, I make us delicious foods.” Ava beams. “Win-win situation, right?”

Beatrice swallows, then frowns. “You don’t know how to cook?”

Ava drops her backpack down near the door, half in front of it so that if they needed to exit in case of an emergency, Beatrice would trip over the bag. She thinks about telling her to fix it. But Ava is already moving on, dropping her shoes just far enough from the shoe rack that they’re a nuisance if she tries to vacuum. Beatrice can’t find it in herself to be annoyed by either of these things.

It’s unchecked chaos in the world of order she’s created for herself, but Beatrice finds that her care for it is relaxing slightly. She still empties the sink at the end of the night, still adjusts the blankets on the couch after Ava has wandered off sleepily to bed, still piles up the recycling to take down in the next morning. She just also finds herself letting a pillow stay out of place overnight, or letting her coat drape over the back of the couch for a few hours before she hangs it up.

Ava doesn’t round the couch all the way before she’s dropping onto the cushion, using the arm of it as a slide down. Beatrice watches the way her legs and arms twist into complicated shapes before she finds a position she likes. Her shirt rides up just slightly. Beatrice’s finger skips on the play button and the video comes back to life before she pauses it again.

“I mean, no,” Ava admits. “There weren't a lot of opportunities for me to try.”

Right, Beatrice thinks. Ava had to fend for herself in ways that were different from Beatrice. 

“I think I could be really good. I have a good palette.”

Beatrice falters for a second. Last week, Ava thought mixing sugared marshmallow ducks and soda was a good idea. The thought of it made Beatrice’s stomach turn.

Ava must see her hesitation. “Okay, I could be good at it with a good teacher. And I think you’d be a great one.”

Beatrice feels herself blush. “I doubt it.”

Ava is already shaking her head like she knows what Beatrice was going to say. “No, I think you would be. You’re patient - more patient with me than anyone I’ve ever met, and I know I’m frustrating.” There’s a slight self-deprecating smile on her face that Beatrice wants to wipe away. “If anyone is going to be able to tolerate the thousand questions I have, it’s you.”

There’s something about knowing what Ava thinks about her that makes Beatrice feel like she’s doing something right. That makes her feel warm in a way she’s never felt before. It’s curious how quickly this feeling has rushed over her and taken up every corner of space in her mind. She can’t put words to it, her vocabulary suddenly shrinking in the face of Ava’s smile.

“I suppose…” she starts slowly.

Ava’s smile is quicker. “Yes!” She sits forward, elbows digging into her jean-clad knees. “Where do we start? Beef Bourguignon? Coq au Vin? Lobster Thermidor? Ratatouille? I really liked that movie.”

Beatrice shakes her head, her smile soft. “No. I don’t think I could even make most of that. Why don’t we start with something simple?”

Ava looks slightly let down, but shrugs off whatever conversation she’s having in her head. “Fine. We’ll work up to the Julia Child recipes.”

“How kind of you.”

“How about we make your favorite food instead?” Ava stands up and makes the slow walk across the apartment to where Beatrice is sitting, her laptop and notebook taking up most of the counter. Ava sinks into the seat next to her, her knee nearly touching Beatrice’s outer thigh. She drops her chin into her hand, propped up in the empty space. “What is it?”

Beatrice blinks. “My favorite food?”

Ava picks up her pen and idly doodles on an envelope she unearths from the small pile of mail Beatrice has been stacking up. Bills to pay. Beatrice watches her sketch out a flower with a wide stalk. “Yeah, your favorite food. We can do that.”

Her favorite food. She pauses a moment. What is her favorite food? What is the one thing she would pick every time?

The first thing that comes to mind is Marie, one of her family’s personal chefs. Beatrice can picture her in their large, sterile kitchen, a chef’s coat with her name stitched on the breast. She hadn’t minded Beatrice being in the kitchen like Tilda had, hadn’t chased her out like Jaques. She had poured Beatrice a cup of tea and asked about her day. It was a reprieve from the long silences that filled every other space in the house.

Beatrice had learned the difference between onions and shallots sitting on that kitchen table. She had tested the weight of different knives, something she was sure no other ten-year-old had ever done. Marie talked to her about the balance of salt and heat and acid. She let Beatrice peel potatoes, scrub carrots, prune the first layer of leaves on brussel sprouts. She taught Beatrice how to make her first knife cut and the importance of even dicing.

Beatrice carried those skills with her long after Marie was dismissed by her family. At twelve, it had felt like the end of the world. Her replacement, a brusque Russian man named Turov, hadn’t cared much for her presence and Beatrice didn’t care much for his okroshka. She stayed out of the kitchen after that.

Ava waits for an answer patiently - always patient, even as Beatrice stretches out silences as she struggles to find words no one has ever asked her for before now.

Beatrice thinks of Marie, thinks of sizzling pans and layered sauces and opens her mouth.

“Stir-fry.”

“Stir-fry,” Ava echoes. “You haven’t made that before.”

No, she supposes she hasn’t. “My family’s chef-” She stops herself. Ava doesn’t want to know her complicated history with her family’s chefs. 

But Ava nods encouragingly.

Beatrice takes a breath. “My family’s chef when I was younger. Her name was Marie. She taught me how to make stir-fry. Of course, she didn’t serve it to my parents. It was a meal for us.” She smiles a little, thinking about the way Marie would plate the dish for her - just like it was a five-star restaurant. “But I loved it.”

Ava's hand flutters in the air like she might reach out and touch Beatrice’s. Her stomach tightens at the thought. But then Ava merely pulls it into her lap and smiles.

“Do we need to go grocery shopping?”

“We’re doing this now?”

Ava looks at the clock on the microwave. “I’m starving.”

Beatrice can’t help but laugh. “It’s mid-afternoon.”

“Can’t we have a snack? I had a long day.”

She laughs again. “Ava, you had one class today.”

Ava pushes out her bottom lip miserably. “But it was with Soro and he’s a tyrant.”

Beatrice is already starting to stack her things into neat piles. “He teaches world literature. He’s hardly a tyrant.”

“He’s, like, a low-key tyrant. Not as bad as Sumbal, last semester. But still up there.” Ava hands Beatrice a highlighter.

“I never had Sumbal.”

Ava groans. “You’re lucky. He once took points off because I cited something from this century as a reference.” She passes Beatrice a stack of sticky notes and Beatrice takes them, tucking them carefully into her pencil pouch for later. “The point is, Soro was boring, I’m hungry, and you need a break from studying.”

Beatrice can’t help but be amused. Ava exaggerates, but in a way that she doesn’t find annoying. Just in simple ways. And usually to get what she wants. Beatrice finds, no matter how short of a time they’ve known each other, she wants to give what Ava is asking for. But then she’s never had a best friend like Ava before, someone who always seems to know her limits and stops just short of them, who only ever asks what she’s willing to give. 

And besides, she’s right; it is an important life skill.

So Bea puts away her study materials, despite only being an hour into a self-imposed two hour session. She’s already mentally calculating what they have in their refrigerator.

“We have things here, I think. Stir-fry is versatile. You can make it out of most anything.” Beatrice stacks her things against the wall, over the mail. “We should have some staples.”

“Do we have baby corn?” Ava asks hopefully. “They’re funny-looking.”

Beatrice opens one of the cabinets where they keep canned items. She pulls down one of them. “Baby corn.” She has to shuffle a few more around, until she finds the sliced water chestnuts too.

Ava jumps off her seat, pulling open the refrigerator. “What do we need from here?”

She focuses on finding the things she needs for the sauce. “Check the vegetable drawer. Pick whatever you’d like.”

While she collects the soy sauce, Shaoxing wine, oyster sauce and sesame oil, she listens to Ava hum something she doesn’t recognize. She likes the way it fills the silence - not that it’s an awkward one, the way it was with Gina. Speaking with Gina had always felt like a chore, and Beatrice did it the way she did all her chores: efficiently and with relief when it was over. Silence with Ava feels nice. Comforting, even. Knowing she doesn’t always have to be on in order to be interesting is relieving and addicting.

The vegetable drawer must have had more in it than Beatrice thought. Ava has onions, carrots, a bell pepper, broccoli, and sugar peas stacked on the counter. She grins at Beatrice.

“This enough?”

“More than.” She starts taking down bowls and pulls a wok out from the bottom shelf. Ava already has a cutting board out by the time she stands up. “Protein?”

Ava opens the refrigerator again. “Does chicken work?”

She was saving the chicken for baked chicken tonight, but that’s fine. She busies herself with opening the knife drawer and looking at the two chef’s knives she has. She wants a sharp blade, any chef’s best tool.

Beatrice carefully places the knife on the edge of the cutting board, blade angled away from Ava. It’s not that she doesn’t want to teach Ava; it’s just that last night Ava dropped a slice of bread from her hand and she tried to catch it with her foot. It’s just that a butter knife fell off the counter three days ago and Ava caught the blade in her hand.

Ava is, in a word, clumsy. 

In two words, she’s charmingly clumsy.

Ava seems to read her mind. She stills her whole body - Beatrice hardly noticed the way she was vibrating with excitement, so used to Ava’s normal state - and takes a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

“Have you handled a chef’s knife?”

“Nope.” Ava pops the p. “But I’m a quick learner.”

She is. She mastered rock climbing almost before anyone else. And she catalogs everything Beatrice tells her with lightning speed, repeating it back to her days later. But facts on religious artifacts can’t send you to the hospital. 

Rock climbing can, she reminds herself. And Ava did that okay.

“Fine.” Beatrice starts to roll up her sleeves. “First things first. Wash your-”

“Hands,” Ava finishes. She’s already turning on the water. “Happy birthday to you,” she sings quietly under her breath as she scrubs. When she finishes a second round of it, she smiles brightly as she turns to face Beatrice. “Next?”

Beatrice hands her a mixing bowl. “We’re going to make our sauce.”

She walks Ava through combining the different ingredients, hiding a wince when she adds a little too much soy sauce and correcting it by giving her a touch more sugar to mix in. Ava’s forearm muscles flex as she whisks the sauces together in sharp, quick, circular motions. Beatrice watches the way she moves. She is a quick learner, her hands adjusting to grip the bowl and wrapping around the whisk.

There’s something about Ava’s hands that Beatrice can never look away from. They move almost restlessly, always reaching out to touch something, to feel different things under the pads of her fingertips. She knows what Ava has told her. About the years where people touched her and she remained unable to do the same. She seems to be making up for lost time, Beatrice thinks. Ava’s always running her hands over the pillows on the couch, running her fingers around the handles of coffee mugs, twirling pens between her knuckles.

She’s always reaching and feeling and one day, Beatrice was struck with the strangest thought: what might happen if Ava reached out to touch her?

The thought had put a pause on the world. It was something she had never thought about before. Her friends touched her. Camila loved hugs hello and goodbye. Shannon always brushed a hand against her shoulder. Mary was known to give her an affectionate pat on the head every once in a while. Even Lilith, despite the look on her face whenever anyone seemed to get within five inches of her, was known to give a hug or two under dire circumstances. 

But Beatrice went so long without any kind of physical interaction that she had to learn what it felt like to have someone’s arms on her shoulders, someone’s arms around her body. She had to learn to be comfortable with the bottom of Camila’s feet pressed to her thigh during movie nights. She had to learn to be comfortable with Lilith falling asleep on her shoulder during all-nighters.

She had to spend all her time learning to accept physical affection that she never quite put a lot of thought into giving it. 

But watching Ava give it so freely - returning Camila’s hugs, knocking shoulders with Shannon and elbows with Mary, and the one time she pulled Lilith into a hug with the sole intention of, Ava’s words, unsettling her - Beatrice wondered what it might be like to give the same way.

And Ava. She wondered what it might be like to give it to Ava.

Ava didn’t touch her as easily as she seemed to touch everyone else. She reached out and always seemed to stop herself. Beatrice wondered what that meant. Did Ava not want to touch her? Was there something wrong with her? Did Ava see the same things in her that her parents saw? It’s a small voice, a whisper, but whispers always seem loud in empty corners of rooms.

The rooms aren’t as empty now, aren’t as quiet. Whispers aren’t as loud any more. Ava seems to fill the spaces more easily than Beatrice ever did. 

And so she tries to make herself be someone Ava might want to reach out to.

Ava puts down the bowl with a smile. “Sauce, mixed.”

Beatrice nods towards the cutting board. “Then the vegetables.”

Ava frowns. “Not the chicken?”

“Protein last, unless you plan on using multiple cutting boards. And since you used our second one for your chemistry class experiment-”

Ava winces. “Yeah. I’m going to replace that,” she says, just like she said last week and the week before that one. She smiles again. “So, protein last. Vegetables first.” She picks up the carrots and reaches for the knife.

Beatrice stops her, a hand hovering out in front of her. “There’s knife safety we need to talk about.”

She thinks for a moment that Ava will be annoyed with her. Knife safety doesn’t have an adventurous ring to it. It sounds boring, technical. But Marie taught her the importance of knowing a tool and the dangers it carries.

Ava pulls her hand back, clasping them gently in front of her. She smiles patiently. “Go ahead.”

Beatrice blinks back her surprise. “Oh. Okay.” She clears her throat. “The first rule of knives is that they can cause serious injury if not used properly. Knives should be kept sharp enough to cut through a piece of paper - they’ll cut through your skin just as easily.” She scales it back a little bit, dulling the tone in her voice but Ava’s smile hasn’t flickered. “We’re always going to cut away from ourselves, not towards.”

“Do I need to write this down?” Ava looks serious, like she’s taking in every word Beatrice says.

“No. No, I’ll remind you as we go.”

Relief uncoils Ava’s shoulders. “Good. I was worried there was going to be a test, or something.” She says it without malice, like a joke that Beatrice is in on.

Beatrice smiles a little before she remembers one of the most important parts of knife safety. “Never, never catch a falling knife. Not with your hand or with your foot. We can clean a knife off. We cannot put stitches in your hand or your foot.”

Ava’s cheeks flush. “One time.”

“Twice,” Beatrice reminds her. “So, if the knife slips, just let it.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” Ava bounces, some of that frenetic energy back. “What else?”

“Always make sure your cutting board is on a flat, even surface so that it - or your knife - doesn’t slide.” Beatrice gestures at the cutting board on the counter. “Make sure nothing is under it.”

Ava waits in the silence for a moment before she blinks expectantly. “Is that it?”

Beatrice thinks for a moment. “For now, yes.”

“Great. Let’s get started.” She rocks forward, hands a little slower as they reach for the knife. She looks at Beatrice, waiting for a nod before she picks up the chef’s knife. She taps the blade experimentally against the cutting board.

“You can start with the carrots,” Beatrice suggests. “You don’t need to dice them.” She leans against the counter and watches as Ava examines a carrot critically, before she puts it down on the cutting board and grips it, fingertips out, as she raises the knife.

Beatrice shoots forward, hand curling tightly around Ava’s fingers on the knife, careful to hold on so Ava doesn’t drop it in surprise. “Not like that,” she murmurs. Her body follows her arm, putting her close enough to Ava to breathe in the slight tang of the pineapple shampoo she bought by accident.

Ava turns, eyes wide. “Sorry.”

“You’ll cut your fingers off,” Beatrice continues quietly. She carefully lowers Ava’s hand back down to the cutting board. “You need to-” She squeezes Ava’s hand once until it loosens under her palm. She feels the tension radiating through Ava’s arm slacken. “You need to curl your fingers in.”

Ava blinks at her. “I need to what?”

Beatrice lets go of Ava’s knife hand, placing it down gently. “Hold on. Can I-”

Ava shifts slightly, opening up her side. “Yes.”

Beatrice nods shortly and steps in, her hand settling around the one holding the carrot. Her fingertips press back against Ava’s fingernails until they curl back and it’s the flat of her knuckles showing. “Like this. Curl your fingers in or you’ll cut them off.”

She doesn’t realize she’s holding Ava’s hand in her own until Ava turns her head and they’re a whisper apart from each other. She nearly lets go, but Ava is staring at her and waiting for her next instruction. Beatrice swallows heavily. Ava’s hand flexes in hers, the carrot under it scratching against the cutting board.

This is what it feels like to touch Ava. To feel the warmth of her skin against the palm of her hand. Beatrice can feel the ridges of her knuckles, the sharp bone under her callouses. It’s warmer than she thought it might be. Drier. She can feel her own palm growing hot in return and she nearly pulls away, afraid of catching fire.

Ava only meets her eyes, tips her head to one side, and smiles. “Like this?”

She has to clear her throat twice and then gives in, just nodding.

Ava doesn’t pull away. She leaves Beatrice’s hand where it is as she readjusts her grip on the carrot, holding it as steadily as possible between her fingers while the flats of their knuckles face out. She looks at Beatrice and waits for another nod before she picks up the knife. She pauses, looking expectantly at Beatrice.

Beatrice doesn’t understand. She looks back, unsure of what to say. The circuitry between her brain and the rest of her body is flickering in and out. And Ava is waiting so patiently, asking a silent question that Beatrice can’t understand. She nearly scowls; she’s behind something she can’t define and she doesn’t like it.

“Help me?” Ava finally asks.

“Oh.” Beatrice’s free hand twitches and Ava nods encouragingly as she extends it, reaching across Ava until her hand is wrapping around Ava’s knife hand.

She stands here, both arms stretched across Ava’s body in a slightly odd angle and thinks: Oh.

Her heart starts to beat, loud enough that she’s sure Ava can hear it, and her cheeks flush. Oh, this is what it feels like to touch someone and want to set the world on fire. Oh, this is what it feels like to want more of something so desperately, she’d be willing to stay stuck here until it’s taken away from her. Oh, this is what it feels like to be so overwhelmed that her whole world dials down to the places where she stops and Ava begins.

Ava carefully brings the knife down over the carrot and they watch as it slides through it gracefully. She feels the flex of Ava’s hands under hers and thinks oh, oh, oh.

This is love.

Now that she knows what it feels like to touch Ava, the last fraying thread holding back her tidal wave of feelings - ones she’s held dormant - snaps like the core of a carrot as the knife slices into it again. It’s like this was the last line of defense. It comes crashing down the way a house of cards folds. All of the things she’s learned about Ava - the years in the orphanage, the way she dunks her french fries into ketchup and then mayo, the nights she pretends not to cry herself to sleep, the stretch of her smile that matches the way she stretches across the couch - burst forward from a tight knot in Beatrice’s chest and overwhelm her.

Once, she thought she was in love. Once, she had written Mrs. Penelope Marshall, the first girl who broke her heart, in the margins of her notebook while her Latin teacher droned on about derivatives, and Beatrice had thought that it was the best thing she could ever be.

But Ava looks sideways at her and smiles as their hands move together, and Beatrice thinks that if what she felt then was love, there’s no word in any language that can describe what this is now.

“You’re a good teacher,” Ava says, rocking the knife on the cutting board. “I knew it.”

Beatrice inhales, the scent of pineapple in her nose. “You’re a good student.”

Ava preens for a second. “I knew I would be.”

Their hands still. Beatrice doesn’t let go. Now that she knows what it’s like to touch, she never wants to let go. But her palms start to sweat, and she knows that Ava will be able to feel it. She takes a step back, putting an ocean between them again, and nods encouragingly as she tries to keep herself steady.

“You try.”

“Without you?” Ava pouts slightly, but recovers quickly. “Okay. Stand back, chef. Watch me.”

Beatrice watches. She’s always watching. She’s been watching since the moment Ava crashed into her table, spilling the entire contents of her to-go mug onto her notes. She’s been watching since Ava moved the last box into their apartment, declaring herself moved in. She’s been watching and watching and never touching because touch is reserved for the moments that really matter.

Because touch is the last puzzle piece holding her together, but now she doesn’t even have that.

Ava slices another round off the carrot and grins. “Totally easy.” She looks back over her shoulder and winks. “I knew I would- ow!”

Beatrice frowns, blinking at the sudden change in pitch and volume. It takes her a moment to realize that Ava has nicked her finger, and blood is starting to run down it as she holds it up into the air. Beatrice stares at the bright red bead as it slides across warm, dry skin she was just touching for a beat too long. By the time she moves, Ava is already turned away, turning on the tap.

“Shit,” Ava hisses as the water rushes over the cut. 

Beatrice snaps to attention, grabbing a dishcloth from the cabinet next to the refrigerator. She pulls Ava’s hand out of the water and examines the cut. It starts to bleed again. “It’s small. Hold still.”

Ava stops wriggling. “Don’t-”

Beatrice tightens her grip, pressing firmly on the cut. Ava hisses. “I’m sorry,” she says gently. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”

Ava’s face softens. “Of course not, Bea.” Her free hand rests on Beatrice’s wrist. “You didn’t tell me first aid was included in this lesson.”

“You won’t need stitches.”

“Bea.”

“I have a first aid kit in the bathroom.”

“Bea.” A hand drops to her waist and she shivers. The hand drops away. “Honestly, it’s fine. It just caught me by surprise.”

Beatrice still doesn’t look up from the cut. “Dull knives are worse. They require more force to get through food, so when it slips and cuts into your hand, the cut is usually deeper.”

“Good thing you keep these things sharp enough to cut steel,” Ava jokes.

Beatrice slowly unwraps the dishcloth from the cut and examines it. Blood still trickles down, but much slower. Good. She needs a first aid kit, so she can wash it and then dress it. It shouldn’t require much work. The cut looked simple enough.

She takes a step away but Ava grabs her wrist, pulling her to a stop.

Oh.

“We can still cook, right? You’ll still teach me?” Ava smiles hopefully.

There’s that check-in, again. Ava always asking what she’s willing to give. Even if now, that limit has expanded a thousand miles in the span of time it took to slice half a carrot. Beatrice knows - has known - she can’t say no, and now she is acutely aware of why. 

“Of course. We’ll just be more careful.” She takes a step away and Ava’s hand slowly drops from her wrist. She feels the loss of it like a limb that’s been cut off.

“You’re the best, Bea,” Ava calls as she slips into the bathroom in search of the kit.

Beatrice stands in front of the window above the sink, studying herself in its reflection. She doesn’t look different now that she knows that she’s fallen in love with Ava. Nothing on the outside has changed, but everything on the inside has toppled over and formed new shapes that feel strange. She wasn’t looking to be in love, wasn’t expecting it to happen to her any time soon, or all. But she’s learning that most things with Ava are big and unexpected and exactly what she’s looking for, no matter that she didn’t know that.

She holds her hands up in front of her face, turning them over. She expects to see Ava’s fingerprints burned into her skin, but they look just the same as they did minutes earlier when she was just Beatrice. They don’t burn; they don’t glow. They only ache. To go back out there and touch again, a need she thinks may never be sated.

Beatrice meets her eyes in the window and looks at this new person staring back at her. 

Touch is a love language, she knows. She just didn’t know it was one of hers.

~

two months.

There's poetry in swimming. A grace in the way arms cut through still water, propelling forward. It cuts away on either side of her and she glides through it like she’s exhaling. The world feels weightless in the water, like she could float away contentedly.

It’s the smell that begs the question of why Beatrice agreed to this.

The school pool smells over-chlorinated and it sticks to the inside of her nose. She resists the urge to sneeze and clear it, focusing instead on dipping her toe into the water, testing it.

Warm.

She frowns, turned off by the idea of bathwater. Whatever bacteria is being fed by the warm water, they’re trying to shock away with chlorine. Why is she paying so much in tuition for warm, bacteria-infested water?

“You’re on scholarship,” Ava reminds her.

She blinks, unaware she spoke out loud. Ava laughs and bumps a nearly-bare shoulder into her arm gently. Her frown ebbs away like the water lapping at the side of the pool. Ava’s skin is already damp from the humidity in the air and Beatrice marvels at the idea that this is what it must be like when Ava steps out of the shower and wraps a thick towel around her body, shoulders and neck still exposed. She flushes.

Ava bounces lightly, careful of the slick floor. “At least we have the place to ourselves.”

That might be another problem. Because they are alone, the pool empty in the middle of the day. There’s no one here to see the way Beatrice can’t quite look Ava in the eye or the way her hands shake a little as she grips her towel a little too tightly. At least at tomorrow’s Color Run, there will be crowds of people and chaos surrounding them, reminding Beatrice to curb that impulse to touch, to keep her hands to herself. 

Here, alone, Beatrice has no buffer, just her and Ava and her heart lay bare. 

This touch thing has been a bit of a nuisance. It consumes her. It’s been a couple weeks since the world shifted on its axis and now she wants to be touching Ava all the time. Sometimes it’s small - a brush of a hand as they pass a spatula back and forth at dinner or trade the television remote. Sometimes it’s bigger - pulling Ava into a hug after a long day of classes where her back has tightened up to the point of pain and willing it away. She limits herself, though. Sometimes per day, sometimes per instance. She never takes too much, always gives Ava her space. 

She doesn’t want to push. Everyone has taken so much from Ava. She’s not going to be a name added to that list.

Some nights, she still feels like she takes too much. She touches the back of Ava’s hand or she pokes delicately at her ankle bone as Ava stretches her feet into her lap or she leans into the way Ava seems to always be leaning in towards her. Those nights, she stays in bed and stares at the ceiling and thinks about what would happen if she went into Ava’s room and curled around her. Would she survive that? Would they?

“Thank goodness,” Ava admits. She’s a little breathless. “I was kind of worried about that.”

All of Beatrice’s reservations fade away at her words. Ava is what’s important here. She turns, meeting Ava head-on. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“I do,” she says quickly. Her eyes cut nervously to the deep end of the pool. It’s 8 feet down to the bottom. “I’ve been wanting to do this.”

Beatrice reaches down and curls her fingers over Ava’s wrist, feeling the thudding pulse under her fingertips. 

“Ava,” she says softly. Ava looks back at her, a tremulous smile on her face. “We can come back another day. Or just sit on the edge with our feet in the water.”

Something stretches Ava’s spine straight. “No. I’ve waited long enough. I’m going to swim.”

“You’re going to learn,” Beatrice stresses. “Actual swimming might not happen today.”

“Sure, sure,” Ava says dismissively. “Cannonballs by the hour’s end.” 

Her wrist slides out of Beatrice’s grip as she moves towards a long, sweating wooden bench lining the wall. Ava drops her towel - a large pink thing with a flamingo in an inner tube on it - and slides out of the flip flops she wore, tucking them under the bench. She turns, hands on her hips, and surveys the pool.

Beatrice inhales sharply, feeling that chlorine burning in her nose again as she takes in the sight of Ava.

She saw the bathing suit when Ava bought it, of course. Ava held it up in front of her, going on about how she picked red because every movie she saw with a lifeguard in it had a red swimsuit on. It’s funny, Bea, she explained at Beatrice’s blank look. The girl who can’t swim playing pretend as someone who rescues people in the water? She wasn’t deterred by Beatrice’s silence. She shrugged and ordered Thai.

But seeing Ava holding it up in front of her, separated from her skin by a pair of electric pink soft cotton shorts and a bright yellow tank top - a combination that seemed like some kind of criminal offense, even to her - was entirely different than seeing it on her.

Because on Ava, the swimsuit seemed impossibly smaller than it had before. It did things she had only read about in books: hugged curves, fit like a second skin. She’d never experienced the kind of feeling romance novel protagonists talked of, but the words suddenly made sense to her. She blushed whenever her eyes roamed anywhere past Ava’s shoulders.

She swallows now, as Ava stretches her arms above her head and sighs contently. Ava turns and Beatrice looks away quickly, eyeing the shallow end.

She hears Ava’s bare feet padding through the small puddles where the floor is uneven. Two hands fall to her waist from behind and squeeze slightly. Another sharp inhale; she tastes the chlorine in her throat.

“You’re not going to wear that in the water, are you?” Hot fingers pluck along her side at the perfectly respectable cover shirt she’s wearing. “Because that’s not fair.”

Beatrice forces herself to breathe out, grateful for Ava being at her back. Having Ava’s touch so close, she wants to just… lean into it. She finds she’s always seeking it out, that simple reminder that Ava is alive and next to her. Since the floodgates opened, since she experienced what it was like to touch and to be touched, she finds she’s reaching into every corner hoping to come up with some part of Ava between her fingers.

But she knows Ava’s casual touches don’t mean what she wants them to mean. She knows she shouldn’t read into them.

“Of course not,” she says almost to herself.

Cool air rushes across her neck where Ava exhales. “Oh, good. Because I’m wondering what kind of bathing suit might be under there.” She winks when Beatrice glances back.

Despite the balmy air, Beatrice shivers. 

Ava doesn’t seem to notice, stepping away and surveying the pool. “So, where do we start?”

“We won’t cover much today,” she says as she starts to take her shirt off, folding it neatly and placing it next to Ava’s towel. “We’ll practice floating, I think.”

When she turns, Ava is staring at her. “There is a body underneath that shirt.” 

Beatrice feels her cheeks redden. “Ava.”

“And it’s not made up of wires, either.” Ava shakes her head. “It’s a crime, hiding that under a polyester-cotton blend.”

She sighs. “Ava.”

Ava grins and holds up her hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, Beatrice. You’re denying the people.”

Am I denying you?

She blinks rapidly at the thought. It feels blasphemous to think such a thing. She’s grown more comfortable with those thoughts lately. But never in the same room as Ava. Never when she’s standing five feet away in a bathing suit as bright red as she’s sure her face is right now. 

So she shoves it down for now and thinks instead about the different things she’ll teach Ava. Thinks about the lessons she read online: the importance of starting with floating, and staying calm in the water, and maintaining contact with an instructor during a first lesson, and - oh no. I need to touch her.

“Wait. You’ve done this before, right?” Ava asks suddenly, interrupting her thoughts. 

Beatrice wets her bottom lip, tasting chlorine. “I looked up how to begin swimming.”

Ava’s eyes narrow. “On a swimming website for babies?”

“For children,” she admits. She rushes to add, “But not babies. Small children.” She pauses for a moment. “The same size as you, actually.”

“Beatrice,” Ava gasps. She presses a hand to her chest. Beatrice pointedly ignores it. “You’re just a few inches taller than I am, you know. And I can still ride amusement rides.”

She ignores Ava. “The first step is getting into the water. There are different ways to enter a pool. The ladder, of course. Or you can sit on the edge and swivel in.”

Ava bites down on her bottom lip, eyes back on the pool as she weighs her options. “How’re you getting in?”

“I was going to sit and swivel, if you’d like to.” Ava is silent. “I find that sometimes sliding in is the best option. The stairs give me too much time to change my mind.”

Ava considers this. She’s bouncing lightly, eyes darting back towards the deep end every few seconds. 

She’s nervous. Beatrice steps forward, hand finding its natural place on Ava’s wrist. She squeezes until Ava meets her eyes. They’re ringed with worry. It’s not that Beatrice didn’t know Ava was hesitant around large bodies of water; she just didn’t understand how much.

“I promise I will not let you drown. I will not let anything happen to you.” She says it firmly, hoping Ava knows she means it. 

“It’s not you I’m worried about.” Ava takes a shuddering breath. “It’s the drain at the bottom of the pool. What if it sucks me in?”

“The… the drain?”

Ava nods, staring at it now. “Yeah. I saw a movie once, one that an older boy snuck in. This girl - she was annoying, but still - she went swimming and the pool drain just… sucked her in.”

She wants to laugh. It’s ridiculous, that Ava could even fit in the pool drain, or that it would do something like start to suck out water in the middle of the day. But the fear in Ava’s eyes is real, and her heart aches instead. She turns Ava gently, holding her gaze.

“We are not going in the deep end. We’ll be 50 meters away from the pool drain. You certainly wouldn’t fit in it if, for some reason, the pool did start draining.” Beatrice smiles softly and squeezes her hand. “And more importantly, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Ava’s eyes search hers. “Okay,” she says after a minute and squeezes back. “I trust you.”

Beatrice swallows under the weight of the words. She smiles softly and releases Ava’s hand, taking a slight step back. Her toes splash in the pockets of the floor as she walks to the edge of the pool.

Ava follows her lead. “Okay, so sit and swivel?”

Beatrice takes a deep breath and smiles tightly. “Sit and swivel.” She slowly lowers herself into the shallow end of the pool. The water laps at the back of her thighs, soaking her bathing suit. She looks up when Ava hesitates. “I’ll go in first, then you can.”

Ava nods jerkily. “Sure. Totally cool.” 

Ava lowers herself to the tiles and scoots forward gently so her feet slide into the water. Beatrice watches carefully, making sure to angle herself so that if Ava slips, she can catch her. But Ava moves slowly until she’s mirroring Beatrice. Water splashes against her knees.

“Perfect.” Beatrice smiles and turns her body, sliding the rest of the way into the water. It comes up to her waist. “Now it’s your turn.”

Ava seems like she’s breathing a little easier. She slides into the pool, splashing a little. The water hits her hips, waving up around her as she stands an arm’s length away from Beatrice. “I did it.”

“You did it.” 

They’ll have to go a little deeper to teach Ava anything. And the distance might help Beatrice’s pounding heart a little too. Beatrice then takes a large step back, towards the deep end, until the water comes up just below her chest. 

“Now, we need to go out a little further to-”

“You said shallow end.”

“You can’t build confidence in the water if it’s at your belly button.” Ava eyes her warily and Beatrice ebbs back towards her, careful not to touch her. “I told you. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“Okay,” Ava says softly after a minute. She takes a short step forward. Beatrice slides back another. “Bea.”

“I’m right here.” 

Ava is looking at her now, eyeing the distance between them. They’re in the middle of the pool now, nothing to hold onto and that nervousness is back in Ava’s eyes. Beatrice changes tactics.

“How about we practice treading water?” she suggests. She cuts past Ava back to the side of the pool and grips the edge. “You can hold on and we can practice here.”

Ava seems relieved. “Sure. That works for me.” She takes a step closer to the deep end, the water rising to her shoulders now. She takes it with confidence, the kind she usually carries. “So I just…”

“Hold on. And let yourself drop a little bit. Treading water is about conserving energy while staying afloat.” Beatrice lowers herself into the water, letting it come up to her neck. She kicks her feet a little. “See how I’m staying up?”

“You’re holding on,” Ava points out.

Beatrice resists the urge to roll her eyes and lets go. She holds her arms out, perpendicular to body. She kicks her feet again and bobs in the water. “By nature, we float. So as long as there is air in your lungs, you’ll be fine. Your arms and feet just add to the buoyancy.” 

She straightens up, feet flat on the bottom of the pool.  When she stands, the temperature change between the air and the water makes her shiver. “See, it only comes up to my neck,” she reassures. “You try it.”

Ava grips the edge of the pool and lowers herself slightly. The water brushes up against her chin and Beatrice sees her eyes widen. But then she kicks her feet a little and she bobs back up, bouncing on the surface of the water.

Beatrice smiles. “See?”

Ava beams. “Treading water? Check.”

“Well, not quite,” Beatrice laughs. “You need to let go next.”

“Cool. Cool, cool.” Ava let's go with one hand and her body dips down. She quickly grabs it again. “Not cool.”

Beatrice laughs a little and drifts forward. “Come on,” she beckons. “I’ll be right here.”

She expects Ava to argue, to convince her they can go sit in the shallow end and talk instead of swimming. She expects Ava to say, “this isn’t for me. I really wanted to learn, but it’s just not in the cards right now.” Or even that she’s a bad teacher and she’s going to ask Shannon - who’s been a summer lifeguard since she was fifteen and has far more experience than Beatrice - for lessons.

What she doesn’t expect is for Ava to take a deep breath, blow out her cheeks, and leap forward into her arms.

Beatrice is nearly knocked back by the force of Ava’s jump. Her feet slide against the slick pool bottom and she swallows a mouthful of chlorine. She can’t focus on it. There are hands. There’s skin. Ava’s hands glide over her shoulders, fingernails trying to find purchase in the straps of her swimsuit as their bodies crash together. 

Her hands ghost along Ava’s ribs and oh. Ava’s swimsuit has an open back. She can feel the scarring along Ava’s spine, could count each of them if she ran her fingers up and down. Her fingernails scratch against skin she’s only ever imagined under her hands. She wants to map each inch she can touch, commit it to memory.

Ava’s hands finally find a place, locking around the back of her neck as she tries to hold on tighter.

Everything in her seizes. Her legs, tangled smoothly against Ava’s, freeze and lock into place. Her arms go slack against Ava’s back. She feels the water come up over her mouth again. A knee digs into her stomach and she gasps, swallowing the warm water again. Something sharp scratches against her shoulder as she starts to go under. She feels a heel dig into her thigh and then she’s being pulled sideways through the water.

She bumps against the side of the pool and then a hand winds itself into the strap of her swimsuit, pulling her up and out of the water. She gasps for air as her shoulders crest the surface.

“I thought you said people float!” Ava shouts, the words so loud in Beatrice’s ear.

Beatrice has to shake her head, blinking rapidly.

“Oh, god.” Ava’s hands flutter around her face, tipping her head back to study her face. “I’m sorry. I just thought- I thought you’d catch me.”

Beatrice sucks in a ragged breath. “I did.” The pool wall is cool against her back. She leans her head back against the edge, sucking humid air into her lungs.

The world comes back into sharp focus and she goes still again.

Ava is crowding her against the side of the pool, one hand tangled in her bun as it comes undone and the other brushing the rolling drops of water off her cheek. Their legs are tangled again, Ava’s toes skimming along her shin. Ava’s eyes are almost wild, darting back and forth as they search her face.

“Jesus, Bea,” she exhales. One of her legs hooks around Beatrice’s and it pulls her closer. “Are you okay?”

No. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands. They flutter in the water, fingers clenching around nothing. She knows where she wants to put them: right where they were a minute ago, sliding across Ava’s sides to her back. She knows that she wants to dig her fingertips into Ava’s skin and leave them there so Ava can feel them even after she pulls away.

Pull it together. She swallows heavily.

“I’m fine.”

Ava’s body is still moving with the water, still ebbing in and out against her. The hand at her cheek goes to the pool’s edge and it drips water down on Beatrice’s shoulder, drops rolling off her skin. “I thought people float,” Ava breathes, her words hot against Beatrice’s face. “You said they did.” 

Beatrice finally touches down, thumbs stroking against Ava’s ribs involuntarily. Ava jumps a little. “They do. When they’re not being jumped on.”

Ava looks sheepish now. “I just… I thought that I would just go for it, you know? That maybe I was a natural swimmer and I’d just…”

“Stay afloat,” Beatrice finishes.

“Yes. And if I couldn’t, you’d rescue me. I just-” Her hand scratches lightly against the back of Beatrice’s neck. “I was a little enthusiastic, I think.”

She loves Ava’s enthusiasm - not when it’s trying to sink her, of course. But generally, she loves it. She finds it intoxicating, contagious. She wants to let her sweep her up almost all the time.

Her thumbs count Ava’s ribs. One, two, three…

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Worry winds around every word and Ava’s hand slides along her jaw to her chin, titling her face up. “You swallowed a lot of water.”

She can see small beads of water running down the long line of Ava’s neck, disappearing into the surface of the water. She watches the race down over smooth skin and she wants to track it with her fingertip. 

Pull it together.

“I’ll have a stomach ache later, maybe. And I need to brush my teeth.” She doesn’t even want to think about the chlorine anymore. “But maybe we should-”

“Try another day?” Ava nods. “Yeah, we should try another day. I owe you, like, tons of coffee. And take out, definitely. Your choice. No spending limit.”

She smiles softly. “I meant, maybe we should, um…” She looks down between their bodies.

Ava looks down and startles. “Oh! I’m sorry, I was-” She starts to pull away, her hand getting caught in Beatrice’s hair. “I’ll just-”

“It’s okay.” Beatrice doesn’t pull her hand back right away. “I’m fine.”

“No, this is your space and I’m just- dammit.” She finally works her hand out of Beatrice’s hair and her leg slides across Beatrice’s hip as she grips the edge with both hands and pulls herself around Beatrice’s body.

The water feels cold as it rushes into the spaces where Ava’s body had just been. She has to blink a few times, trying to pull her head together. That was more than just a brush of a hand or a fleeting kiss to the top of her head as Ava rushed to get to class. This was her hand against Ava’s side, long enough to feel Ava’s ribs under her fingers. This was her legs sliding against Ava’s. This was Ava’s hands in her hair and fingers at her jaw and and and. 

Ava pulls herself up and out of the pool, sitting on the edge of it, legs still in the water. They still brush against Beatrice’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Beatrice stares at the other side of the pool, going through breathing exercises until she can turn and smile and mean it. “Don’t be. I should have prepared you better for this.”

Ava smiles. “It’s not your fault. I’m the one who flung myself into your arms.”

Do it again.

She blinks. “Next time, I’ll be ready to catch you.”

Ava’s smile stretches. “Next time, huh? Careful, Beatrice. You’ll make a girl swoon, telling her she can run into your arms at any time.”

Her cheeks flush. She knows it. Ava always gets this look in her eyes when she’s successfully made Beatrice blush. “Yes, well.” She clears her throat. “Maybe we could be done for the day?”

“Of course, Bea.” Ava pats her gently on the shoulder. “I was serious. Coffee and take out on me. We’ll even watch one of your documentaries, if you want. Anything you want. Nothing too small.”

It's not a date. It's just friends getting coffee and eating out. Friends do that all the time. It's not a date unless they say it's a date and that's not what they're saying. Beatrice can't remember the last time she went out on a date and Ava hasn't since they met. But if they did go out together on a date - a thought she's had before that always seems to make her heart stick a little - she'd want it to be more than coffee and take out. 

But, she's not going to think about that. She's going to just stay in a bubble where neither of them are going on dates and spending all their time together. 

That can be enough.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s the least I can do. I nearly drowned you.”

She almost rolls her eyes. “I would have been fine. I just needed another moment to get my bearings.”

“Still,” Ava says brightly. “You had a near-death experience. Let me take care of you.” She doesn’t wait for an answer. She leans down, brushes her lips against her chlorine-soaked hair, and stands up. Beatrice can hear her padding through puddles towards the towels.

She takes another minute to get out, letting herself bob in the water as she tries to let it wash away the feel of Ava’s body. 

She doesn’t think she’s going to ever forget.

~

three months.

Beatrice likes to think that she’s more than capable of reading Ava’s moods. She can separate out mad from frustrated, happy from content, sad from melancholy. Maybe it’s from living in such close quarters; from the fact that she spends an average of 18 hours a day with her and it’s hard not to know someone so well after all that time.

The point is: Ava comes home from class and she is not just mad. She’s angry.

The kind of angry Beatrice saw last week when Ava declared she was willing to face incarceration for Beatrice, if it meant that her parents would never hurt her again. The kind of angry that took Ava hours and a movie night with their friends to come down from.

She throws the door behind her, catching it at just the last moment so it doesn’t slam shut. Beatrice appreciates it. Her neighbors are nice. And one of them has a baby that’s just gotten onto a sleep schedule; she doesn’t want to be responsible for waking it up. Especially since a sleep schedule means it’s not up half the night crying.

But Ava comes crashing through it all the same. She throws her backpack down, cheeks red and forehead pinched. It slides a little across the floor into the coat rack, but doesn’t knock it over. She doesn’t even kick off her shoes, stomping around the couch and past the breakfast bar where Beatrice is set up between classes, right to the refrigerator that she pulls open and thrusts her hand into. She comes up with one of Mary’s beers, left behind after a movie night earlier in the week.

Beatrice is up around rounding the bar before she even thinks about it, plucking the bottle from Ava’s hand.

Ava turns and nearly growls before she seems to recognize Beatrice. Her face smooths out.

“I can make you some tea.”

She’s expecting a bit of a fight, but Ava just sighs and nods miserably, sagging back against the counter.

Beatrice busies herself with putting the beer back and turning on the kettle. She moves around Ava, careful not to touch her. It’s not that she’s scared of touching her. It’s just that everything has changed between them. Knowing she’s the most important person in Ava’s life, that she always will be, hasn’t just tinted every interaction they’ve had in the last week. It’s changed everything. It’s changed her. 

The entire situation has her on her back foot, a place she despises. For the first time in her life, she doesn’t know what she’s doing, or how to act. How does she move them forward from that without losing what makes them them? 

She can start with tea. She finds Ava’s mug, the one with Dog Dad written in blocky letters on it. She can take care of Ava the way Ava takes care of her. She can listen. She can show Ava how important she is in return.

It isn’t until she’s pulling down a tea bag that she feels slim fingers encircle her wrist and pull her to a stop.

“Sorry,” Ava grumbles.

Beatrice smiles patiently. “Tough day?”

“You know Francesca, in my history class?”

Beatrice tries to shuffle through the various characters Ava tells her about. She doesn’t remember a Francesca off the top of her head. Francis in her feminist lit class, yes. But Francesca…

Ava takes her silence as the no that it is. “She’s the one I told you about who had the crappy boyfriend?”

Vaguely, Beatrice pulls to mind a time when Ava came home complaining about some guy who interrupted their class to yell at girlfriend. Francesca, apparently. 

“Well, guess who showed up when we were headed to get some coffee after class?” Beatrice doesn’t have to. “Yeah, he just ambushed us on our walk. Totally embarrassed her in front of our whole study group. And you want to know the worst part?”

Beatrice pours hot water into Ava’s mug. “What?”

“He grabbed her. In broad daylight. Grabbed her by the wrist and tried to pull her away from us. I had to jump in and-”

“Are you okay?” Beatrice abandons the kettle and grabs Ava’s hand, gesticulating wildly between them. She turns it over like she was the one who was grabbed. “Is Francesca?”

Ava sighs but doesn’t pull away from her as Beatrice brushes her fingertips over a pulse point. “Yeah. I mean, I had to hit him with my backpack a few times before he took off.”

“You what?”

“And we sent Francesca home with Juan,” Ava says over her. “He promised he’d stay with her the rest of the day. But that douche knows where she lives and there’s no chance he doesn’t go back to try and bother her.”

“Ava.”

Ava looks at her, face red again. “You just can’t come up to someone and grab someone like that, you know? It’s assault, at least. She was totally spooked. And I don’t blame her!”

Beatrice abandons Ava’s hand and grabs her shoulders, holding her steady. “Ava.”

“If I see him again, I’m going to hit him with more than just my backpack. I’m going to take my fist and punch him right in the-”

“Ava,” Beatrice says sharply.

Ava blinks. “What?”

“Are you alright?”

“Oh.” Ava looks a little sheepish now. “Yeah, I’m totally fine. The bagel I was saving you is probably squished and I’m sure I have cream cheese all over my history textbook so I won’t get my money back, but I’m-” She reaches up, loops a few fingers around Beatrice’s wrist and tugs gently until her hand is curled up against Ava’s chest. “I’m fine.”

Beatrice exhales a thin stream of air. She turns her hand in Ava’s until their palms are pressed together. 

She feels like she’s attached to Ava here. Like a thread pulls her in, staring at Ava’s lifeline and tugging until her calloused palms are pressed to Ava’s smooth ones. She doesn’t fight it, she lets it consume her. And she keeps the feel of it long after she’s separated from Ava.

“Okay,” she says, more a reassurance to herself than anything. “And Francesca?”

“Like I said, embarrassed. And I think her wrist hurts, but she wouldn’t tell us that.” Ava looks sad now. “He was such an ass. Going on about how she can’t leave him. Honestly, he was embarrassing himself. I told her to file a report. He’s a big guy, he could go right through Juan.”

As long as it isn’t right through you.

“But it got me thinking about something,” Ava continues. “I couldn’t do anything to, like, help her. He just grabbed her and we all stood there. Sure, my backpack doubles as a small weapon-”

“Only because you refuse to take anything out of it.”

“But,” Ava stresses, rolling her eyes. “It wasn’t enough. I needed him to go away on the first hit. It took, like, six tries before he finally let go. I need to do better. So, you need to help me.”

Beatrice frowns. “I need to help you, what? Hit someone with a backpack?”

Ava pauses. “Well, no. Though, I should start coming to the gym with you, I think. That backpack is really heavy. Maybe Mary could make up a workout plan and I can learn to push one of those heavy bags across the gym. That’s very sexy, I think.” She narrows her eyes. “Can you do that?”

Beatrice swallows, a little hot under her collar. “No, I don’t believe so.”

“Damn.” Ava pouts. She looks off to the middle distance, eyes clouding over for a moment, then blinks and looks back at her. “Right.” She smiles crookedly. “I need your help fighting someone.”

“Fighting someone,” Beatrice repeats. “I’m not going to help you fight someone.”

Fighting someone isn't the answer. It's not even the question. 

Beatrice can appreciate what it means, the way that Ava is willing to step up for her friends and help them. One of the things she loves about Ava is the way she seems to want to do what she can for everyone. She's the first person Mary calls when she needs to go left off some steam. She's the first text when one of their friends needs a study buddy - even if Ava isn't too sure on the material. But it’s not just their circle of friends. Ava is someone everyone can count on. Someone who cares enough to help everyone around her. In the moments where Beatrice lets herself think she's a good person, she thinks Ava is someone a lot like her, just a little bit more impulsive.

But the last thing she wants to do is encourage Ava to put herself in harm’s way.

“Pleaseeeee.” Ava pushes out her bottom lip and blinks up at Beatrice through her lashes. “You’re already a great teacher. And you’re, like, a celebrated fighter. You’ve won trophies, Bea. That means more than one. You could show me how to kick someone’s ass and then the next time that douchebag shows up, I’ll-”

“Next time, you just walk away,” Beatrice interrupts. “You don’t fight a man as tall as a mountain.”

“Okay, he wasn’t as tall as a mountain. More like, as tall as Lilith.” Ava starts to walk her other hand across Bea’s arm, looping gently just below her elbow. “But it’s going to happen again. He’s like a parasite. A cockroach. And when he does come back, I want to be able to put him flat on his back. Bruce Lee style.”

Beatrice is shaking her head before Ava even finishes. “I’m not teaching you how to fight someone. And you shouldn’t be wanting to fight someone either. You’re very small.”

“I’m not-” Ava huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “Wouldn’t that make me a better fighter? Because I could duck and weave and kick someone directly in the kneecap?”

There’s some logic to Ava’s thought process. Being small has its advantages. A lower center of gravity. Typically more movement than a man built like a brick house. But Ava is not a fighter by nature and a man built like a large rhinoceros would break her in half like a rotted out piece of pine board. No. She can’t teach Ava to fight.

“No.”

“Bea,” Ava sighs, frustration licking at the corners of her name. “I don’t need to know, like, all the steps it takes to become a black belt. I just need to know how to scare him off.” She steps closer and Beatrice feels the air between their bodies leave the room. “Come on. Show me a couple of things. You know I’m a good learner.”

“Cooking, yes. But the last time I tried to teach you how to do something physical…”

“Yes, I tried to drown you. That was once and I was panicking. And the next time we went swimming, I did a lot better.”

Beatrice shakes her head. “Fighting is a situation where you will panic. I still panic every time I get into a fight.”

“Okay, what if I make you a deal?”

Beatrice eyes her warily. “What kind of deal?” 

The last time they made a deal, Beatrice ended up in the observatory after hours, hiding from campus security while Ava tried to escape the locked tower. They finally had to call for Mary to come and pick the lock.

 “You teach me a few things about fighting and I’ll go with you to that conservatory luncheon conversation thing. The one about religious texts in modern media.” Ava thrusts her hand forward in a handshake. “Deal?”

Beatrice wasn’t planning on going to that. She could probably learn more from the supplementary texts her professor provided last class. But Ava is looking at her with soft eyes and her fingers are brushing against the inside of Beatrice’s elbow and Beatrice feels her resolve falling like her attempt at making a souffle, another one of Ava’s ambitious ideas. She can’t say no. She’s never been able to say no.

But also, a small part of her thinks, it’s an opportunity. There are times when Beatrice thinks that maybe Ava feels this too. Maybe she touches Beatrice because she wants to, just as much as Beatrice wants to touch her in return. And this is a chance to touch Ava, to explore what that feels like.

“Okay,” she sighs. She shakes Ava’s hand shortly. “But you have to promise you will not get into any fights until I say you’re ready for that.”

Ava cheers loudly, wiggling around. Beatrice winces and pulls her hand away before it gets tangled up in whatever complicated motion Ava is doing. “Thank you, thank you. Where do we start? Leg sweeps? Wrist breaks?”

Beatrice can’t help but smile at Ava’s enthusiasm. Lilith calls her soft when she thinks Beatrice can’t hear her. She doesn’t try to tell her off, because she knows it’s the truth. It’s not just that she can’t say no. It’s that she also can’t bring herself to be mad about it.

“Not wrist breaks.” Ava pouts again and Beatrice has the nearly irresistible urge to brush her thumb against Ava’s bottom lip and smooth it away. “But I can teach you how to throw a punch.”

“As long as it’s not the only thing you teach me,” Ava negotiates. “I want to know more than that.”

“We’ll start with a punch.” Beatrice is going to hold firm on this. “It’s the foundation for a lot of other things.”

Ava considers that for a moment. “Like treading water.”

“Just like treading water.”

“I’m very good at that now, you know.” Ava practically preens, lifting her chin into the air.

“You are,” Beatrice says dutifully. “Your breast stroke is also very good. Don’t laugh because I said ‘breast’,” she warns Ava, who is already smirking.

“Pretty soon, I’ll be making a run for the Olympic team.”

“Of course.”

“Don’t doubt me, Beatrice.”

Beatrice means it when she says, “I would never.”

Something on Ava’s face softens and she ducks her head. Beatrice might also say she looked shy, if she had to name the emotion on her face. But she doesn’t, because no one is asking, and because she doesn’t want to.

“I can settle for a punch, sure.” Ava finally breaks their connection, sliding out of her hold. Her fingers graze Beatrice’s arm as she steps back. “So, show me.”

“What? Right now?”

“Whatever you’re doing-”

“Biochemistry.”

“-can wait.” Ava makes a face. “Biochem? Yuck. Wouldn’t spending time with me be more fun than that?”

Of course it would be. She knows that. Ava knows that. It’s why she’s had to pull all-nighters more in the last three months than she ever has in her educational career. She’d rather spend all her time with Ava, completely addicted to the way she laughs and the way she smiles and the way she always seems to rest her hand on the closest part of Beatrice she can reach.

She especially wants to spend her time doing that.

“Fine. Fine.” Beatrice abandons her biochemistry homework without a second thought. She’ll need to make it up eventually and she knows Ava will sit at the table with her later and tell her funny jokes she reads online while Beatrice tries to focus on equations.

Ava beams. “We’ll be quick.”

“We will not be if we do it correctly.”

“Then we’ll be correct and not worry about the time it takes because form is important,” Ava amends. She waits for Beatrice to nod in agreement before she thrusts her hand into the air and clenches it into a fist.

Beatrice hums. Ava looks at her expectantly, a hopeful smile on her face. It starts to fade the longer Beatrice looks. After a minute, she meets Ava’s eyes.

“May I?” She gestures towards Ava’s fist. Ava nods. “First of all, you’re holding your first too tightly.”

Ava immediately loosens it and her fingers fall apart. 

Beatrice laughs. “No, not like that.” 

She doesn’t hesitate now. Before, she might have paused, might have stopped herself from reaching out and manipulating Ava’s hand into the shape she wants it to be. But that was Beatrice months ago. Beatrice now, so used to touch, to Ava’s touch and the way it fits so neatly into her life, just reaches out.

Ava’s hand is pliant under her fingers. She softens her wrist, lets her fingers relax. Beatrice works them back into a fist, keeping firm pressure across her fingers. She taps Ava’s wrist into place, smiling softly when she sees the look of concentration on Ava’s face.

“Your fist can be your biggest weapon, if you wield it properly.” Beatrice runs her fingernails over the ridges of Ava’s knuckles. “But it comes down to the proper mechanics. Because the person you hurt might be yourself.”

“I want to hurt Eduardo.”

Beatrice wrinkles her nose at the name. She knew an Eduardo once. He was a terrible child, one of her parent’s political friend’s children. He once pushed her down and stomped on her new dress. Her mother had been furious. Suddenly, she wants Ava to hurt Eduardo too.

“Then you need to make sure you’re using the proper form.” She stands in front of Ava, studying her fist. “First, your thumb.”

“Inside, right?”

“Outside,” Beatrice corrects. She gently places Ava’s thumb on the outside of her fist. “If you leave it inside, you run the risk of breaking it.”

“Would I get a cool cast?” Beatrice glances at her and Ava grins widely. “Would you sign it? Dear Ava, you’re an idiot. Affectionately, Beatrice.”

“That wouldn’t fit on a thumb splint.”

Ava’s smile doesn’t waver. “You could figure it out.”

Beatrice sighs, the sound laced with the kind of fondness she’s found she reserves for Ava. Her hand pulses over Ava’s, reminding her of what she’s doing. She curls her fingers around Ava’s wrist and holds her other hand up flat so that the flat of Ava’s knuckles press against her palm.

“Keep your fist straight. Like this.” She puts a little force behind her palm, feeling the resistance of Ava’s fist. “When you punch, the flatter your knuckles are, the more surface area you cover. The more even the distribution is.”

“So if I’m punching Eduardo in the mouth…”

Beatrice rolls her eyes, smiling still. “If you keep your fist flat, you could break several teeth instead of one.”

There’s a look in Ava’s eyes that tells her she shouldn’t have said that. She can see the wheels churning in Ava’s mind.  

“More teeth,” Ava agrees. “I can totally remember that.”

Beatrice thinks about correcting her, about telling her that she should not go out with the intention of punching a man built like a woolly mammoth. She should make sure that Ava understands this is for self-defense and not to go on the offensive. But Ava is studying the shape of her hand intently and she thinks Ava knows that, in the very back of her mind, that she shouldn’t go out swinging at a man built like a steam engine train.

“More importantly, you won’t break your first two fingers,” Beatrice says, drawing back Ava’s attention. "It’s easy to want to punch with your index finger like this.” She makes a fist out of her own hand, clenching her index finger tightly so that it bubbles out and the knuckle leads away from her fist. 

“Watch.” Beatrice tightens her grip on Ava’s wrist and pushes her hand into her palm with her index finger leading. “See how it impacts right against these fingers?” She’s close to Ava now, her voice quieter as she steps in. “But if you flatten your knuckles…” She smooths out Ava’s hand and presses against. “It distributes more evenly. Saves you from breaking your first two fingers.”

Ava nods, head bobbing up and down. “Uh, okay.” She smiles a little crookedly. “The hardships I’m willing to endure for friends, huh?” she jokes. “Next, we should teach Juan.”

“He doesn’t know how to throw a punch?”

Ava snorts. “He’s too busy being in love with Francesca to do anything but try not to trip over his own feet.”

In love, she thinks. Is Ava in love with Francesca, if she’s willing to fight off this Eduardo? The thought is traitorous but there.

“But that’s what we do, right?” Ava’s hand shifts a little in her hold but Beatrice hardly feels it. “When we- Like, your parents. I’d fight them in an instant, to protect you. Juan and I have that in common.”

Beatrice feels a ripple of affection rush through her before it’s swallowed up by the overwhelming thought that no one has ever so vehemently and blindly defended her before. It nearly pushes her back a step, but she’s still holding onto Ava and she doesn’t want to break their connection.

She doesn’t want to let her go. She wants to touch, to stay in this moment. She wants… more. She doesn’t know if she should take it.

But Ava hasn’t shied away from her yet. Hasn’t pulled away. She’s leaned into Beatrice. She’s let Beatrice stand close and shape her.

Would she allow Beatrice to be a little closer?

She pulls her attention back to the task at hand. Ava is still standing there, waiting for instruction. “Make sure your hands are up, to protect your face if your opponent decides to throw a punch back.”

Ava scoffs. “I’m a one-and-done kind of fighter. I get one in, they’re done.”

Beatrice slowly motions a punch towards Ava who blocks it just a second too late, throwing her hands up above her head. “Hands up.”

“Fine, fine. Hands up.” She takes the carelessness out of her words with the look on her face as she brings her hands back into a resting position, one situated at her chin.

“Your form isn’t terrible.” Beatrice ignores Ava’s small cheer. “You’re right-handed, so this is your power hand.” She taps Ava’s hand. “Throw a cross punch.”

Ava pushes her hand forward, twisting naturally in a way that Beatrice knows is hard to teach. She frowns, though, walking around Ava in a small circle as she studies her.

“You’re punching from the shoulders.” She carefully touches the top of Ava’s shoulder. “You need to watch your extension. Beginners always punch from their shoulders.” She finishes her circle around Ava and rests her hand on her shoulder blade. Ava looks back at her, face pinched in concentration. “Most people think that punching is all arms, especially when you twist.” She pushes a little, leading Ava into a small twist.

“But your real power comes from your hips.” She drops Ava’s shoulders to brush her hips. “You twist your hips with enough torque, you generate enough power to make an impactful punch because you are putting your entire body behind it.” 

She pushes Ava’s hips to twist to demonstrate. Ava moves easily with the motion.

“Blunt force trauma, baby,” Ava sings. She looks up abruptly and twists a little to meet Beatrice’s eyes. “I need a superhero name.”

Beatrice smiles despite herself. “You’re just learning how to punch.”

Ava doesn’t hear her. “The Halo.”

“The Halo.”

Ava grins. “Yeah, remember that Snapchat filter with the blue and purple background that makes me look like I’m bisexual Jesus?”

“Ava,” she scolds.

“That could be my official superhero artwork.”

“Do you want to know how to throw a punch or not?”

Ava snaps to attention. “Yes, ma’am.” She thrusts her fist back into place and turns back around to face forward. “You were saying something about hips,” she says over her shoulder.

Beatrice gulps. She was. She just got distracted by the way it felt so easy to have Ava moving under her hands. Still, she needs to focus. Ava is. She can too.

Her eyes trail down from Ava’s shoulders to those hips and down to her feet. “Can The Halo take off her shoes, please?”

Ava looks down, cheeks flushing. “Oh, sorry.” She hurriedly kicks them off, sending them across the living room. 

It almost makes her laugh. Their first week living together, Beatrice would have followed after Ava until she put them in their proper place by the door. Now she doesn’t miss a beat, just continuing on and knowing that Ava will take care of it when they’re done. 

“It’s just that I need to see your footwork and I can’t if you’re wearing sneakers. Footwork is important to your legwork.” Beatrice points at Ava’s hip. “When you turn, turn sharply. Your core strength builds from there.”

Ava hesitates for a second, long enough that Beatrice catches it and frowns. “Uh, do you think…” Ava bounces a little on her toes. She’s nervous. It takes her another minute to get it out and Beatrice waits as she always does when it comes to Ava: patient and willingly. 

“Do you think that my back affects my power?”

“Oh,” Beatrice says softly. She takes a step closer, her hand already reaching out to wrap around Ava’s arm. Just to give her a touchpoint. 

“Well, a lot of your power does come from being able to rotate your core, of which your back is a part of. But you can compensate by strengthening the oblique muscles in your abs. The majority of your power though comes from your stance. Drawing power from your legs and transitioning to your upper body. Lift with your legs, right? You’ll still feel it through your body, of course, because things like boxing and mixed martial arts are whole-body practices.” 

She smooths her fingers over the sleeve of Ava’s cropped cutoff - a Baba Yaga on roller skates - and hopes Ava feels the intention in her touch. 

“But for a part-time superhero who remembers to use their legs, a few punches will be okay. You just need to learn and keep your form.”

Ava’s face clears. “Okay. So…” She grins. “How’s my form?”

“We need to fix your stance. Start with your weight evenly distributed. You also want to square up your feet. Lead foot forward but toes still pointing forward.”

Ava pitches to one side.

“No, no, wait. You’re leaning back on one leg too much. You’re giving me 70, 30 distribution. You can stand like that when we are ready to teach kicks. But for now, for just punching, I need 50, 50. Make it equal.” 

Ava turns, confused. “Can you just show me?”

Beatrice immediately steps back, hands fall away. “You want me to demonstrate?”

“No, I mean- Can you just… move my feet where they need to go?” 

There’s a hint of frustration in Ava’s words, like she’s getting upset that it doesn’t make sense the first time. They both have that in common. Ava just tends to be a bit more vocal about it. 

“Show you…”

Ava nods. “Just move my feet. I know, feet are gross. I promise they’re clean.” She waits. “I washed them two days ago.”

Beatrice knows for a fact that Ava washed her feet yesterday, because she likes to sing to her toes when she gets out of the shower. That’s not what’s making her pause. Her hesitation comes from knowing exactly what it will mean to move Ava’s body this way. She’s going to have to get even closer, cross an invisible line that only she can see. 

But Ava wants to learn and Beatrice isn’t going to let her get her information from someone at the Student Center who doesn’t know the difference between a jab and a cross punch. So she takes a halting step towards Ava, rests her hand against the small of Ava’s back, and stretches her leg out between Ava’s.

“This foot here,” she instructs. Ava’s ankle bone rubs against hers. She feels like the male lead in a Victorian novel; feeling Ava’s ankle has her heart racing. “And that foot- Yes. There.”

She looks down to check on both sides and eyes her work. It could be better. Ava is still leaning one way a little heavier than the other, but she seems to be swaying back and forth and it could work to her advantage. Satisfied, she looks up and realizes exactly how close Ava’s face is to hers. Ava grins and Beatrice’s heart shudders into place.

She tries to focus and steps behind Ava. “Now I want you to bend your knees a little like you’re going to squat.” 

She doesn’t wait to be asked this time. Her hands flutter down to Ava’s waist, fingers curling into the dip of her hip bones. She feels Ava’s body go taut and she nearly lets go, but it relaxes just as quickly and Ava is loose under her hands. 

“You want to create a stable base, so that means keeping your center of gravity low. That way when you punch, you can draw all that power from your legs.” She keeps her voice clear despite the way she feels like she’s trembling.

“Power in the legs, got it.” Ava looks down at her feet.

“When you’re low, there’s somewhere to go. That momentum can add to that force when you twist and throw that cross,” Beatrice’s hand pinches at Ava’s hip gently. “It starts down here.”

“Okay, so stay low.”

Beatrice nods. “The muscle groups you need to pay attention to are your quadriceps and your glutes.” 

Ava is still staring at her feet. “The what?”

Spurred on by a need she can’t quite fully articulate - to protect Ava the way Ava protects her, maybe. To make sure that Ava can always defend herself, surely - she runs a hand down the outside and top of Ava’s thigh. She feels a surprising amount of muscle there, pulled tight.

“These are your quads,” she says quietly. “If you’re not engaging them properly then I can just… push.” 

Beatrice gently pushes Ava forward. Ava has to take a slight step to avoid falling. Beatrice pulls her back up right and back into the cradle of her hips. “Focus on it. Engage it. And this time…” She leaves her hand pressed to Ava’s thigh and pushes with her other hand. Ava barely sways.

Ava looks back over her shoulder, eyes cutting down to where Beatrice’s hand is. “So engage my thighs.”

“Yes, front and back. Quads and glutes,” Beatrice corrects. “Your glutes especially. They’re your strongest muscle group.” 

“So what you’re saying is,” Ava starts slowly, grinning. “My ass is my strongest muscle.”

Beatrice sighs, suffering already. “Take this seriously. If you’re not doing it correctly, you can get hurt.” 

“I am,” Ava says quickly. She’s still smiling a little. “Totally am.”

She slides her hand back up to Ava’s hips, swallowing heavily when Ava looks away. “Once you’re there, you want to focus on your hips. Turn them sharply.”

“Butter knife sharp or-”

“Chef’s knife sharp.” Beatrice slides one hand a little further around Ava’s front, enough to get a slightly better grip so she can turn Ava’s hip back. “The sharper, the harder your punch is.”

There’s nearly nothing between them now. A piece of paper would wrinkle. And Beatrice feels alive. She feels like the air is cleaner. The lights are brighter. She could be glowing warm yellow light and levitating off the ground and she wouldn’t know because Ava is thisclose and she’s forgotten to buy different shampoo so it still smells like pineapple and caramel from her coffee and every single one of Beatrice’s senses is electrified. 

She’s been in love with Ava for a while now and each time they touch, she sinks a little further into the feeling. She lets it envelope her. She drowns in it. She lets it consume her most of her waking moments and all of her sleeping ones too.

She’s very dramatic. But she also loves Ava Silva more than she’s loved anything in her entire life and sometimes, dramatics are necessary.

“So,” Ava breathes out. “Just… twist my hips.”

Beatrice pulls her back again to her starting position. She can feel the muscle of Ava’s hamstring against her thigh. She keeps her voice steady, a feat harder than anything she’s ever done before. 

“Twist. Like this.” She spins Ava’s hip again. “Transfer your weight onto the ball of your foot when you twist. That’s the only time that your heel should lift off the ground.” She touches the back of Ava’s knee, pressing in a little. “Bend here more to lift as you twist up.”

Ava swallows, jaw clicking loud between them. “And my arm goes out at the same time.”

“Yes.” Beatrice uses one hand to guide Ava’s arm forward. “Put it all together to get that power. Bend, twist, punch.”

Ava lets herself be spun out again, a bend of her knee and a sharp twist of her hips. 

“Good. Now reset.” She lets Ava set her feet. “Don’t forget to breathe this time. Exhale with your punch. It’ll loosen your muscles and create a more explosive force behind your punch. Now again.”

Beatrice hears Ava exhale with her punch. It echoes in her ears like a church bell - haunting and beautiful and ringing in her chest so loudly it sends small ripples through her body and into her hands. They shake on Ava’s waist as she tries to hold them still. She breathes in through her nose - pineapple and caramel and promise - and exhales against the back of Ava’s neck. 

Ava pulls back to a starting position almost immediately, already catching on to the rhythm.

“Again. Together.” she says, reduced to single words as Ava’s body moves under her hand back again. “Bend, twist, punch, hold.”

Beatrice turns with her this time– bends her knee, twists her hip, punches out beneath Ava’s arm. They stay poised like that, an arm outstretched and molded against Ava’s back. She thinks she’s trembling - it can’t be Ava. She can’t be feeling what Beatrice is feeling. This feeling is hers and hers alone.

But Ava isn’t breathing. Beatrice starts to pull away but Ava steps back into her. Beatrice feels her breath catch and she rushes to cover it with a cough. That gets stuck in her throat too, and she’s suspended weightless, her hands and arms and chest burning where they touch Ava.

Her hand slides down along the curve of Ava’s leg where it presses back into her. Touch, a voice in her mind whispers like silk. The hem of Ava’s too-short shorts catches on her fingernails. She can feel Ava’s back pocket against her palm and she knows the imprint it leaves might never go away even when it isn’t visible anymore. She nearly tucks the tips of her finger into it, a slight flicker of possession that almost overtakes her.

Ava steps away, the heat of her body gone as she puts space between them.

Beatrice feels her stomach tighten as Ava stands suspended in front of her, back facing Beatrice. She went too far. She took too much. But before she has too much time to think about it, Ava turns and clears her throat.

“What about when I fight your parents? Should I put power into that?”

The tension breaks. Beatrice breathes out a laugh.

A thrill still shoots up through her every time Ava makes some kind of casual threat regarding her parents. She doesn’t wish them harm. She doesn’t wish them anything at all. But there’s a certain niggling wonderment in the way Ava doesn’t hesitate to declare she’d go to war for Beatrice. It makes her feel wanted in the best way.

Beatrice exhales. “Yes, you should always put power into your punches.”

Ava seems to need a minute, something complicated crossing her face before it clears. “Maybe I’ll take up boxing.”

Beatrice leans into the subject change, needing to distance herself for a moment too. “Mary has a friend at the campus gym. Mateo. He’s a good teacher.”

“As good as you?” Ava shakes out her arms and legs. “Because I want the best.”

So you certainly wouldn’t want me, a voice not unlike her mother’s whispers. She smiles despite it. “Other people are far better teachers than I am.”

“But you’re my favorite.” Ava grins and rests her hands on Beatrice’s shoulders as she leans up and gently headbutts her. Beatrice frowns. “I saw a cat do that once. Means I like you.”

“Better than pulling my hair, I suppose. Or kicking me down on the playground,” Beatrice murmurs. Ava doesn’t hear her, already moving back to the counter where the hot water for their tea has gone tepid.

Ava busies herself with pulling down another mug and dumping out her own, turning the kettle back on. “I want to watch a kung fu movie.”

“I have homework,” Beatrice sighs.

Ava shrugs it off. “So we’ll do homework first and then watch a Bruce Lee movie. You can correct his form.”

Beatrice snorts. “He’s Bruce Lee. His form is impeccable. And we practice drastically different forms of martial arts.” She sighs at the look on Ava’s face. “But I’ll let you tell me what you think he should be doing, if you’d like.”

“It’s like you know me so well.” Ava leans back against the counter and crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re my favorite person in the whole world, you know that? I’d punch Eduardo in the face for you, if you wanted me to.”

Beatrice does know. And it’s what makes everything so confusing. But it doesn’t stop her from loving the way it makes her feel any less.

“I’m quite certain I could punch Eduardo myself,” Beatrice says softly. “But that’s nice that you’re offering to punch a man I’ve never met.”

Ava shrugs. “So long as you know I’d fight anyone for you.” She puffs out her chest, resting her hands in the spaces where Beatrice’s had just been. She pitches her voice low. “The Halo will rescue any damsel in distress.”

“The Halo needs to maybe empty her backpack before the cream cheese in it goes bad.”

Ava’s face flushes and she darts for her backpack. Beatrice watches her openly and thinks, one day, I’ll let you rescue me. And I’ll hold on tightly if you let me.

–

It takes another hour before she’s done with her homework. Ava finishes in half that time but doesn’t rush her, passing her a highlighter when it rolls away from her and refilling her tea for her when she finishes it. And Ava puts away her shoes without the reminder, tucking them neatly on the shoe rack next to Beatrice’s running sneakers. 

Ava never rushes her, always lets her make her way through things the way she wants to. For someone who rushes through so much, her patience is another testament to the ways Ava has changed for her.

“Alright, so it’s between Enter the Dragon or Fist of Fury Part Two.”

Beatrice wrinkles her nose. “What about Fist of Fury Part One?”

“Can’t find that one.” Ava immediately slides towards her when Beatrice sits down, the sharp point of her knees digging into Beatrice’s thigh. She barely feels them. “So maybe Enter the Dragon? He’s hunting down a drug king who killed his sister.”

“Sure.” Beatrice doesn’t care what the movie is about. Not with the way that Ava is arranging herself so that she’s pressed in closer to Beatrice.

Ava is too busy selecting the movie to see the way that Beatrice is controlling the way she breathes, using all her training to keep it even. So busy that when she reaches out and takes Beatrice’s hand, dropping it onto her thigh, she doesn’t notice the way Beatrice fails spectacularly at the only thing she’s focused on doing.

Ava’s thigh is still muscled, still warm and smooth. Beatrice’s fingers curl over the skin, molding to her leg. There’s nothing between them, no denim shorts. Just Beatrice’s palm, sure to sweat in a minute, and Ava’s skin. 

She inhales one controlled breath, letting it out in a hot, quiet exhale. Ava looks at her and Beatrice forces a smile, hoping it doesn’t shake like she feels every nerve ending in her is. She must be succeeding; Ava smiles back at her and wiggles down towards her a little more. 

Touch is her newest love language. She’s still growing into it, still trying to understand it as well as Ava does. So maybe she didn’t go too far. Maybe she didn’t push too much. If she had, Ava wouldn’t be seeking her out, would she? She would be sitting across the couch, a cushion like an ocean between them. She wouldn’t be here, pressed into Beatrice’s side with her hand on top of hers. Maybe - as Ava smiles and scratches her fingernails against the back of her hand gently - Ava is trying to tell her that they’re thinking the same thing; they’re on the same page.

But she still doesn’t know for sure. She doesn’t have any more answers than she did before.

She thinks about the words Shannon told her, right after Ava’s coffee date with JC. “Be honest. Be direct. Tell her how you feel. If you never say anything, you’ll never know and you might just miss your chance.”

Ava has many love languages. Beatrice wants to love Ava in every one. 

“Just use your words, Beatrice.”

Maybe she just needs to adopt a new one.

[citizen-card]

is Tallien the French Revolution's biggest loser?

This is a long-overdue post about one of the aforementioned poll's semifinalists, compiling some loser-y moments for your consideration:

Participated in/encouraged the September Massacres of 1792 and became notorious for his actions as a representant en mission in Bordeaux. Despite this, he would go on to denounce the Terror and contribute significantly to the narrative that all its excesses should be pinned on Robespierre instead.

During 1794, he was recalled from mission and expelled from the Jacobin Club. At the same time, his lover Theresa was arrested. Shortly before 9 Thermidor, she sent him a letter from prison calling him a coward for having done nothing to save her. Said letter supposedly contained a dagger (I am personally unsure of this; how does one have a blade in prison?) and stated: "I die in despair at having belonged to a coward like you."

Bought a knife to the National Convention session of 9 Thermidor, holding it out and threatening to stab Robespierre himself. Of course, he never went through with these threats and probably did this for shock value. (I can't find records of it in the meeting minutes, though, so he might not have done it at all)

Named his daughter 'Rose Thermidor'. Imagine if one were to name their child after a month/political coup in the modern day!

Over the next few years, his marriage to Theresa would deteriorate. She would subsequently have affairs with a wealthy financier, who she ended up divorcing Tallien to marry. (She also said in a letter:“I was forever disgusted with him”.) Sad!

Spent the last few years of his life in poverty, eventually dying of leprosy at the age of 53.

[braucherei]

Just finished seeing Napoleon (2023) for the first time! I liked it more than I thought I would. The comedy bits were funny and the core relationship of Napoleon and Josephine was engaging even if all the other characters were pretty flat.

I don’t know much about Napoleon post-emperor but the history at least before that was unsurprisingly pretty all over the place.

SPOILERS (this is a bullet pointed list of moments mostly from the first quarter of the movie set during the French Revolution/Directoire) (EDIT: I just saw the movie for a second time so I added amendments/clarifications in red)

the movie opens with a text scroll summarizing in very vague terms what led to the French Revolution

The first real scene is Marie-Antoinette being guillotined while Ça ira is sung. Her execution is then immediately followed by Robespierre giving his “Terror and Virtue” speech very menacingly

Didn’t care for the guy casted as Robespierre didn’t really look like him and was too old. He just comes off as a generic “power hungry” politician in a powdered wig

When Napoleon first charges at the siege of Toulon a cannon hits his horse right in the chest and Barras has to awkwardly help Napoleon off the ground

The next day Napoleon is awarded for taking Toulon and for some reason the gored horse is still there. Napoleon reached his hand inside the horse and grabs the cannon ball

A scene or two after Toulon they show Thermidor where the whole convention turns on aspiring dictator Robespierre

Barras is in the balcony of the Convention and specifically yells that Robespierre wants to be “judge, jury and executioner”

This Robespierre runs away as a crowd of deputies chase him up the stairs. Someone in a chair that might have been an 18th century wheel chair falls over but the scene happens so fast I wasn’t sure

I believe it was just a regular chair tossed over during Thermidor but I’m still not entirely sure since there is some kind of either design or mechanism on the side of the chair

Robespierre pulls a gun on the mob of deputies chasing him but the gun jams so he pulls out a second gun and shoots himself

Barras says “you missed” and then fingers his jaw wound to I guess parallel Napoleon and the horse

A little later Napoleon is at the Victim’s ball and Josephine is seen there next to Barras.

Thérésa Cabarrus is also in the cast list but she is never named in the movie so I assume she will be in the Director’s cut

Josephine and a woman hug while leaving prison so that’s probably Cabarrus but her name is never said

There’s also a scene that starts with Barras and Napoleon goofing around together and throwing nuts at a wall which is sweet I guess

Weirdly Barras is the only male character Napoleon seems to be genuinely friendly with

I was wrong it was his brother Lucien not Barras that Napoleon was goofing around and throwing nuts with which makes more sense. I must have gotten their mullets confused

Napoleon returns from Egypt in this movie because he hears Josephine is cheating on him

the newspapers he gets from the English aren’t stories on how the Directoire is unpopular/corrupt but instead cartoons of him being cucked

(This is foreshadowing for the worst part of the movie)

The only real Fouché scene is when Napoleon is sitting with the Directors telling them how he’s going to coup them and it’s going around the table getting their reactions as Napoleon calls their names

Then Napoleon says Fouché and it cuts to a guy standing in the corner of the room

Talleyrand is a more important part of the movie and is given some of historical Fouché’s moments (I liked his actor a lot actually and he’s the best character besides the core two)

Barras also stops being a character after he agrees to resign as director but he continues to show up in the background throughout the movie

This is SPOILERS AGAIN for the end of the movie but I have to mention this because it was an insane decision

———————————————————————

While Napoleon is in Elba the Tsar of Russia rolls up to Josephine’s manor in a carriage and is “entertained” by her

Napoleon sees a cartoon of him being cucked again in the newspaper and that is why the Hundred Days happens

[nesiacha]

Propaganda mediatic around Tallien and french revolution

I fully understand that certain figures of the French Revolution are preferred over others who are less liked. It's a matter of preference. I myself have a very cultured friend who is a fan of certain royalists from this period like Olympe de Gouges, although I also admire the character in a certain way and deplore the sexism of that era which excluded her (such as the fact that she totally defends Louis XVI), but I've always enjoyed debating with this person, who is so respectful of others' opinions, very knowledgeable, and well-versed in the subject. Of course, the difficulty lies in not trying to defend the golden legend or the black legend.

It's another thing entirely to invent completely grotesque or even false facts to glorify one figure of the French Revolution and destroy another. In the grotesque episode of "Les Femmes de la Révolution Française" from "Secret d'Histoire," which was actually sexist (I" love" the fact that in this show, which claims to want to glorify women, they talked about the term "demi-mondaine" for women, when will there be an equivalent term for men, or the way paternalistic that someone call Olympe de Gouges the "little" Gouges ), there were also very serious errors or lies, take your pick.

To insinuate that Marat was a dictator when he was simply a deputy who was elected by universal suffrage, a journalist whose recommendations were not heeded, and who was arrested and brought before the Revolutionary Tribunal though acquitted according to the rules, what a funny dictator, I've never seen anything like that from a dictator before.

Furthermore, under what conditions would he have pulled off his coup d'état? The story continues in the next episode, I suppose, even though so far no historian has found any trace of Marat's coup d'état. I imagine the show will clarify that (or not). Under these conditions, I will address Tallien. They try to present him as heroic in the face of Thermidor when in reality everything was prepared for the theater of Thermidor, which was actually more anti-democratic than they let on and not out of the courage of this individual. They say it was Theresia's letter that motivated him to enact Thermidor when in reality it's because Fouché and his gang, of which he was a part, committed the worst atrocities during the French Revolution, and he wanted to escape the punishment that would rightly fall upon him and his friends and try to regain political "purity" by pinning everything on those who were to be executed (he later demanded the head of Billaud Varennes to further absolve himself). There are other motives regarding Thermidor that have nothing to do with the Convention wanting to get rid of a tyrant (Robespierre has faults but not those of a dictator or tyrant) or that they were fed up with the guillotine (the guillotine continued to function after Thermidor and the Convention had voted overwhelmingly for the creation of the Revolutionary Tribunal, arrests, the Law of Suspects). One day I'll write a more detailed piece on what I think because it's very complex, but you can watch "Robespierre: la Terreur et la Vertu" with English subtitles, it gives a better understanding of these events.

Tallien engaged in lucrative business, arresting the richest in Bordeaux so they would hand over all their money to him for personal use. Clearly not an upright man, but very serious. His lucrative business leads me to see two possibilities. Either he plundered honest people in difficult times under the pretext that they were rich and risked ending up with nothing for his personal profit, all while abusing his position, which is generalized extortion. Or he knowingly let suspicious individuals escape in exchange for money (should we recall that some suspicious Frenchmen betrayed France by handing it over to Toulon or Dumouriez), and imposed dechristianization not out of anger like Momoro, for example, but for his political career and to flatter himself, which is worse (sorry for comparing a man like Momoro to an individual like Tallien, they are truly incomparable). Later, he joined the muscadins, among other merry groups.

In any case, it's very serious, and whatever one might say about Robespierre, he had every right to be angry. Tallien is a political turncoat and bloody as Barras (I hate Ridley Scott's Napoleon for destroying the French Revolution and glorifying Barras, among others). The difference between Tallien, Barras, and Fouché is that Tallien completely failed, and an unpopular opinion perhaps, but I'm glad to see he suffered so much; it's well-deserved karma for all the wrong he did.

P.S: I love that the show "Secret d'Histoire" shows Thermidor as a great day for prisoners, as if they don't care about arbitrary arrests after this event (including the arrests of Albertine Marat, Simone Evard, Thuillier found mysteriously hanged, the fact that some political prisoners had to wait a few months after Thermidor to be released).

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Élisabeth Lebas talking about Robespierre like he’s the Messiah or something compilation

[Edgar Degas] told me that, when he was a child, his mother one day took him to rue de Tournon to visit Madame Lebas, widow of the famous Convention deputy who, on 9 thermidor, killed himself with a pistol. When the visit was over, they withdrew with small steps, accompanied to the door by the old lady, when Madame Degas suddenly stopped, deeply overwhelmed. Letting go of her son's hand, she pointed at the portraits of Robespierre, of Couthon, of Saint-Just, that she had just noticed were hanging on the walls of the antechambre, and she couldn’t keep herself from crying out with horror: ”What! You still keep the faces of these monsters here!”  ”Be quiet, Célestine!” Madame Lebas cried out ardently, ”be quiet… They were saints!” Discours de l’Histoire prononcé à la distribution solennelle des prix du Lycée Jeanson-de-Sailly held by Paul Valéry on July 13 1932, cited in Robespierre ou les contradictions du jacobinisme (1978) by Albert Soboul.

I was able to converse, between 1838 and 1839, with a famous parrot who had been the friend of Robespierre. He belonged to Mme the widow Lebas, the wife of the famous Convention deputy who chose to die with Robespierre, and the mother of M. Lebas, Hellenist scholar, who died a few years ago. Mme widow Lebas, a very respectable woman, whom I had the honour of seeing often in her little house in Fontenay-aux-Roses, where she would make the sign of the cross when she pronounced the name Robespierre, adding these words: Saint Maximilien. As for her parrot, when one said "Robespierre", it replied Hats off! Hats off! It sang the Marseillaise with perfect diction and Ça ira like a Jacobin. It was — and perhaps, thanks to its diet of grain, still is — a sans-culotte parrot, the like of which can no longer be found. Mme Lebas recounted with great emotion how she had managed to save this precious psittacus  after Thermidor.  It had been seriously compromised.  After the arrest of Robespierre and Lebas, in the course of a long domiciliary inspection,  every time the name of Robespierre was pronouned the parrot would repeat its refrain, Hats off! Hats off! The government agents had grown impatient and were about to wring its neck, when Mme Lebas, as quick as lightning,  grabbed the bird, opened the window and set it free. The poor parrot flew from window to window, until it found a charitable person to open up for it; a few days later Madame Lebas was able to regain possession of this last friend left to her by Robespierre, the only one perhaps, besides his elderly mistress, who has remained faithful to his memory.  L’Union médicale: journal des intérêts scientifiques et pratiques, moraux et professionnels du corps médical (1861) volume 12, page 258-259.

Finally our providence, our good friend Robespierre, spoke to Saint-Just to engage him to let me depart with [him and Lebas], along with my sister-in-law Henriette. Élisabeth’s memoirs, cited in Le conventionnel Le Bas: d’après des documents inédits et les mémoires de sa veuve (1901), by Stéfane-Pol, page 131.

…If you had been informed of my residence, I would have been eager to tell you the truth. The good that you say of our martyrs is not too charged: they were the true friends of liberty; they lived only for the people, for their fatherland; but some monsters, in one day, destroyed everything; in one day they assassinated liberty. Yes, monsieur, a republican like you would have been happy to know those men, so virtuous on all accounts; they all died poor. Note written by Élisabeth a few years before her death regarding ”a work treating the revolution” (l’Histoire des Girondins?). Cited in Ibid, page 147.

[aedesluminis]

A fragment of one of Robespierre's last poems

The only torment of the just at his last hour, And the only one which will then tear me apart, Is to see, in dying, pale and somber envy Distill shame and infamy upon my name, To die for the people, and be abhorred for it. -English translation by revolution-fr (chapter V, part 1) Original: Le seul tourment du juste, à son heure dernière, Et le seul dont alors je serai déchiré, C'est de voir, en mourant, la pâle et sombre envie Distiller sur mon nom l'opprobre et infamie, De mourir pour le peuple, et d'en être abhorré. -Mémoires de Charlotte Robespierre sur ses deux frères (chapter V, p 121) As no direct source has yet been found, Charlotte's account is the only one stating Robespierre wrote these lines presumably shortly before dying. The fact, her memoirs were written more than 30 years after thermidor could make one doubt about the authenticity of some of her declarations, but personally I don't find it impossible for her to remember such emblematic words. After all, that's precisely what happened after Robespierre's death and witnessing her brother's dire prophecy come true could have contributed to engrave those verses in her memory.

[obsessedwithtoomanythings]

The Terrifying Ordeal of Falling in Love with Leon Kennedy

CHAPTER 6

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Reader (female reader)

Series Warnings: Minor injuries, Leon teases reader a lot, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Drinking, Drinking followed by driving, DO NOT DO THAT THIS IS FICTION, Anxiety, Leon S. Kennedy has PTSD, Leon has an anxiety attack, Anxiety Attacks, Swearing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Nightmares, Leon S. Kennedy has Nightmares, Cuddling & Snuggling, Probably incorrect medical talk, Strangulation in one tiny little scene, Reader's brother was a cop who was KIA, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Grief/Mourning, Christmas Fluff, Mistletoe, Fluff and Smut, Eventual Smut, Arguing, Love Confessions, Looking for Alaska is mentioned, Inconvenient Love Confessions, Penis In Vagina Sex, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Oral Sex, Cunnilingus, Leon loves eating Pussy change my mind, Shower Makeout, romantic smut, Desperate Leon S. Kennedy, They are both desperate for each other tbh, They say I love you as they come, Scar Kissing, Enthusiastic Consent, Always pee after sex, UTI PREVENTION, POV First Person, No use of Y/N

Words: 1.8K

Masterlist

June 2004

The smile on your face lets me know that you need me

There's a truth in your eyes sayin' you'll never leave me

The touch of our hands says you'll catch me if ever I fall

You say it best when you say nothin' at all

-When You Say Nothing At All, Alison Krauss

The door unlocking pulls my nose from my book and I lurch forward, eyes trained on the door in anticipation. As soon he steps inside, I spring into action.

“Leon!” I give him a fair warning before I launch myself into his arms, and with a huff of breath as I make contact, his arms wrap around my middle, returning the hug gratefully.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He sounds exhausted, words almost slurring together as he sways in his spot. “What are you still doing up?” I pull back, hands on either side of his shoulders to steady him.

“I was caught up in a book,” I admit shyly, and he huffs a laugh. “Are you hungry?” He nods. “I can make you something while you go take a shower if you’d like.”

“Would you?” I’m surprised by his responsiveness to the offer, his normal behavior to turn me down, telling me to go to bed and that he can handle it.

“Sure. What are you in the mood for?” As if he has the brain power to formulate that thought.

“Whatever. Nothing crazy though, please.”

“Got it. Just a simple lobster thermidor, then.” A laugh. A smile. Just enough to remind me that he’s here. He’s home. He’s alive. “Go. I got it.” He practically stumbles his way into the bathroom and for a brief second, I genuinely worry he’ll pass out in the shower. It’s easy enough to whip up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, taking care to use the strawberry jam, since he mentioned his distaste for grape in passing on the one occasion that I bought it. I set it down on a paper towel, carrying it into the living room, and setting it down on the coffee table before cracking my book back open. I get through about 2 pages before I hear the bathroom door open, and I tilt my head back to watch as Leon emerges.

Oh fuck. He’s got a towel wrapped around his waist, skin still damp and it catches on the lamplight, and I swear, my heart stops. He doesn’t need to look like THAT. I curse any God that’s listening for making him so damn attractive. His hair is a scattered mess, evident that he just ran a towel over it to stop the dripping.

He turns down the hall and that’s when I see it. The slightly bleeding wound that cuts from the top of his left shoulder diagonally, across his spine, ending at the bottom corner of his ribcage on his right side.

“Leon, what the fuck is that?” I’m standing now, fingers twitching, thinking of exactly the best way to take care of this. Why didn’t he tell me he was hurt?

“I was hoping you were still in the kitchen,” he mumbles, turning to face me before I notice the plethora of bruises and scrapes that litter his chest and arms, along with a burn that runs covers the top of his right hand, which he is using the hold the towel against his nethers.

“Dr. Dalton wouldn’t have let you leave like that.”

“He didn’t. I didn’t go in. Figured it would scab over pretty quickly and be done,” he spoke nonchalantly as if the gash on his back would just heal magically overnight.

“No.”

“No?”

“No. Go put some pants on then get your ass back out here.” I head into the bathroom to grab my first aid kit as Leon clearly knows he’s been beaten, following instructions as to not incur further wrath. I sit down on the couch, setting the kit down next to me and opening it quickly, removing anything I think I might need. The injured man stumbles back out into the living room wearing a comfortable pair of gray sweats, obviously devoid of a shirt considering he knows exactly where this is headed.

“Where do you want me?” While still rifling through the kit, I reach over and grab a throw pillow, dropping unceremoniously onto the floor directly in front of me. Taking the silent cue, Leon drops to the floor, back leaning against my bare legs for a minute, until I part them to reach his injury better, the side of my knees resting against each of his shoulders. I grab the disinfectant spray before gently threading my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, pressing his head forward carefully before spraying. His shoulders tense painfully and I softly run my fingernails along his neck, tracing his spine. Leon’s shoulders drop almost immediately, relaxing.

“Okay, I’m gonna put some gauze on this and wrap it.” Informing him before I move has proven to be the most effective way to keep him calm in these situations, knowing that if he tenses up, it’ll be 10x harder to finish this.

“I’m sorry I didn’t go in.” The apology takes me by surprise, given his apparent lack of care for his injuries any other time I’ve patched him up. My hands freeze in place, pressing soft gauze to his back.

“Why?” I find myself asking, as if having him apologize wasn’t enough.

“Well if it isn’t the return of Nurse Nosy,” he mutters, and I scoff, ruffling his hair with my hand that isn’t busy holding the damp gauze in place. “I was wondering when I’d see you again.”

“Don’t make me give you another injury that needs treating.” He snorts, his shoulders rising with the huff of laughter. “Pink or blue?” I ask and he turns his head, trying to see what I’m referring to. I hold up the two different shades of compression tape for him.

“Blue.” I nod although he can’t see it. I begin tenderly securing the gauze with the tape. I gesture to the coffee table in front of him mutely.

“Made you a PB & J. Strawberry jam.” I give him some leeway so he can reach forward and grab it, despite having to raise and lower his arms while I wrap.

“There is a comment that could be made about you making me a sandwich,” he mutters, mouth clearly full by the way his voice sounds.

“I wouldn’t say that to the person who has access to the painkillers,” I giggle, tucking the last strand underneath more wrapping, finishing up. “Can I see your burnt hand?” He raises the hand up above his shoulder, allowing me to dab it with a healing ointment as he clicks the TV on, flipping to a news station. I grab the remote out of his hands, changing it to something else before handing it back.

“I was gonna watch that,” he complains, but I know, deep down, he’s grateful. He watches that, all he’s gonna do is torture himself.

“I’m sure there are better things on. I bet I can find an episode of ‘Jeopardy’ if I look hard enough.” I feel his chest shift in a silent laugh before he takes the final bite of his super late dinner. “You’re really tense in your neck muscles, you’re gonna give yourself a headache.” I can feel his shrug against my knees, before he does, in fact, find an episode of Jeopardy. Leon leans back against the couch, and I rest my hands gently against the sides of his neck. He tenses immediately.

“Sorry,” I mumble, pulling my hands away before I feel his palms cover them, pushing them back to their previous resting place.

“I just wasn’t expecting it. It’s okay.” An apology and now permission to touch his neck?

“Who are you and what have you done with Leon?”

“Shut up.” There’s no malice behind the words, the only tone that’s evident is his exhaustion. I press my fingers to the backsides of his jaw before applying a light pressure to the sides of his neck, and the resounding groan I receive almost makes me stop in my tracks.

“I didn’t hurt you ri-”

“Please don’t stop.” Well now I’m thinking about THAT in a very different context. I resume the motion, repeating it until I feel his muscles begin to relax, moving to rubbing gently against his hairline. More groans, gasps, and straight up moans leave his mouth, and I wish I could say my thoughts were innocent by this point. Turning my attention to the TV, I focus on that as much as possible to distract me from the uncomfortable moisture in my panties.

After I’ve loosened most of the muscles, I take to just carding my fingers through his damp hair, his head lolling to the side to rest against the skin of my thigh, exposed due to my shorts riding up a bit. By the time the credits roll, I realize that there is a light snoring coming from the agent in front of me, and while I don’t want to wake him, sleeping with his neck at that angle will completely reknot every muscle I just loosened.

“Leon,” I whisper, running a hand gently down the side of his face. His face is serene, devoid of the worry lines I’ve practically watched attach themselves to the tender skin. With his eyes closed, I can’t help but wonder what he was like before Raccoon City. Before STRATCOM. Before everything. “Leon.” A bit louder this time, and he stirs, sitting up with a jolt. “Hey, it’s just me. You fell asleep on me and I didn’t want you to mess up your neck.”

“Okay.” It’s obvious he’s still mostly asleep, struggling to rise to his feet thanks to his unsteady limbs. “Thanks, baby.” Baby? Leon drops back down onto the couch, hands resting on the fabric beside his thighs for a moment before he speaks.

“Will you do that for a little longer?”

“What?” He gestures to his head.

“Your fingers in my hair.” Don’t.

“Of course. Come here.” I scoot back, grabbing the pillow from the floor and placing it behind me so I can rest against it, flipping the lamp off before laying down completely. Leon finds the blanket draped over the back of the couch, tugging it over his back and my legs before resting his head on the middle of my chest, and while I knew this was coming, it still took me by surprise. I settle with his head there, his face turned toward the TV I know he’s not actually watching.

“Your heart’s beating really fast,” he slurs, already on the brink of sleep as I thread my fingers through his blonde locks once more, finger combing the strands until I feel him start to snore again, a light sound that could almost be mistaken for breathing if you weren’t listening. But of course, I was listening. I’m always listening when it comes to him.

I fall asleep like this as well, his head on my chest, the smell of his citrusy shampoo in my nose, his breath warming the fabric of my thin sleep shirt, and my fingers in his hair.

Leon: @house-of-kolchek @bonnibuckets @athanasia-day @muffimtv Everything: @chaosandbubbles @kassiekolchek22 @akiramoon8088

[frevandrest]

have the duplays ever done something that isnt coddling robespierre

This is so mean I can't help but love it.

"Done anything" in what sense? Maurice and his nephew Simon were established carpenters and also revolutionaries (pre and after Robespierre). Or do you mean women?

Eleonore Duplay was a painter. We know very little about Victoire. Babet describes herself as scatterbrained and we don't know much about her interests and activities, but we know that she was arrested after Thermidor and imprisoned with her 5 week son. Eleonore suffered the same fate. During imprisonment, Babet was offered to marry a man suitable for Thermidorians, but she refused, saying she would rather die. We also know about her life after the imprisonment, when she had to resort to washing clothes to survive.

As for Mme Duplay, I don't know enough about her, so I might be missing a lot. There was a recent discussion about her conflict with Charlotte Robespierre being possibly about the revolution and politics - both women seem to have been more into politics and revolution than how they are perceived. Mme Duplay died in her prison cell on 11 Thermidor.

Men were more active politically, even before Robespierre moved in with them. They also got entangled into politics after Thermidor, with Babeuf (although I am not completely sure about their role, will need to research it.)

In general, Duplays were a wealthy (or close to wealthy) family with their own business. They were active revolutionaries and suffered for it (being arrested after Thermidor). They were clearly passionate about the revolution and participated in it; they were always more than just "Robespierre's hosts".

Is this what you meant?

[saint-jussy]

Here it is - my compilation of EVERY SINGLE BONUS SCENE/FOOTAGE from the English version of LRF!

The list (bolded are my faves):

00:00 Louis gets pampered before Mirabeau tells him he's broke 01:01 Marie Antoinette and her son fawn over a lamb 01:24 Camille loses the Estates General election but gets comforted by his parents* 02:36 Lafayette tells Mirabeau why he can't sit with the Third Estate 03:26 Some of the First Estate join the Third Estate + Cute Robespierre & Camille moment* 04:17 Robespierre denounces Louis' foreign legions* 04:49 Deputies from every province affirm the abolishing of privileges* 05:19 Marie-Antoinette and Axel Fersen's secret waterfall meeting 06:24 Robespierre yells at the National Assembly in support of the Women's March on Versailles* 07:17 Marat denounces Louis XVI, gets fawned over by Simonne* 07:37 Soldiers give up waiting for the royals during the Flight to Varenne 08:09 Drouet actually reacts to realizing the person who asked him directions was Louis XVI 08:20 Louis sulks after being told French soldiers murdered General Dillon 08:47 Soldier taunts Louis XVI with wine 09:07 Soldiers march off to war playing bagpipes 09:42 Robespierre reacts in a more pissed off way after Danton smacks Eleonore's ass* 10:01 Robespierre smiles after Camille hands him a piece of writing 10:05 Shot of soldiers marching in Paris 10:10 Robespierre plays with Horace in different way than the French version* 10:40 Danton watches the September Massacres in horror 11:02 Louis and Marie get led out for fresh air, are disappointed in French victories 12:16 Danton meets with Dumouriez in Belgium 15:50 Robespierre gets confused at Danton telling him to speak more from the heart 16:19 Marat shouts his iconic lines while being paraded after getting acquitted* 16:26 Robespierre, Marat, and Couthon strategize against the Girondins* 16:57 Robespierre walks to Danton's house 17:20 Charlotte Corday plans her assassination 17:58 A more detailed beginning to Marie Antoinette's trial 20:31 Intermission in Marie Antoinette's trial + more detail to its conclusion 23:04 Marie Antoinette gets denied the privacy to change before her execution 23:42 Marie Antoinette gets paraded to her execution + Jacques-Louis David sketches her 24:21 Longer shot of Camille going to Robespierre's place 24:27 Danton says goodbye to his 16 year old wife before heading back to Paris 25:15 Danton straight up hops over Horace and Antoine's toys 25:19 Different shot of Camille bathing Horace* 25:30 Robespierre actually apologizing to Saint-Just after throwing the chair* 26:20 Dinner party host letting Danton in to catch Robespierre off guard 26:34 Danton and Robespierre awkwardly sit down for dinner* 26:59 Robespierre vs Legendre over Danton's arrest* 29:04 Danton states his personal info as his trial starts 29:42 Camille cursing Robespierre and Saint-Just 29:49 Extra shot of Robespierre and Saint-Just walking to the convention 30:00 Some extra lines during Robespierre's 8 Thermidor speech 30:21 Robespierre reacts to Thermidor in slightly different way 30:34 Saint-Just catches Robespierre and hauls him out in different position*

[lovewithoutagony]

Gentle Hands & Sapphire Scales Chapter 4 WIP

Simeon still remembers the expression a certain siren wore on his face when Simeon handed him his custom made jewelry.

"W-Woah.. What's this?" The siren with peculiar orange eyes looks up at him in surprise and barely concealed wonder.

" It's a seashell jewellery. And it's made especially for you, Leviathan." Simeon answers with a smile.

The siren named Leviathan looks down at the necklace.

Simeon didn't lie. The seashells and corals adorned are an assortment of Leviathan's favourite colours. There are also a few of his favourite corals, too. It's really well made, and he honestly doesn't know where or how he gets the required materials to make them.

Trying to hold his embarrassment in, he sputters, " Hmph. You know I don't wear jewellery. What am I supposed to do with this?"

The smile on the brunette's face brightens as he answers, "I know. And you can do whatever you want with it. As long as it is forever associated with me, I'd be happy."

Afterwards, despite him outwardly stated that he doesn't like jewellery, nor did he act happy to receive it, Simeon found out that he stored it in a well kept box, and that he almost beat his brother really badly for touching that box without permission. Without the eldest's intervention, it would've ended in quite the gruesome fight.

The memory lulls him into a sweet feeling of nostalgia, and a pleasant warmth of comfort.

But it's only a moment before the water currents swept away that feeling.

Reminding him of the coldness that sticks with him, wherever he goes.

Once again, he stares down at the jewelleries in hand, eyes boring into them as the memories of him associated with the jewelleries along with the people he loved, coils tightly around him akin to a snake intending him to die.

｡･:*˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅

" Chef, there's a special request. A VIP customer wants you to prepare his dishes," An order chit is being handed to him, and at the same time Barbatos feels his headache getting stronger.

Green eyes scan through the chit. He notes three appetizer dishes, and two of the hardest main dish to prepare.

Sancerre-Poached Scallops, Creamed Spelt Abalone, Lobster and Cornish Crab Bisque, Sous Vide Octopus and Lobster Thermidor.

What a lovely combo.

Barbatos scoffs.

His pounding headache, his overwhelmed senses and his lack of sleep keeps him still in place for a few moments, worrying the waiter in front of him. Although instantly, he snaps his head back up, folds the order chit into his pocket, and informs the waiter with a levelled voice,

" Tell them to wait a little longer than the standard time." Without waiting for the waiter's response, and forgetting to say his thanks, he makes a beeline to begin preparing the dishes.

Diavolo had explicitly stated to him that he doesn't have to accept these special requests. After all, their utmost priority is to serve their perfected dish in time to the customers' table.

Diavolo had also told him to let other cooks handle the special requests to save time and Barbatos' sanity.

But Barbatos couldn't afford that.

He fears the consequences of upsetting the VIPs, for he knows they have the power to turn Diavolo's business upside down.

And he couldn't afford to risk that. Not when Diavolo had helped him with so much.

So he swallows every exhaustion in his being, takes a deep breath, and just gets into it.

The chef begins with searing the scallops, steaming the abalone and the lobster, before finally handling a freshly killed octopus onto a huge chopping board.

His green eyes bore into the dead octopus in his hand.

He wonders how it would feel to be free of worldly burdens and matters.

The Takohiki is clutched tightly in his hand.

With a scowl on his face, he chops down a tentacle with the force of all his frustrations.

｡･:*˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅

Working on the 4th chapter and reallyyy thrilled to share it with you guys soon

So I dropped a sneak peak ;)

This chapter will focus more on their daily lives as well as what's buried beneath. So there's no simebarb interaction in this one, sorry!!

Have a nice one~

[edgysaintjust]

Okay, before I forget here's some crazy JoJo manga scans to share with all of you. So

ENJOY THE MADNESS XD

Here we have the epic entrance of CPS

Very calm and mutually respective debates with Danton

(Saint-Just before Thermidor)

(Saint-Just after Thermidor)

Antoine surviving the Thermidor, while going a little bit crazy as a result and starting a hunt after the people responsible, as well as trying to murder Napoleon in free time :D

(Btw, he actually successfully killed Barras and Tallien in the story)

A little bit of holy revolution or something

We also have here Couthon's badass last stand during the Thermidor. Before dying he also decided to blow up his wheelchair in order to take as many Thermidorians as possible with him including Barras.

Barras survived, however from that moment on he became a qualified mummy with a mechanical hand ���� Plus Saint-Just will take him soon out anyway

I have more pics, however these are my favourites and I wanted to share them first. Enjoy 💚💚💚

I LOVE the badass Couthon! And the post-thermidor SJ take always gets me. Gotta enjoy the Napoleonic Jojo :p

[margridarnauds]

real fic writer asks: 💌 🤲 🕯️ 🎀 💘 💫 If any of these have already been asked, I'm sorry!

Thank you so much for asking!

💌share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited!

I don't know if I HAVE a WIP that's anywhere close to being published, but here's a favorite, from the AU where Orléans lives long enough to be released following Thermidor, under the condition that he leaves France in order to go into exile in London:

“She must be pretty good for you to defend her after all she’s done, Égalité!” The man who said it, the brave vainqueur of the Bastille, fell back several feet, being blasted with the force of their combined glares. 

Then, with all the effort of Atlas, Orléans put on that broad smile that she knew so well, infuriating in its confidence. “Not at all, my good man! I was simply passing by and saw that there was trouble. I had no idea that Citoyenne Arnaud was the victim for today. But, tell me: Isn’t there something better for you to do? Surely the Republic needs all of its citizens to go about their jobs, for the good of the nation.” 

Oh, he was good. She’d almost forgotten how good he was in all the time that it’d been since the last time she’d seen him like this, totally in his element. 

“Ridding the Republic of traitorous scum like this is my business.” The man stood tall, hand on his hips, and she could see several nods from the crowd. 

“Of course, and you do it very well.” Bold as fucking brass, Orléans walked over to him, patting his shoulder. “Though, surely, there must be something else that you want.” He held out a single, gleaming bronze coin, the Phrygian cap clearly displayed. 

“You think that you can buy off good patriots?” The man asked, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Not at all, certainly!” Orléans tossed the coin into the crowd, the bronze gleaming before hitting the crowd, followed by ten, twenty, thirty more, and the crowd scrambled to grab them, falling over one another to get to the coins. 

“You can-You can do your tricks on any number of them as you want, I won’t budge.” 

“Oh,” Orléans’ smile was broad as ever, but cold, colder than a frost in the dead of winter. “I would never expect you to. But now, you see, there is only one of you and two of us. And, of course, I’m sure, in the current spirit of liberté, égalité, and fraternité, the police will be thrilled to know that such an honest, forthright man exists. Though, of course, if you wanted to simply walk away…” 

The man looked between the two of them and the crowd, still focused on scrambling for whatever coins they could get ahold of. 

“Citoyenne Arnaud,” Orléans nudged her. “Come.” 

“Anyway,” Margrid said, taking the opportunity to stomp on the man’s feet as she walked past, “I’m his cousin. By marriage!” 

🤲what do YOU get out of writing?

I get to work with characters I love, explore dynamics that I enjoy, research time periods that are near and dear to my heart. It's a nice refuge.

I noticed it used the candle emoji twice so I'll answer both:

🕯️was there a fic that was really hard on you to write, or took you to a place you didn't think it would take you?

I think every single fic is hard in its own way, especially since these days I'm basically fighting my own brain to get anything out at all (please don't be worried, it's just...the way things are now, I'm fine or...at least, as fine as possible.) And most of my fics end up taking me places that I never thought I'd go to, especially when I really hit the research hard. So I'm going to answer this from multiple angles:

There's one that...it's mostly done, but it's never been published and I don't know if it ever WILL be published, which would have been a part of the Irish Mythology College AU. And the reason why I don't know if it ever will be is that I started it when I was in my flat in Ireland, quietly going insane during the early pandemic, in a very precarious place with where I was as a scholar, where I was in terms of where I was situated, and then...well. We know what happened. It's very hard for me, sometimes, to look at that one. One day, I will hopefully finish it, at least for my own sake, but it's still quite a sore subject. It's more autobiographical than usual -- I've always been very honest about the fact that I feel like I've put more of myself into Lazare, Margrid, and Bres than any other characters I've written, even though every character I've written has little bits of me here and there -- but it's even more so than usual. And in that fic, it's a character very much like me in many ways, struggling with inner demons that mirror a lot of struggles that I've had, facing down a very, very painful situation that I had to face down and that had long-ranging consequences, and, having lived through it, the ending wasn't particularly happy. Hopefully, one day it will be. He isn't *dead.* (Come on, nothing can kill Bres -- Lugh tried, and even then, he keeps popping up in texts. The man's like a cockroach.) The fic was slated to end on a note of uncertainty. But, until then, it's probably the one fic of mine that I have the hardest time staring down, because it's looking into a mirror and, specifically, looking into a mirror at a past version of myself where I know what's going to happen.

The hardest *published* story I think I've ever written was probably Damage Control, just because I did do research on celebrity nude leaks, their reaction to it, the PR that follows, the consequences it could have on their lives, and it was very, very depressing. In some ways, it's easier for me to write about an atrocity that happened two hundred years ago than it is to write about something that happened ten years ago. Like, seeing 18 year old Vanessa Hudgens having to APOLOGIZE for her nudes being leaked made me lose faith in humanity. On the reverse side, it WAS very satisfying to see Richard and Emma get a little bit of revenge, and I think that seeing the impact it'd had, seeing how misogynistic the industry was, really did make me write it better and more sensitively. (I never explicitly said in the fic if there were any nude photos leaked, that was a conscious decision to (1) not make it something salacious or make it trauma porn and (2) to focus on the hurt of it instead. In my mind, there were, but I deliberately left it ambiguous.)

There's one that's been a WIP for a little while that would have Ronan and Lazare having a fight over the possibility of Lazare taking a wife and, honestly, I thought it would be fine, especially since...it's something you know happened historically. Plenty of gay men married and had children with women, plenty of gay women had children with men. It was the norm. But actually writing it out, it was this one moment of "Oh. This really happened." Like, it isn't that I didn't care about those people until I wrote a fic about it, it was more that, when I was writing that scene out, it wasn't JUST those two I was seeing, it was every couple throughout history who'd had that kind of argument and who'd wanted to get married and spend their lives together but couldn't because they were born in the wrong time. And that one ends well, but it did hit me like a brick to write that scene.

🕯️how do you think engaging with each other through tumblr, twitter, comments, kudos, creates healthy fandom experiences? How do you deal with that if you're not a social person/experience social anxiety?

It can create a really supportive, friendly environment. Especially when you're writing for smaller fandoms, it can be a very isolating experience, and it's great to know that you're not alone, that someone likes your odd little thing and is interested in it. As someone who is extremely socially anxious and can sometimes struggle to write my thoughts out on a fic, I usually just remember how *I* feel when I read reviews, even when I'm too busy squeeing over the review to respond.

🎀give yourself a compliment about your own writing

Answered here!

💘Is there any posted fic you want to rework/re-edit/re-write?

Answered here!

💫what is your favorite kind of comment/feedback?

Honestly, I'm really happy for any type of comment, especially if it's not "More" or "Can you write this from the other character's perspective instead?" I do love the in-depth reviews that really dig into the fic, I always love getting those, or the ones that are shorter but that tell me what someone's favorite lines are. There are some lines that I know are *my* favorite lines, but it's always great to see when they hit or, alternatively, when something I didn't think was my best really hits.

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Who lies more: Charlotte, Fouché or Barère?

Frankly I know way too little about both Fouché and Barère to be able to say something really concreate about how much they lie (@tierseta @kocokoala anyone? would you mind adding what you know?) All I really have is that what Barère wrote in his memoirs regarding the way Collot d’Herbois returned from Lyon does not seem to line up with what better, more contemporary sources have to say. In Réponse des membres des deux anciens comités de salut public et de sûreté générale… (1795) Barère, Collot and Billaud-Varennes also claim that the law of 22 prairial had been worked out in secret between Couthon and Robespierre, while the rest of the CPS had had nothing to do with and even protested against it. Only on June 10 1794, when the law was introduced to the Convention, Barère is recorded to have called it ”a law completely in favour of the patriots.”

For Charlotte, I know of the following things, which all originate from her memoirs:

Charlotte writes that before the revolution her older brother gave up his functions as a judge after having had to sentence a man to death. But according to Robespierre (2014) by Herve Leuwers, he actually never resigned from this position.

When writing about having dated Fouché, Charlotte claims this happened during the revolution, which can hardly be accurate given the fact Fouché was already married by then.

Charlotte declares a letter written by her to Augustin dated July 6 1794 had had apocryphal parts inserted into it when it got published after their death. In an inserted footnote, Laponneraye writes that”this letter […], I am convinced, was for Charlotte Robespierre an object of constant torment; the idea that someone could have thought she could have written it the way it is, and that it had really been adressed to Maximilien Robespierre, tantalized her. All the times I saw her, she spoke to me about it. One day we read it together, and I asked her to indicate which passages she hadn’t written and where infamous falsifications had been added; I publish this version in the Pièces justificatives section.”However, an encounter with the fac-simile shows that no alterations has been made to the letter, which is entirely in Charlotte’s hand.

When describing her arrest right after thermidor, Charlotte writes that she, after having been insulted and struck by guards at the Conciergerie on 10 thermidor for begging to see her brothers and been led away by some people moved to pity, she completely loses her reason and doesn’t come back to herself until a few days later, finding herself in prison with a woman who, after yet another few days, convinces her to sign a letter she has written, the content of which Charlotte doesn’t look at (and if even real, has never been found). The letter is sent off, and the next day both are set free. A story which doesn’t line up completely with what official documents tell us about Charlotte’s arrest, which according to them took place on 13 thermidor. An interrogation of Charlotte was held the very same day, in which she disowns both her brothers and the Duplays, denounces a man named Didier and claims she had almost been the victim of the Revolutionary Tribunal. For some reason or another she also gave her age as 28 when interrogated, which is obviously false… The circumstances regarding Charlotte’s release from prison are however dubious here as well, as no order for it appears to exist…

Charlotte claims to have been witnessed meetings both Marat and Pétion had with her older brother. But in both cases, the meetings she alludes to appear to have played out before she even came to Paris in late September 1792…

She also writes that her brother went to visit Desmoulins in prison once he ”learned of” his arrest, but that the latter didn’t want to see him, something which I found unlikely given the fact Robespierre had both already signed Desmoulins’ arrest and prepared his indictment, while Desmoulins in a prison letter to his wife reveals that he is writing to Robespierre, meaning he shouldn’t have repulsed him was he to come visit.

Like I have already written here, I also doubt Charlotte actually tells the whole truth regarding the things she was up to during the revolution and what it was that caused a split between her and her brothers, even if the things she does say about them do not have to entirely dismissed.

It wouldn’t surprise me if Barère and Fouché lie about more/more serious things compared to Charlotte. Though I guess the reveal of fabrications/alterations in her memoirs is still more surprising given the fact Fouché and Barère didn’t really have the reputation of being honest men/reliable narrators to begin with… Then there’s of course also a discussion to be had regarding how much of what they’ve written that is blatant lies and what is simply a partial telling/personal conception of the full truth or honest misremembering.

[theravenclawrevolutionary]

have you had to ”kill your darlings” with anything in your novel?

Thanks so much for the ask Anon! I love talking about my book and I'm glad you are interested.

To answer your question, I have. A bit. Although I haven't had to get rid of anything I'm super attached to yet, simply because I haven't got to the section where I know that will happen. There are a lot of scenes near the end of my book that I enjoy a lot, but despite them working well as a short story or a little drabble it's hard to fit in with the rest of the novel.

For example, I haven't cut any of the 'angsty' scenes that were part of the original short story I wrote about Max on Thermidor, but I know that there are multiple that I'm going to get rid of to keep pacing consistent.

I also know that I need to cut some scenes shortly before and after the Dantonist trial/execution for accuracy. There is also a lot of dialogue in that general section that needs replaced and reworded.

There have been scenes in the first half that I got rid of and even a whole character. In the first draft Maximilien, on his arrival to Louis-le-Grand, met a character who was a very stereotypical 'highschool bully'. My wonderful beta reader ( @anotherhumaninthisworld) suggested I scrap him which I agreed with, so that character and the very few scenes he was in aren't in the second draft.

And obviously lines and scenes have been reworded, deleted, and such, whether it be for more historical accuracy, because they sounded weird that way, or they just didn't fit.