#black light velvet poster Jesus

[ohjesus]

Oh yeah, you just know this kind of campaign for Christ is going to save a lot of souls. At least along Haight Ashbury. Sadly you've just significantly reduced the air quality of heaven when those unwashed hippies get there.

[wrienne]

My Cheating, Amnesic Fiancé

Chapter 39: Last Chance

“And… smile!”

The umbrellas lighted up the room, causing you temporary blindness. You rapidly blinked, the black dots fading as your eyes readjusted to the pastel walls, the countless of fake white and pink roses surrounding you and the portly man standing behind the camera positioned in front of you.

He held up a hand, which formed the universal “okay” sign. “Lovely, lovely,” he said eagerly. “Now, if you could just tilt your head a little more to the side and point your chin toward your right…”

You silently complied and was rewarded with another delighted squeak from the man, followed by a flash of light. “Yes, just like that! And if you could perhaps move your arm like this--,” he demonstrated with his left arm, and you obeyed, “--yes! Lovely! I have to admit,” he went on with a broad grin, “that you're the prettiest bride I have ever seen, (Y/F/N). Your fiancé is one lucky man.” The camera clicked and the umbrellas flared up again.

“Thank you, Seong-Ho,” you said after your vision returned to you. “I’ll make sure to send your regards to the hair and makeup team.”

Seong-Ho tsked several times while browsing through a laptop that was situated on top of the thin, wooden desk next to the tripod. “Makeup and that is merely to accentuate what’s already there. No, it takes real beauty for it to carry over from real life to a still image. Come here, little miss, and take a look at how beautiful you are. Your friend can come, too.”

Se-Eun, who had been on the border of falling asleep, bounced up from the sofa in the back corner of the room, an anticipatory look across her features. When she reached Seong-Ho’s side, her eyebrows rose. “Jesus, (Y/N). You look like you belong in an advertisement.”

You rose from the lush, dark velvet armchair you had been perched upon. Carefully, as not to disturb the corded lace or the well-ironed, silky material beneath it, you bundled up the front part of the ball gown in your hands before tiptoeing toward the table, wary of the three inch heels you wore. The inner parts of your upper arms chafed slightly against the silvery white beading and sequins across the tight bodice, and you were already getting tense in your neck from the countless of hair-colored pins, chains of tiny pearls, decorative clips or pieces of lace that were integrated into your updo. You didn’t voice any complaints, however.

Beauty was pain - and especially for a bride at the end of her marriage preparations.

Seong-Ho tsked again and gave Se-Eun a sharp glance. “Even the chief editors of High Cut would fight for a picture - and a model - as perfect as this. Don’t give her a compliment like that.”

Se-Eun’s eyes flitted over to you briefly before darting back to the screen, but that was enough for you to discern the uncertainty in them. She hadn’t meant her comment to be a compliment.

“Sorry,” she said meekly. “You’re beautiful, (Y/N).”

Seong-Ho pointed accusingly at Se-Eun while looking at you. “She’s your best friend?”

“The one and only,” you replied with a smile.

He rolled his eyes when Se-Eun winked at him. By then, you had reached the desk. They parted so that you could finally see the picture, the former wearing an expectant expression while the latter seemed concerned as you regarded the image of yourself for a few seconds too long for your response to come out genuine. And Se-Eun was right. Even though a part of you enjoyed the way you had turned out in a professional photography, beautified from head to toe, at the height of your youth and with a gorgeous, Old European-style backdrop, you spotted the reason why Se-Eun was worried.

The look in your eyes was anything but happy and excited. Yet, you didn’t look devastated or nervous at all. Lifeless. That would be the best word to describe it. Lifeless like models on advertisments posters. Like a pretty doll in a dollhouse.

And worst of all, you didn’t feel anything stir within you even as you recognized and acknowledged that fact.

“It came out very pretty,” you told Seong-Ho. “Thank you.”

“Sit down again, Miss.” He waved you back to the armchair and then called out to a girl about your age, most likely an intern, where she was standing next to the door. “Hee-Ra, bring in her fiancé.”

Hee-Ra lowered a bouquet of roses you just until recently had held onto the desk before disappearing. She returned a few umbrella flashes later, alone. “Sorry, but he isn’t done with hair and makeup yet.”

Seong-Ho groaned over his shoulder. “When did he get here?” he asked her.

“About twenty minutes ago,” she replied after glancing at her wristwatch.

Seong-Ho turned back toward you. “How come he has to work even on a day as important as today?” he asked you with a slight frown.

“He was recently promoted to be one of six department heads at Phoenix Inc.,” you explained calmly. “He cannot afford free time.”

“Not even an hour?” asked Seong-Ho incredulously.

You shook your head as gently as you could as not to upset the precarious balance of your hair. “Unfortunately, no. Not even an hour.”

Seong-Ho tsked, but didn’t say anything else. Ten minutes later and enough flashes to make you see dots before your eyes, the door opened, revealing Jung-Hyun in the doorway. Both Se-Eun and Hee-Ra gaped at him, their eyes scouring his tall stature from head to toe in an utterly dazzled state, and Seong-Ho’s earlier disdain disappeared like water from a shattered vase. You simply smiled.

Jung-Hyun looked nothing less than striking. Dressed in a tuxedo as dark as the night with various accents of deep blue and white gold, he looked as if though he had stepped out of a male clothing commercial. Normally, his height and physique generated him enough positive attention as they so were, but now that he had received professional makeup and hair styling, he looked just as good as any actor, if not even better. It wasn’t difficult to imagine him as some rich business heir and the male protagonist in a well-produced drama or movie.

Jung-Hyun’s eyes took in the room’s inhabitants, and though they had paused on Se-Eun while he nodded at her, they only paused briefly. When they finally landed on you, he didn’t seem to be able to tear his eyes away from you. The usually unreadable guise he wore crumbled ever so slightly as he took in your appearance, and you could almost swear there was affection in his gaze.

It would have made you blush if not for the dread his oh-so familiar brown eyes stirred within you.

“Jung-Hyun-oppa,” you said quickly as you tried to push an unwanted memory out of your mind. “How was work?”

He wasn’t allowed to answer before Seong-Ho cut in. “I’m Lee Seong-Ho, the best wedding photographer in Seoul,” said Seong-Ho as he hurried forward, hand outreached. “Yet, I don’t think I’m good enough to photograph the two of you, especially not in less than thirty minutes. Are you still sure you want my services?”

Jung-Hyun took Seong-Ho’s hand without hesitation and shook it firmly, which surprised you considering the former’s injuries. “Jeon Jung-Hyun,” he began with a slight smile. “And I’m sure that the best wedding photographer in Seoul is more than capable of taking a few pictures of me and my fiancée.”

His stiff, somber voice had a strange amount of warmth in it compared to when he spoke with you. It didn’t offend you, however, since you had come to learn that Jung-Hyun, when he wanted to, had an incredibly persuasive way with people no matter their sex and contrary to the strict air he had about himself. The fact that he used that tone with people that weren’t you or Se-Eun, made you relieved, actually. Because it made the receiver of Jung-Hyun’s words almost glow with confidence and pride and some kind of deep-rooted gratefulness despite not personally knowing Jung-Hyun. It was eerie, to say the least.

“I feel honored,” continued Jung-Hyun, “that you were able to take us even though I’m sure your list of customers is filled with substantially more famous men and women.”

Seong-Ho reacted no differently than the dozens of other people you had witnessed being subjected to Jung-Hyun’s influence. Even Hee-Ra seemed affected, and Se-Eun - though she would deny it with all her might - looked enthralled as well.

“But of course!” exclaimed Seong-Ho as he continued shaking Jung-Hyun’s hand eagerly. “I don’t know which one of you is the luckiest,” he went on, turning to glance at you. “The two of you look made for one another. I wish you all the happiness, truly.”

Jung-Hyun didn’t even twitch at the continuous assault on his hand, even though you knew he must be in pain. “Thank you,” he said merely.

“Come,” said Seong-Ho hurriedly as he practically dragged a man twice as tall as him toward you. “Let’s hurry with the shoot. Hee-Ra, adjust the lights please. And (Y/N)’s friend, bring another armchair from the outside please. Until then, let’s try have the groom stand behind the bride with his hands on her shoulders. Is that alright?” he added, directing the inquiry to you and Jung-Hyun.

“Sure,” you said, smiling.

“Are you serious?” said Se-Eun as she put her hands on her hips. “Look at me! Do you really think I can carry an armchair by myself?”

Seong-Ho waved her off. “Hee-Ra, will help you when she’s done with the lights. You could at least try on your own, though.” His eyes met yours, and he grinned. “Now, let’s begin!”

Jung-Hyun wordlessly went to stand behind you and did as Seong-Ho had instructed. His hands were cool, but not as cool as yours. You had never wanted to scratch your arm so badly as when Seong-Ho positioned himself behind the camera again, but knew you couldn’t. If only because your manicured nails would make quite the visible rash marks.

“It was fine,” said Jung-Hyun suddenly, his words only barely perceivable.

“What?” you asked as you tried not to move your mouth while talking, which was nothing compared to Se-Eun’s ventriloquist-like ability. Though Hee-Ra was setting up the lights differently with Seong-Ho’s guidance, meaning he wasn’t really taking any pictures yet, you didn’t want to disturb the duo or dilute the sheen of the lip gloss, which you had done several times already, much to Seong-Ho’s dismay.

“You asked me about work.”

You almost slapped yourself in the forehead. “Oh, right, of course. That’s good to hear.”

“How was your day?”

“Boring,” you replied. “I’ve been stuck here since eight and wasn’t even allowed to go to the bathroom until after about eleven when they were done with the nails.”

“I see.”

“When do you have to get back?” you asked as your stomach rumbled. “Do you have time to grab some lunch with me before that?”

“Unfortunately not. I have a meeting to get back to by two. Why don’t you ask Se-Eun?”

“She has tennis practice, and an important one. She’s competing this Saturday.”

His fingers squeezed your shoulders softly. It was a strangely tender gesture, one of many you had had to get used to ever since you had told Jung-Hyun about your new thoughts surrounding the marriage between you and him. However, you still hadn’t gotten used to the feeling of having Jung-Hyun touch you, even with the barrier that his bandages posed. “I’ll have to make sure and tell her good luck before we part, then.”

You lifted your own hand and placed it over Jung-Hyun’s. “She’d appreciate that,” you said.

Before you could withdraw your arm, Seong-Ho stopped you. “No!” he exclaimed heatedly. “Just have your fingers linger just like that, yes. And make sure that you don’t cover his ring!”

You obeyed. Seong-Ho snapped a few photos, and then smiled triumphantly. “Hee-Ra, don’t touch the lighting anymore. It’s perfect as it is. Move a few of the flowers away from the groom, and place them around her feet instead. And you--” he peered over his shoulder to find Se-Eun, who was hauling the armchair through the doorway by then, her cheeks flush with strain, “--hurry up! We only have until one-thirty!”

“These pictures better be worth it,” you heard Se-Eun grumble underneath her breath.

The photo shoot progressed smoothly after that. You and Jung-Hyun were directed into various positions, both sitting and standing, the most intimate being the one where you had to stare into each other's eyes lovingly. Seong-Ho wrapped up the session at 13.28, and told the two of you that samples would arrive to your parents’ apartment within a fortnight. The best one would be framed as well.

While getting out of your clothes and unlatching your hair in the dressroom, your phone vibrated, signifying a message. Your eyes widened when you read the sender’s name, and even though you knew you should hurry because of Jung-Hyun’s meeting, you afforded yourself a few extra moments to stare at the message.

It was Yoongi.

*13.34 - Do you have time to meet up this week? It’s about the wedding invitations.*

You gulped.

“(Y/N)?” There were several knocks on the door, followed by Se-Eun’s voice. “My mom’s here now. I have to go now, but I’ll call you later!”

“Yeah, bye!” you called absentmindedly. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the screen.

“You should hurry up - I saw Jung-Hyun exit his dressing room half a minute ago. He’s probably smoking outside.”

Your mouth moved automatically. “Okay, thanks for telling me.”

“(Y/N)...” Se-Eun hesitated, and you could hear a slight thud against the door as it shifted half a centimeter inward. Her next sentence brushed against the surface of the painted wood. “You really were beautiful today. I mean, you’re always beautiful in my opinion but, well… I just wanted to say that one more time before leaving.”

Her compliment warmed, but you were still too frozen with shock to smile. “You’re going to be late to practice,” you managed in what you hoped sounded like a teasing tone.

Se-Eun didn’t answer immediately, and it was almost as if you could hear her thoughts through the door. You let out a small breath before you went on softly, “What is it, Se-Eun?”

“It’s nothing,” she blurted - an obvious lie. “I was just thinking about how beautiful you were.”

“Don’t be a creep,” you told her gently. “Go now before your mother gets irritated."

“I know. I know!” You noticed how the door readjusted, as if she had removed the weight of her hands or perhaps even her head from it. “Bye, (Y/N)! See you tomorrow!” Her voice faded as she started away from the door.

“See you, Se-Eun.”

While getting properly dressed, you mused over the message. You considered not answering, but now that you had checked it, Yoongi would know you had read it without replying. Thus, you had no other option but to respond. But how?

Frankly, you had no real reason to avoid him if he wanted to meet you. You liked him, and you should be able to see him privately without feeling weird about it, despite… circumstances. Also, the two of you had met once before without any awkward silences or uncomfortable atmospheres.

If only Yoongi hadn’t mentioned the wedding, you wouldn’t mind meeting him again.

You could just say no. You could just say no and ask Yoongi to tell you what he wanted to say through text or a simple call. But a major part of you yearned to hear how he was doing. If he was eating and sleeping well and how their practices went now that he was recovered. If he was happy. And thus, even though it would hurt, you were ready to go through with the pain of meeting Yoongi and converse face-to-face.

*13.40 - I’m available now, actually. Have you had lunch yet?*

You told everyone at the studio goodbye before heading down the elevator to street level. The answer came by the time you and Jung-Hyun entered the car.

*13.42 - No. There’s a small bistro I frequent near the company.”

The acrid cigarette smoke filled your nostrils as Jung-Hyun shut the door on his side and Jong-Yeol began driving. You didn’t exactly hide the fact that you were texting someone, but you angled your phone slightly away from Jung-Hyun’s field of vision. If only to avoid questions that may arise from you exchanging messages with another guy.

*13.43 - A bistro sounds nice.*

*13.43 - I’ll send you the address.”

After checking the area and distance on a navigator app on your phone, you tapped another reply.

*13.45 - I’ll be there in half an hour.*

*13.45 - Alright.*

“Jong-Yeol,” you said, catching the chauffeur’s attention. You told him the address to the bistro, and though you felt Jung-Hyun regarding you briefly, he didn’t ask you about it. His attention had returned back to the passing city view when you felt the need to stir some kind of conversation.

“How is your hand?” you asked as you eyed his right fingers. “What did the doctor say?”

“It’s getting better.” Jung-Hyun held it up for you to see. The gauze that was wrapped tightly around his knuckles and palm was clean white, but since it had been changed the day before due to the photoshoot, it wasn’t that odd. You knew, however, that the wound was healing slowly, partly because he used his right hand so much and partly because he - similar to him - wasn’t careful with the injury. Blood had seeped through the wrapping on several occasions already. “But the cut is still not fully sealed yet. It’ll take another month, she told me, and I still need to eat antibiotics.”

“But you've had that wound since end of May!”

“I don't heal fast.”

You sighed. “At least you know you got a good set of knives from… one of your many friends, was it?”

His lips curved, and his eyes found yours, unreadable as usual. “Indeed,” he replied.

“You'd do best to stay away from future cooking classes as well. Since you broke your phone that time, too.”

“As you wish.”

“How’s the apartment coming together?” you asked as you fiddled with your phone in your hands. The prospect of meeting Yoongi was making you nervous, you couldn’t deny that.

“The remodeling will be finished by the end of September. We should be able to move in before October.”

You tried not to gulp. “Nervous?” you asked jokingly.

Jung-Hyun placed his uninjured hand on top of yours, which were still playing with your phone. You stilled at his touch.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he told you in the softest tone you had ever heard him use.

Your face flushed with color, and you had to look away. You spotted in your peripheral vision that Jung-Hyun’s smile widened infinitesimally before he withdrew and looked back out the car window again. The warmth in your cheeks remained even after you and him parted outside Phoenix Inc.’s Seoul headquarters, but had since long faded by the time Jong-Yeol dropped you off outside the bistro Yoongi had sent you the address to.

To be honest, you regretted your decision as soon as you stepped out of the car. But the slim, dark eyes of Min Yoongi caught yours from the second floor before you could find the cowardice - or perhaps, right sense of mind - to run. And so, despite feeling as if though every step was through quicksand, every breath felt as if though you were trying to swallow oil, and your heart was racing as if though you were sprinting like your life was on the line, you had no choice but to enter the establishment.

“Serenity” was a crossing between a coffee shop and a bakery with a lot of vegan options that directly correlated the non-vegan counterpart. How one made cheesecake without cheese confounded you enough to make you order it from the front desk together with a large iced latte. You meandered through the round tables scattered across the tiny bistro, excusing yourself at times when it became too tight of a squeeze between patrons.

Yoongi sat, alone, next to one of the windows on the second floor where people weren’t as frequent. He was bare-faced, and he donned normal street clothes. White earbuds were draped around his neck, and a pair of sunglasses dangled from the v-neck of the t-shirt he wore. As you approached his silent, unmoving shape, you felt your palms grow rapidly clammy, despite the ACs keeping Serenity at a comfortable room temperature. His gaze was focused outward, onto the streets below, as you sank down opposite to him and with an almost overwhelming urge to scratch the skin off of your arm.

“Hi,” you said as you gripped your iced latte and sipped it quickly. The beverage was cool and sweet and filled with caffeine, which was exactly what you needed a day as hot as that day.

Yoongi blinked as he turned back toward you. “You’re wearing unusually much makeup today,” he stated quietly and then touched his own, unstyled hair. “And you’ve got something here.”

“It was for the engagement pictures,” you explained as you raked your fingers sheepishly  through your hair. You caught a decorative clip with fake diamonds glued to the thin surface and dropped it into your purse. “Must have forgotten one,” you went on. “Is it too much? My face, that is.”

“I wouldn’t say too much, no.” Yoongi crossed his legs. “Did you take them this morning, or…?”

“Just now.” You finished his sentence with a half-hearted smile. “I left Jung-Hyun about fifteen minutes ago.”

“You must be excited,” he said, his tone neutral.

“Of course,” you replied.

“Is that why the wedding is set in the middle of August? In less than a month from today?”

You sighed. “I know it’s on a short notice, but I promise - I’m not pregnant.”

“Why so quickly then?” Yoongi tilted his head slightly as he continued. “Considering the fact that we got the invitations last week, it does seem suspicious.”

“Really, I’m not.” You sipped your drink. “I mean, you can’t really hide pregnancy.”

Yoongi’s eyes held yours, inspecting them for truth presumably, for a moment longer before he conceded. “No,” he said. “I believe you. But then, what’s the reason?”

“I… I don’t want to go into it,” you said stiffly.

The conversation halted after that. Yoongi had ordered an iced coffee without any dessert or anything, yet didn’t touch the half-finished beverage even once while you poked around in your cheesecake. You hadn’t actually been hungry, even when you asked Jung-Hyun to accompany you for lunch, and pushed the hand-sized plate away from you after a minute or two of poking the strawberry cheesecake apart with your fork.

“How--” you began at the same time Yoongi’s lips parted. With a small smile, you said, “You first.”

He shook his head and gestured for you to start. “No, go ahead.”

“Well…” You shifted your gaze elsewhere. “I was just going to ask how he is doing.”

You didn’t feel the need to clarify what you meant by “he”, and judging by Yoongi’s brief silence, you had been right. Your hands balled into tight fists as he spoke.

“I would like to say that he’s fine. And perhaps I could make you believe me, or at least want to believe me. But that would be a waste of time in the end, right?”

You nodded as you swallowed nervously.

“To put it simply: he’s been having meetings with the director. He wants to quit idoling.”

His words felt as if someone had struck you with a sledgehammer. Your eyes went wider than they have ever been, and you felt your breath hitch in the back of your throat. Instead of accelerating, your heart slowed down until it almost felt as if you had to will it to beat for you. You couldn’t believe what Yoongi had just said. “What?”

Yoongi’s jaw tensed. “He hasn’t told us that straight up, but it’s clear in the way he behaves. He hates it.”

“But his memory returned to him,” you said rapidly, your voice strained. “Even though it might be a bit confusing considering the last few months, he should be fine. All your songs, dance choreographies, memories together as a group… he’s returned to who he used to be. He’s whole again.”

“And he absolutely hates it.”

You felt your throat constrict, painfully, almost to the point where you couldn’t breathe. “But why?” you croaked out. “This is all he’s ever wanted. Even while amnesic, he kept going for the sake of his dream - why would he just give everything he’s fought for up like this?”

“Do I really have to answer that?” Yoongi’s tone had hardened, and so did his eyes as they settled on you. “Stop acting all ignorant and tell me the answer yourself.”

You averted your gaze.

“You’re not doing yourself a favor by acting stupid.”

You still didn’t respond.

He snorted. “Fine,” he began, his voice cool. “Let me illuminate you then: you are the reason Jungkook hates idoling.” When you opened your mouth to protest, Yoongi interjected. “Are you going to ask ‘why?’ to that as well? Or will you lift your head out of the sand and face reality?”

“But he has everything he wants.” You shook your head, completely in disbelief. “He has you, his hyungs, he has his fans… and he has Yi-Jae.”

“He broke up with her.”

You stared incredulously at Yoongi. “You cannot be serious,” you whispered.

“I am,” he told you earnestly, his slim, dark eyes regarding you closely. “As soon as you disappeared from eyesight, Jungkook--” you twitched at the mention, “--tried to run after you. Hoseok and Taehyung grabbed him, but it wasn’t until Sejin-hyung and some other managers came to help that we got him to stop completely.” Yoongi took a deep breath and gazed out of the window. “Though, if not for Namjoon and a slap from Jimin, Jungkook would have definitely caught up to you. And who knows what would have happened to either one of you if he had.”

Yoongi paused, evidently waiting for a reaction or a response from you, but you were paralyzed. He scratched the back of his head before continuing, his tone solemn.

“We managed to convince Jungkook back to the hair and makeup team since there was still a show to be had. Seokjin-hyung found Yi-Jae and led her to Jungkook in hopes she could calm him down, but he told her to… well, ‘go away’ is the nicest way I can put it. I haven’t seen them together ever since.”

“There’s been nothing about it in the news,” you said numbly.

“Neither of our companies have gone public with it yet.” Yoongi checked his phone. “It’s only a matter of time, though.”

You fidgeted in your seat. You didn’t know what to say.

“Have you tried calling him?”

“No,” you admitted as you crossed your arms over your chest. “No, I haven’t.”

“(Y/N).” Yoongi’s tone had softened, become low, barely above a murmur. “What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not scared,” you denied vehemently, an edge creeping into your tone. You glared at him, the mere accusation causing your temper to rise.

Yoongi leaned forward with his elbows onto the round wooden table. There was sympathy in his eyes, and even a touch of understanding underneath the otherwise hard guise as he crossed his hands and leaned his chin onto the small plateau they formed. “Then why don't you just admit the truth?”

Truth. For you to see the truth was what Se-Eun had told you after you had told her everything about Jungkook. And she in turn had gotten it from Yoongi, who was now repeating it to you. It was ridiculous, really. Parts of you jubilated with the word, yearned for the freedom it promised, but other parts of you, namely your mind, kept the rest of your system in check.

There was no truth, it had decided. Thus, no truth existed.

“What truth?” you snapped. “He’s a guy I grew up with and became forcefully engaged to at eighteen. He’s always been an utterly sardonic bastard, and in addition to that, he’s a cheating scumbag. There’s nothing more to it!”

People glanced nervously at you and Yoongi, and though the weight of their combined gazes made you uncomfortable, you didn’t really care. You were angry, increasingly so, and far more defensive than you liked.

Because what reason was there for you to feel defensive if there was no such thing as “truth”?

“He might be a cheating bastard,” said Yoongi quietly. “But you’re a lying coward.”

Your eyes narrowed at him, your next sentence getting caught in your throat. But before you could recover enough to voice a protest or retort, Yoongi went on.

“And worst of all, you’re too proud to admit the truth that’s as obvious as daylight in everyone else’s eyes but yours and Jungkook’s. So what if he’s a cheating bastard and you’re a lying coward - you--”

“Stop,” you tried, though he ignored you.

“--love him more than anything else in the world. Don’t you, (Y/N)?”

All the blood drained from your face. You simply sat there, staring at Yoongi, who had just said the most ridiculous, impossible, stupid, awful, frightening but true words you had ever heard. Because as horrible as it was to admit, even inside your head, you couldn’t deny it anymore - Jeon Jungkook was someone you loved. Utterly and undeniably. You absolutely loved him. For how long or why, you weren’t sure.

But when you even considered allowing yourself to love him, warmth filled you from head to toe, from the very core of your being to your fingertips. It was the kind of warmth that healed all the scars, all the wounds from the last few months - even the betrayal of his unfaithfulness. It was the kind of warmth that you would like to sleep, eat and laugh and talk and simply be with. It was the kind of blissful warmth that you could imagine experiencing for the rest of your life.

It was the kind of warmth only one person in the whole world would be able to provide.

“Are you going to lie to yourself for the rest of your life? Or worse, are you going to live a life of constant, everyday regret?”

Like a distant whisper from another being altogether, Yoongi’s questions trickled into your head, filled it, and cracked the mental barriers you had erected yourself and for yourself.

Yoongi leaned back into his seat, his fingers remaining intertwined over his stomach. “Because that’s the kind of future I see for you. Rich, married and perhaps satisfied with your life one distant day - but something like this…” He shook his head. “All you need to do is acknowledge your feelings yourself. Stop denying them, stop lying to yourself and stop running. Stop being such a proud, damn coward, (Y/N).”

And with that, the barriers crumbled like towers and walls of dust, taken away by a mild, passing breeze. For the first time in your whole life, you allowed your heart to take the lead. Recklessly, one might add, but recklessness was all you could resort to when the future of your life, your happiness and the cause of all that happiness was at stake. You couldn’t think, you couldn’t consider, you couldn’t discuss, you couldn’t reason yourself back to a place of acceptance.

No, you refused to be scared of the truth any longer. You refused to cower before the prospect of allowing someone to love you - and for you to love that someone. You refused to give up your last chance at seizing such a once-in-a-lifetime - for that is what this was, that is what Jungkook really posed to you - opportunity.

Now that you knew, truly knew, you couldn’t let it merely slip past.

Your heart wanted nothing more than a certain twenty-year-old guy, once your family friend, once your fiancé, once your amnesic idol friend and now, the latest: your brother-in-law. You wanted him with every cell, every fiber of your being.

A life without loving Jeon Jungkook would be like living in a world without color and sounds. A shadow of reality, a shell void of both creature and pearl, a poor simulation of something you had experienced and enjoyed for twenty years. Sure, you would perhaps come to see flashes of color, or hear the faintest of sounds at times, but it would still be a drop of water in an ocean endless.

A life without loving Jeon Jungkook would be hollow. As much as you had come to like Jung-Hyun, his gentlemanly ways, polite and silent nature and his gentle confidence, he was a mere firework in a sky full of stars. A sky full of stars, planets, the sun and the moon. It was cruel, but for you, in your heart, he couldn’t even begin to compare to the wonders of the sky.

The sarcastic, jeering, arrogant, stubborn, proud, beautiful, funny, hard-working, caring, strong, supporting and lovable wonder that was Jeon Jungkook. You would need a dictionary, or even more so, make up words on your own to fully describe the world-famous idol, the singer and dancer whose talents and sheer willpower were of such a high caliber, nobody could deny them.

And even then, you would merely have stirred the surface of the real human lying underneath.

As you pulled off the engagement ring Jung-Hyun had bought you, you saw Yoongi’s eyes visibly widen. He had watched silently you while all your thoughts rushed by, and it wasn’t until now that you saw how uncertain he really appeared while talking to you. Uncertain, surely, because he himself wasn’t sure if he was right.

But he was. He was and had been for months.

You loved the bastard known as Jeon Jungkook. You loved him more than made sense.

“Where is he?” you asked hastily. You needed to act before you could talk - or rather, reason yourself - out of canceling a marriage. “Where’s Jungkook?”

“I don’t know,” said Yoongi, his eyebrows rising high across his forehead. “But Taehyung might know. I could call him and ask.”

“Please,” you said.

Yoongi pursed his lips, his eyes still revealing the confusion he felt, as he pressed his phone to his ear. “(Y/N),” he said while waiting for Taehyung to pick up. “About the wedding…”

“Forget about the wedding,” you said and rose. Ignoring the disbelieving look he sent your way, you lowered the engagement ring into your purse and then started toward the nearest bathroom. “I’ll be right back,” you called over your shoulder.

Your heart was accelerating in line with your steps, and by the time you had locked yourself into the single, unisex bathroom, you felt tendrils of anticipation and dread curl in your stomach. You began wiping off the makeup frantically from your face and neck, for even though Yoongi had told you it wasn’t too much, it simply felt too much. Your face was practically as clean as it would have been after a shower when you were satisfied and went back out.

The table was empty, and you found Yoongi standing by the exit downstairs. “Come on,” he told you when you gave him an inquisitive glance. “Taehyung said Jungkook went to a karaokebar. If it’s the one I think it is, it should be in the nearby area.”

With a nod, you followed Yoongi out of Serenity. About ten minutes later, the two of you reached the steps leading up to a small, rundown karaoke bar without a real name. It felt as if though your stomach had curled itself up into a tight ball as you ascended the few concrete steps. But when you realized Yoongi wasn’t moving away from the pavement, you halted and turned around, a frown on your face.

He stopped you from talking by holding up a hand. “I don’t want to intrude,” he explained. “I’ve gotten involved with you two enough already.”

You smiled and hurried down the stairs. “Thank you,” you told him as you came to a stop right in front of him. “Thank you for talking sense into me. Even though he might not forgive me--”

“He will,” interrupted Yoongi firmly, his slim, dark eyes filled with assurance. “But only if you tell him what the people around you two already know.”

“Thank you,” you repeated. You almost wanted to hug him, but decided against it in the end. “And I will.”

Yoongi smiled. It was the smile that seemed to make all the invisible weight of the world on his shoulders disappear. “Good. Now, get in there.”

You could barely breathe when you spoke to the man and owner of the karaoke bar at the front desk. He told you a guy about your age and with his face covered was somewhere in the back of the building, but forced you to rent a room of your own before allowing you to head deeper into the karaoke bar. The money didn’t matter, however. You would have gladly paid ten--no, a hundred times more if the owner demanded it.

A glance across your shoulder revealed Yoongi still waiting outside on the street, watching you through the double glass doors. He stood with his hands inside his pockets, and nodded after you had waved a goodbye. He remained even as you headed deeper into the establishment, and it was you who first disappeared out of range.

No matter how the confrontation between you and Jungkook would turn out, you would be eternally in Min Yoongi’s debt. For he woke you up. Even if Se-Eun had tried, she wouldn’t have been as brutally honest or insisted on the subject as he had. She would have resigned, knowing your way of mind now after nine years of friendship.

But Yoongi, who didn’t know anything about you, had persevered and persisted. You owed him, and you would always be grateful toward him even if Jungkook would refuse to forgive you.

There were faint music coming from down the straight hallway the owner had instructed you to take. Since it was almost in the middle of the day, not even students would be there. Therefore, when you stopped outside the only door that seemed to hold an occupant, you were confident about the fact of who was currently inside.

You weren’t as confident going inside, however.

While you weighed yourself from foot to foot, nervously trying to build up enough courage to knock on the door, the song ended. You heard the cheering of a “100” point or “Perfect!” score, which the karaoke machine announcer said with an overly sweet tone, and then a loud chain of curses, which didn’t come from any machine announcer you had ever known.

No, you recognized it for who it was - Jeon Jungkook.

He continued to mutter curses, but then the song resumed. This close, you knew that it was familiar, but you couldn’t put your finger on it. You inhaled deeply before pressing your ear against the smooth surface of the door, and concentrated on discerning the words.

“I feel such regret right now…”

A shiver, starting from the crown of your head, traveled to the very tips of your toes as you recognized the lyrics. It was the same song Jungkook had sang that Friday night you had taken him up on the stupidest of bets.

A bet of ignorance and a kiss.

When the shock faded enough for you to think, you frowned. If now Jungkook was, for some reason or another, trying to recreate that bet by singing that same song right then, he wouldn’t have been able to lose the bet. Not with a perfect score. Yet, why was he getting so irritated and why was he replaying the song?

Cold fingers trailed down your back when you realized it. Jungkook wasn’t trying to win the old bet between you and him by recreating it - he was trying to get the exact same score as he had that day.

You didn’t even dare guess as to why.

Jungkook’s muffled curses were what brought you back into the situation at hand. You withdrew from the door and lifted your hand, forming a fist in the air. When you began moving it toward the painted wood, however, you found yourself freezing. Mid-swing, you simply stared from the door to your hand, and even though you willed it forward, propelled it with the weight of your body, the arm wouldn’t obey. It was as if though you had gotten stuck on an invisible wall.

You were terrified. Utterly and undeniably. Again, you felt the urge to just bolt out of the karaoke bar, and it took all your courage, bravery you scrounged together from all corners and nooks of your heart, not to. Besides, you had a feeling Yoongi was still outside, making sure you were actually doing what you had come to do. So much for not getting any more involved.

“You can do this,” you mumbled to yourself, fleetingly glad that you were the only two patrons there. Who knows what you would have done if there was an audience around. “Just knock on the stupid door and tell him how you really feel.”

But how were you supposed to formulate yourself? Thanks to Yoongi, you had acknowledged to yourself that you loved Jungkook more than you would ever admit out loud, more than you cared about the repercussions of your current decision. You loved him enough to not care about circumstances any longer.

You had been a fool, an ignorant, dismissive and dogged fool. You saw that now. Lying to Jungkook after his amnesia had been the biggest mistake of your life - one that you intended to rectify now that you had the chance.

You needed to tell Jungkook just that.

While musing, you hadn’t even been aware that the music had since long ceased. And so, when the door abruptly opened inwardly before you and a tall, brown-haired guy wearing a white t-shirt, jeans, boots and a mouth mask stepped out, you stopped breathing altogether. Even if you would have wanted to run away like you had the last time the two of you had been in the same space, you couldn’t.

All you could do was stare.

The familiar, large brown eyes of Jeon Jungkook rounded when they spotted you, and scoured you up and down several times before they settled onto yours. You jolted inwardly, your heart now also deciding to stop beating, as if not to disturb the suddenly deathly silence that had befallen the hallway in a shabby karaoke bar without name.

For an unknown amount of time, the two of you simply stood there, on each side of the doorway, doing nothing but looking at the other. It had been almost two months since you last had seen each other, yet it felt as if though it was just last yesterday you had seen Jungkook on stage for the first time. It felt as if though it was just last week that you two had been engaged. It felt as if though it was just last month that he had found you in the middle of the forest and carried you on his back to civilization, children both of you. It felt as if though it was just last year you had discovered the bruises his father secretly inflicted on both him and his mother.

Yet, it felt as if though an eternity had passed since you had confessed to yourself what exactly it was you felt for Jeon Jungkook.

“(Y/N)?”

Your name escaped his chapped lips in a whisper, a soft flutter of wings. He sounded so hesitant, so skeptical, so confused, you weren’t sure what really to say in return. Thus, you settled for a nod, and then lowered your gaze to the dirty floor.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you,” you mumbled.

“Why?”

His tone was impossible to read. Partly because he was speaking so quietly you only barely heard him over your own heartbeats, which had resumed beating again, fortunately. And then partly because you were so frightened and anxious to reply, you felt nauseous.

“Because…” You cleared your throat, still refusing to look up at him. Tears were burning in the back of your eyes, like strong alcohol down your throat. “Because,” you tried again, though your voice cracked.

“Did something happen to your parents? Or my brother?”

You couldn’t believe how calm and put-together he sounded. Though it was tempting to glance up at him, to at least be able to read his features, you knew you wouldn’t be able to refrain from crying if you met his gaze.

“No,” you told him, eyes glued to your shoes. “I came for you. To tell you…”

Jungkook was silent. You sensed the seconds tick by, but he didn’t push you.

Your hands balled into fists at your sides. “I came to tell you, Jungkook… that I… I…”

“You’re not wearing your ring.”

“I’m not,” you reaffirmed slowly, your voice trembling in a sickening mixture of nervousness and apprehension. You took a deep breath before continuing. “And Jungkook, the reason for that is--”

You never managed to finish your sentence. All of a sudden, you felt yourself being pulled into a tight embrace. It happened too quickly for you to react. You had barely blinked before you found yourself wrapped around a pair of strong arms. The smell of soap, warmth and uniquely Jungkook filled your nostrils for the first time since May 30th, and enveloped you in a familiar sense of safety. You inhaled deeply, and carefully placed your hands onto Jungkook’s broad back while you did your best to fight against the waves of tears threatening to assault the shores of your yet dry cheeks.

“You’ve lost a lot of weight.”

You swallowed against the lump in your throat. “Ten kilos,” you muttered into the fabric of his t-shirt.

“Of course. You just had to literally one-up me, didn’t you?”

Speechless. No words seemed to be able to form in your mouth. For you had been ready for a complete denial ever since Yoongi first had managed to make a crack in your defenses. You had been ready to not be forgiven. You had been ready to be cussed out and yelled at. You had been ready to have to grovel and beg and plead. You had been ready for the agony of fighting, arguing and trying to convince him you truly were apologetic.

You hadn’t been ready for the opposite of all that.

Hot saltwater trickled down your eyes. You could taste a few tears in the corners of your lips, and you sniffled as discreetly as you could, praying - in vain - that he wouldn’t sense, wouldn’t notice.

“Don’t cry,” said Jungkook gently, his grip of you tightening.

“I’m sorry, Jungkook.” Your fingers clutched his tee with painfully obvious desperation. “I’m so sorry for lying to you. I shouldn’t have, I know I shouldn’t have. I just… I thought it would be the best for both of us. I was stupid, so freaking stupid, I mean, I call you that all the time but--”

“I get it, (Y/N),” he murmured softly. “I really do, so please - stop crying. I can’t bear seeing you this sad.”

“You should be angry with me,” you insisted, the tears thickening your tone. “And you definitely were when you first found out. Why won’t you scream at me now? Why--” You had to clear your throat. “Why are you hugging me instead?”

“Of course I was angry.” His breath stirred your hair since you still refused to look up. “You made me think I was in love with someone I have never loved. Don’t you get how difficult it was for me to try and wrap my head around all that while I was amnesic, even less when I got my memories back? I felt betrayed by the person I came to appreciate more than anyone else in this entire word."

Despite his words, Jungkook sounded composed, unflappable even. You reacted at something else, however.

“What do you mean?” you wondered numbly. “You loved Yi-Jae, didn’t you?”

The answer was precise, curt, revealing not even a shred of dishonesty. “No.”

“But why--” you started.

“Because I was afraid.” Jungkook released you and brushed the back of his fingers against your cheek carefully. “I was afraid, proud and a complete fucking dumbass. And I’ve told you why. I felt like my family were leeching off of yours, and I hated being bound by some ridiculous promise your grandfather made my dad. I thought I could run away from my burden by cheating on you - I thought for sure the marriage would be off then.”

“But what about this?” you asked with a slight frown, your tears starting to dry up in their wells. You pointed from him to yourself. “What about us? If you wanted to get away from me--”

“I never said that, did I?”

For the first time since the start of that conversation, you lifted your gaze. When your eyes locked with Jungkook’s, you saw your own vulnerability, your uncertainty, your yearning and longing reflected in his.

“Then what?” you whispered, both happy and frightened at the discovery.

Jungkook’s hands dropped to curl around yours. He held your fingers loosely, yet your heart rate surged into gallop when he leaned closer to you.

“With time,” he replied quietly, “I wanted to do all that on my own.”

You inhaled sharply. Amusement briefly flickered in Jungkook’s familiar brown eyes before they grew solemn again. “You should already know by now, since I told you, that you’ve always been the light of my life. Though I used to despise having to be with you all the time, I eventually came to accept it and even started looking forward to seeing you.” He chuckled lightly. “No one else got as irritated as you when I disagreed with the person in question.”

“Bastard,” you managed, even though you smiled, too.

“For me to let you go would have been an impossibility,” he went on. “I don’t know when exactly I started feeling strongly for you, but I remember clearly realizing it the exact moment we became engaged.” Jungkook paused and his eyes darted elsewhere. “I’ve never been as terrified in my whole life.”

“Why?” you asked for probably the fifteenth time that day.

Jungkook brought you close to his chest again. You allowed him, and relaxed against the shape of his torso, your hands finding their way back across his back. You could get used to this.

“I didn’t know what you felt about me.”

“I didn’t like you,” you admitted, feeling that he had been too open and honest for you to be shy with your answers. “You were a pain in the backside, and you were cold and brusque and sardonic. You were also really arrogant and had this way about you as if nothing else but you mattered.”

“‘Pain in the backside’ was explanation enough,” he said dryly.

You shrugged the best you could as you tried to hide a grin. “I just thought I should define what exactly that meant.”

He sighed, though you could sense a smile bleed into his retort. “Why did I have to fall in love with a heartless brute like you?”

Warmth blossomed across your face, chest and neck. In fact, every part of your body felt as if though they had been set ablaze. Your heart was beating in rhythm with Jungkook's, which you felt accelerate when you squeezed him harder against you.

“I’d punch you if I could, you know,” you told him as a fresh batch of tears crested your eyes. “For making me cry.”

Jungkook chuckled, and it reverberated across his torso. “I know,” he murmured into your hair. “And I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

[lady-plantagenet]

A Bygone Era - Chapter 11

This is the newest chapter of a long-term fictional project of mine. It is a story centering around the lives of Lady Isabel Neville, George of Clarence and Richard Neville 16th Earl of Warwick (heavily also featuring Anne Beauchamp 16th Countess of Warwick and Anne Neville). It is told alternating between their POVs, occasionally dipping into that of others from the outside eg Cecily Neville, Margaret of Anjou’s. It is based on history, as opposed to TWQ series!

Points of views so far include: Anne Beauchamp Countess of Warwick, Lady Anne Neville, George Duke of Clarence, Lady Isabel Neville, Richard Neville Earl of Warwick,Cecily Neville, Dowager Duchess of York and Margaret of Anjou

This chapter is through Margaret of Anjou’s POV:

[Text]:

10th July 1470

Among roses red and white presided the daisy - or so she had taken to inwardly correcting herself when whispers of her unenglishness would close around her like mocking rattles shook by the fauntkins that once haunted her nights. And then Edouard was finally born to her and those nightmares were assuaged only to be replaced by newer, more detestable faces: York, Warwick, Salisbury. And so the rattling returned after eight years, but it was that of armour.

At Angers she was now Marguerite again, although every time she would look back to her hands, she could believe it less. The long, white fingers that had once flashed brilliantly over parchments, whether it was a charter she penned or a match she wove for whichever gentlewoman of hers was yearning that week, would never straighten out as they once did. At times when she held her reins, she would cringe for their finery. Ma mère Isabelle, sage Yolande, to which end will your memory guide me when not even you have known exertions such as these?

But before her stood only her father, René with as many chins as he had titles. It was only in his presence that she would even dare examine her wrists or roll a fallen hair into her lap, checking how it greyed. Behind him the ‘Mary in The Burning Bush’ sizzled with the draft, bellowing forever through those red halls of her childhood. Even after the longest absence, she could still point to curls of orange paint and placings of ultramarine which Froment let the Duke of Anjou add by his own hand. Beauty in devotional dialogues as in verses he exchanged with the renowned Charles D’Orléans, the sarcenets and masks whirling in every colourful performance of the Passion of Angers, would there ever again be a place for her there? She would sometimes wonder - if, for all the families with men riding out, grizzling in battle squalor so to keep the brute from their ladies’ doors, whether god had played a twisted experiment on the men and women of her house. Twisted still, how the contrary courted every generation.

He was now looking at her, crossing his fleshy arms in a manner so familiar that she anticipated his tact from a league away ‘When I rode at Jeanne D’Arc’s side in the crusade of Orleans, she- ‘ strange of him to resurrect La Pucelle like this, helped to the flames by the Earl of Warwick’s very own father-in-law. She lifted her hand. Those same granddaughters of Warwick would come in her presence with their ancestor’s banners mingling in their skirts as in their overmighty subject blood and pack into her own robes as their grandmother of Salisbury had done some March procession ago. May they burst like the blistering skin of a snake. ‘Whither you come again father to sacrifice your own daughter in the interests of the country, only now this is to be made my own doing?’

Réné’s hands fell to the side, the sound broke her thoughts. Velvet was not supposed to make that sound when it met, she looked back and saw the black had faded from the fabric, not unlike the scarlet sunsetting the halls - at least now that she chanced another look. Mary in the Burning Bush, her father’s gaze followed hers to the painting. She burns but is not consumed, La Pucelle...

Her father’s rings were boring (digging/gripping could work) into her shoulders, however they did not dig much. Gentle impoverished man, I see I shall fight for you too. ‘The divine mystery’ he whispered behind her as if he himself beheld it now ‘jesu, her only son, ma fille, likewise as he, our only light. Marian’s sacrifice’

‘Sometimes, I think my king husband is much like the spirit of Most High’ she murmured not unkindly, for Henry’s was not the beacon laying the flame that would make ashes of the heart. Longing, in the end, had but one care, to cocoon, stifle and transform that which was unruly. Not yearning, the yearning that brought with it no peace; the gaudling of her London court for which the fashionable youth adored her, daughters of Chaucer down to her gilded ladies would forsake the altars for their Guinevere. Had the Yorkists only the craft to have seen that tale through complete materiality... She gave out an unbalanced sigh, while her mind addled on whether monsieur Warwick’s imagination coming to them would leave the brutes with naught else but smashing the cocoon, however snuggly lain in its stony bower.

July beams lingered, heat shattered off the floors, and so she tried to pull at the linen that clung to her wrist, more that it was unfashionable it was a grey that summer suns liked to singe ‘Have my thoughts wound about your tongue, mon père? you do not appear to have any words for response’

‘Ah?’ He turned her towards him raising an eyebrow ‘I was not aware you sook any, was there are question I did not note?’

‘Yes’

His amusement faltered when he saw her unamused ‘Ah, yes, your sacrifice. It was ever your way Margaret, though whether it is for France or your son I do not know’

Her robe drew their shadows when she fell back, black thistles on grey from the gallery’s corners. ‘I’ she shook a crooked finger ‘you ask me this? I who- have you any idea why it is that the English so hate me father? It is not for I traded tin and wool; it is not for my founding of colleges...’

Now it was he who raised the hand ‘Indeed ma marguerite, your kingly husband rules over a nation of merchants huddled in village kingdoms. They who would cast the white of a lady’s hand anywhere but in council. The jealousy of the English is legendary, I know’.

‘Not that either’ her voice was terse while she took her seat on the stone bench. It was much more worn than she had found it years ago, if rock would splinter rather than burn. ‘It is because they think like you and my cousin le roi. Henry and Edouard’s people, once they were also mine - descendants of Charlemagne as are we? They have never forgotten how I had Maine and Anjou surrendered, all for you et comme ça I became France’s agent. Not a queen for England was I: mercantile where their English roses are industrious, that was, before I was the wastrel of a lavish court where their ladies stayed stately patrons steeped in pious splendour... and yet the Yorks are not England, not more than Pembroke, Somerset, Suffolk, Exeter’

Réné stepped back and huffed a laugh, the way his lips sat after, thin and waved would have looked shrewd in other men’s faces, never in his, sat among his folds of pink and white skin ‘But the Monsieur le Warwick is’. He shuffled next to her, the pale blue of his eyes renarrowing as he concentrated on setting down his fleshiness on the little space, she could concede him on the bench ‘Not as us, ma marguerite, kings of Jerusalem, rulers of Majorcas and Minorcas...

‘Must he too make them different’ she realised she sounded like Henry, looking up with eyes rounded and rimmed so darkly by unsleep that she did not notice the footsteps approaching ‘Can crowns and people be so? The English and the French? Ah to stoop l’Agneau into an alliance with a subject, to have my posterity sat on thrones built on concessions, to they themselves be so as well?’

‘And so, you helped them to it when you gave Berwick back to the Scots. An act singing of the auld alliance’ Father and daughter looked up, it was something said with all the bitterness of an erstwhile groom of such a match. ‘I cannot say I minded that much’ Louis XI of France had just returned from mass, crossed himself and twitching his long Valois nose, Margaret was reminded how this was a man who went to prayer mechanically as in all manner of things; mimicking other’s gestures with the mind’s thoughts separate. Perchance all ceremony was indeed same to him, the prie-dieu of vespers though softer than the stone under his breaches and spurs when he had knelt with his Stuart dauphine at an alter times passed. She had died and he had burned all her poetry Margaret was horrified ill-befallen queen to be.

He was prudent, like Salisbury’s prudence but York was now a house of alchemists. Why have at Boccacio’s matter when bare re-anatomization could make for Lydgate’s fall of princes? Sometimes not even names need be changed. Her wandered to Queen’s College with a sigh; she could be angry no more.

He did not walk as much as swept with the blue heaviness of his robes as they cooled the sun off the flagstones, atop his head comically lay only a black skull cap which made his face smaller, less discernable.

‘and Carlisle’ she feigning her approval ‘France never breathed while England was strong’ behind Louis, Réné stood up shooting her bewildered looks. Just as nor would my son buttressed in from the North and South. But sectioned up part and parcel from within?

‘You now speak like a prince madame. A prince of France’ he spoke barely moving a lip ‘good did it you this spell at Angers, I see we are past ravings for vengeance’ he stayed the way he also did but now swung his eyes from one side to the other like a pendulum ‘I always know when to come, as does Warwick it seems. Two days ride they tell me’

‘Him? He’ she grabbed at the column grilling the window behind her as though she meant to wield it ‘here?’

Her father shrank away and Louis’ voice curled in amusement as he flicked a speck of dust from his collar ‘St Mary would do well, resplendent enough for an oath, the floors need no bending from our treasury without offending Monsieur’s apparent newly exalted tastes’

His confusion at her silence could almost have been taken for indignance, he now turned to her father with the same look. ‘I told her, nephew, we are agreed, Fortescue would not write to you without her consent you know that. She noticed how he hated being called that. ‘Marguerite-‘

‘That was in May’ she gathered her thumbs in an inward gesture and under her chin ‘before I knew they made a mockery of our assistance; all he did these months was spend all that Bourrée had given him and without profit. A lord without profit, think sire think.’

‘Leave the costs of their presences to me’ he retorted ‘all his sailors and had they ten children each are the poor’s bread sat next to you and yours all these years’

‘Maine and Anjou were scores that’ Margaret hissed ‘and you forget that by even deigning to compare your obligation to us as that towards Warwick. Edouard is a prince of France too - remember that.’

He huffed laying both hands on the counter-table. His sleeve’s fleur de lis pattern dragged to clarity when he stretching, lit the three candles that lay atop although it was daylight. The servants were sent away, he seems a very practiced man in these respects. ‘So I hope that you remember that when you prevail over that idiote de York’

‘Believe you in the right of Lancaster then?’ she heard an ounce of hope in her father’s voice ‘That Lancaster is good for the country? Warwick is either to be turned water crossing to his ruin or turn for my grandson? Advising a York had always been futile’. Had he not heard what had just been said?

‘Yes -oncle’ he narrowed his eyes, chaffed his heel while he spoke ‘rather... good for the world as well I think’

Margaret approached him, catching his sleeve when he tried slightly turning his back ‘it is good you see, for Pembroke will be governing besides your friend Warwick and we can insure an even goodlier reign over England under an even redder rose’. He looked over his shoulder with features pointed in irritation, The King of France was but around her age, yet he looked as those old English bankers that bit their coins and and found they were not gold.

Nearly two years ago, Jasper’s enterprises had cost Louis much, but now he had come back with only little accounts of assizes and short-lived sieges. Inwardly, Margaret felt pleasant. Apart from her, no one angered them as he did, he was now to Champagne, on his continuous quest. With every return she felt she could reclaim new pieces of her old court, and unknowingly his gallantry rebuilt her court of chivalry, regarbing her a Guinevere when he knelt. Regarbed, for the love they both bore Henry was second only to that for Edouard. As did Catherine de Valois, faithfully, as her welsh suitor longed, yearned and served. Wedded and then to die for his step-son’s cause. She once wondered whether such a musing could ever cross a busy mind like his, the welsh do have their romances, as do the French. But even though England pools them all to herself in the end, lovely waters of red and blue they stay.

‘It is good of you’ Réné said, patting his gut in a manner going with his satisfaction ‘that you also hold that an alliance between these two kingdoms is an ideal. You may yet grow to be known as the Europe’s bringer of perpetual peace, le prudent est la meilleure que l’universelle aragne, non?

‘Oncle...’ his dark eyes dropped to his simper and Margaret was beginning to realize was something Louis used to mock, ‘yes, yes. I also happen to know men like the Monsieurs Warwick and Clarence and they do not fall easily and will always know where to find me at every exile, especially now that Edward will never allow them to the force of Calais again. Though I had their wives housed with my Queen and gave the princeling a bolt of pretty green silk to appease him, one month since landing at Normandy they have caused me nothing but trouble. They did not spend all the coin Bourrée gave to them to affront you but to bade me recognize them, and loudly enough to bring Burgundy in his throes of idiocy, to tell me how I am breaking our treaty of Péronne by not attacking them for what they did to his ships. Attack? Ack all these men think about is hitting one another with their sticks of steel - dense as their skulls’

She raised an eyebrow Craven ‘Then you would not object to having Warwick kneel during the audience. He who bespoiled us, your treasury and my virtue- ’Many hard hours had been wasted like this. she felt herself being grabbed by the shoulders to which she responded by looking back at him in confusion, he proceeded to slip down and now she felt more shocked. ‘Marguerite, belle cousine, I beseech you. We need Warwick to invade and you need him most. France will not bear war with Burgundy, think on your hatred for those carver princes of your kingdom, just so is my wrath for Charles le Temerraire, he is like your York for me. The father and son merged in an even greater traitor. England has not razed to the ground, but if France falls, I split, just as my father had when he betrayed the maid of Orléans to them - the English and the Burgundians. Marguerite, I am not my fool father, I will not betray you and so you will not betray me. Do not trifle, dissimulate instead, I urge you as one sovereign to another. Take this as my kneeling in lieu of Warwick, as repayment for my father’s debt towards the maid’ And an England divided would suit you just as well, if not better than an alliance. Far less costly. His words sounded well-chewed, but such thoughts were overborne and unheard, thoughts paling to those for spirit of the Maid ‘who had raised Charles to throne’ and how it had ‘renewed in the Queen’. You who once followed a peasant girl follow now a queen, soft sprang the echoes, Captain Margaret.

‘Maman!’ her son came bounding in like a sprig, a tall, stately boy whose features were never left by the serious air that his childhood hung about them. His father’s blue eyes were squarely cut in his face and shone whenever in the presence of men with whom he could prove his mettle - he had the leanness of someone who never grew too easy. Just so, upon sight of Louis his tone dropped and he pecked her on the lips before sitting himself at the edge of the stone bench. ‘Comme les anglais’ her father joked and even the king managed a small smile ‘like the English princes’. She knew well that they were too old for this custom, but how many mothers so raised their sons so alone and unattended by others, the lord’s manger had straw for warmth where St Michel only stones.

‘I met the lady Anne’ started Louis ‘a vivacious girl, t’was her proud sister’s wedding festivities, but she did not strike neither me nor my brother le duc as one much saddened by much’

Your beloved Monsieur must be ever in god’s gratitudes to have found in you the wedding land for all his daughters and woes. And so now Margaret would lean onto his marital prowess as he unto her martial, for she knew Warwick had no third daughter, no alter avenues for alliance.

‘It is a shame cousin’ she said stroking her son’s cheek, faced away she could still feel some disaffection forming itself in that proud head ‘how you let harbour the joining of Isabelle to that shaking boy’ at that Edouard removed his cap while his mouth twisted in a callous smirk, the fringes of his yellow hair, had long been growing over his face and the concealment was timed perfectly for Louis not to see. The universal spider hated recall for parts in webs he left to the wind for miscalculated threads layed and they both knew that well.

‘Yes, Clarence still shakes but for quite something else, but that blunder is of no account, for remember - the sisters are co-heiresses one is as good as the other, the stately Isabelle may be marble, but Anne is the clay, with perceptive eyes, childhood and better French’ his face softened while he paused, as if readying for the next persuasion. ‘Do you know? She had approached us at the second day festivities, coyly to ask us if now that her sister is married and her English suitor had forsaken the match, if we now had a French prince for her, so that she may honour her sister, and remain apace. Her father had laughed, and not long after her mother - it was that which rather shocked me’

It was a little girl’s boldness that Louis would not know to invent. Margaret smiled, close-lipped but slipping involuntarily like a streak from the fireplace strays to a nearby pot, leaving in its wake a black but warm smudge as its patronage. If god have given her all her father’s spirit, we may harness her boldness to ours.

‘Perceptive?’ Edouard peaked one eye as he slipped back his blue skull cap. He could not image what would have to twist in a fourteen-year-old girl’s eye for anyone to see such moods. In hers he had only known the same that dwelled in all other men’s eyes. It is he who is most like la pucelle Margaret thought a little tinged with guilt.

She approached Edward in his bright brocades with the shift of her faded ones, she cringed at the sound as she regathered her skirts over to her knees, waiting for the dust to settle ‘So what say you my son?’ From the corner of her eyes Louis raised an eyebrow to her father’s fidgeting.

He held them all paused a minute, and then scrounged up his nose. ‘One may be good enough for a pretender’s traitor brother but not for us’ he raised his chin in a way that never before so struck the image of a Henry looking up at mass, and proclaimed ‘we will not be compromised, concede to servants who so tear our country asunder, those who injure our person so with illicit raisings of arms and slander’. My son, our son.

Réné had long slipped off from their side, so he made his way forward to finally speak ‘mais petit-fils, can you not see how Warwick’s acceptance of this marriage would be the strongest declaration to the world that he retracts his statements?’ Such was ever his wont- playing bubbling grandfather, but while gently nodding his head with her son, blue eyes smiling on blue, Margaret wondered if there was another tact she had not quite noticed before.

Edouard slipped away with disappointment and suspicion forming into one of his pouts, little matter as they were all rosebuds to Margaret. His look to her was unshaped and she knew the thought that what stood behind those heavy-lidded eyes remained unsure ‘Édouard, if I may brook those insults levered at me, then you must learn to as well. Your justice must bend to compromise’ perhaps you may transfer some of this Marian devotion to your wife, lose some for me if you will. When she store at the painting again, the flames no longer appeared to flicker, nothing moved but an orange light, muting all with the mark of the day’s descent. She wondered if this new girl’s hair hued the same, held any of the colour’s warmth, would at least for Edouard.

Louis lifted one finger and thrumping it on Edouard’s shoulder, the youth looked up ‘do know something else, you may have an annulment should the union outstretch its use. Without consummation there can be no bind, papal dispensation notwithstanding’

‘She is all but fourteen, it is true’ her father murmured ‘Monsieur appears to have a woman’s heart when it comes to his children. Or so that is the impression you have given me’

Louis nodded ‘I know better than to presume to know his mind, but he readily shows himself willing for a delay. Of what cause I do not know’

‘Ah now the dog insults us!’ Edouard blurted

‘Hushhh’ Margaret did not hide her grimace ‘he is now to be your father-in-law, lay him before you as a shield, for soon we may have no more swords’

Find the rest of the story on AO3… (link in the reblog)

[fiveyearsthepodcast]

Crew Aesthetics

Jans

Angels with thousands of eyes and wings made of shimmering neon lights, is that blood or is that wine, butterflies pinned under glass like perfect brides frozen in time, barely held together journals full of words and ink splatters, singing until you can almost pretend you aren't dying in a factory, dancing until your feet bleed and your heart is beating so fast it's still, soliquies delivered to no one, hoarding crappy costume jewelry and rocks and broken glass, floating scraps of lace saved from the trash, black stockings, talking until your voice is gone just on the chance it will save someone anyone, sickness and insomnia, ribbon neckties, shaky cold hands, die pretty

Zhenya

The shells of old beetles sewn into dresses and ground into medicine, knives with curses engraved into the blades, scuffed boots with little tin beads strung on the laces, shoving flowers into the fire so it will smell nicer, venom green and nightshade purple on black, aresenic colored aprons, old stiff paintbrushes, homemade devotional posters, hiking through the mountains and not speaking to anyone for a week, claw like fingernails, mushrooms and berries gathered up into leather satchels, being poisoned honey, smoking things you know you shouldn't, starling feathers tucked into your clothes

Keone

Acid wash tie dye jeans, pockets full of screws, notes of half remembered concepts scrawled onto scraps of paper and never to be truly explored, robots being more comfortable than people, mathematic equations that are pages long being done in your head, a rosary under your pillow even though you don't know what for, Jesus is TOTALLY a swear word, neon blue lipstick, being a lady doesn't mean you don't swear, worn coveralls, using pencils to put up your hair, scrunchies and slouch socks

Hannah

Beakers of bright green chemicals and powders on metal mixing plates, cameos, handmade oil stained packages sent to CEOs with 'love, freedom' scrawled on the side, oversized suit jackets with secret pockets, golden apples, silver buttons, hares running through the flames, hour long rants about how Bigfoot is definitely real, breaking things and fixing them, being the 'sane' twin simply because you don't talk as much, watching your girl give someone a black eye and understanding what it means to see g-d, pastel shmatas, complicated braids, half undone shirts, live fast

Captain Baker

Old history archives, gymnastics tournaments where each contestant glitters like a jewel, private antiwar letters, soft yellow hijabs, earrings shaped like records, briefcases, "oh I know a guy", chasing justice, chasing truth, laying in bed and staring at the ceiling and wondering what's next, unlearning lies and relearning life, long calls to your sister, textbooks laying on your coffee table full of corrections, nice walking dresses, bold suit pants, polished oxfords

Nadia

Glowing illuminated manuscripts, swords that can hide in your pocket and still pierce bone, a wild frenzy under the full moon, a heart ripped out of a chest and cooked till medium rare, rejection and compassion, am I villain now? if so I never want to be a hero, bad puns, worse lies, green ribbon chokers, dark red velvet, puffed sleeves, low cut necklines, black translucent silk, red blood on red desert sand, golden eyes and golden rings, side burns and workers tans and calloused hands still being beauty,

Bayzli

A quiet house in the woods, worn copies of tragedies and comedies, beaten up copper thimbles, bright red leather boots, lion mane hair, extensive meal planners, college burnout, soft shirts, atrocious plaid pants, flowers and ribbons tied into fresh washed hair, brass earrings, bloody knuckles and old burn scars, let me be a wall, let me be a shield, just don't make me watch a tragedy, let me be gentle even so, cooking is a sign of love, a simple life is sometimes the best life

[elizasiembida]

BEST DESIGNS OF 2019

Dua Lipa’s cover art for her single titled “Don’t Start Now” has a very vintage feel to it. The outfit in itself along with the hairstyle bring us back to the 90s. The grain effect over the design adds to the vintage experience. The retro look is something that started to come back in the recent months and was cleverly put together to create a nicely flowing single cover.  

Another album that uses the grain effect to its advantage is the “JACKBOYS” album by JACKBOYS & Travis Scott. Because the cover is not focused on one single object, the design depends on the colors used. The dim colors of the landscape take up most of the cover. The contrast between the sky and the cars is not too forceful, which allows for the neon yellow ski masks to be the pop of color.

PARTYNEXTDOOR’s single titled “News” reflects upon his music genre, which is Alternative R&B. The cover is very calm; depicting clouds in the sky. The subtle hints of orange in the clouds and the “OVO SOUND” type in the left corner mixed with the dim blue give the cover a cozy feel. To not make this design too boring, the bold white font gives it a much more modern feel.

The Weeknd’s single “Heartless” focuses on the artist as the main object. Although the photograph in itself is blurry, we are still able to recognize the object. While some of the facial features aren’t as distinguishable, we’re able to tell the emotion that the artist is feeling. The design is mostly made up of warm tones, which works well with the overall meaning of the song.

The most intriguing design due to its originality has to be Kanye West’s album titled “JESUS IS KING.” Although, very risky, due to its bare white background, the album cover focuses on a blue vinyl. We often identify blue with trust and wisdom, and since the album is focused on Jesus, it sounds like the right match. In a crowd of other album covers, this one definitely pops out.

For albums that are focused on meaningful messages and introduce the artist to their audience, simplicity is key. Roddy Ricch’s “Please Excuse Me for Being Antisocial” album is a perfect example of an uncomplicated, yet appealing design. The use of a black and white filter and absence of a busy background allow for the audience to focus on the object, which is the artist. The chosen font looks a lot like handwriting and goes along with the album’s message.

Movie posters that are not overly complicated and are rich in color are the ones that appeal to me the most. The “Queen & Slim” poster uses the black and white filter to emphasize the vintage feel of the movie. The bold yellow font nicely wraps around the main characters, while also leaving space to play around with perspective and cover two of the letters with Slim’s foot.

Another successful design is the “Us” movie poster. It’s very simple, but also mysterious. The inclusion of scissors in the middle of the design is a great way to balance out the contrast between the deep red and the gold. It’s also a recurring object seen in the movie, so it holds important significance.

Similarly with the “Velvet Buzzsaw,” the poster is very simple, yet attention grabbing. Something that the designers of the poster did well is the focus on the dripping red spray paint on the white frame positioned in the middle. It serves as good advertisement for the movie, as it keeps it mysterious and makes the audience want to watch it.

The “Joker” poster uses the the colors to its advantage as well. There is a  smooth transition from light green into black as we move up the poster. We see the Joker himself in the design. The colors of the poster even out, as the contour of the character’s face goes along with the top of the poster.

[depechemodespiritera]

Sep 27, 2017 – Phoenix, Arizona – AK-Chin Pavilion

Depeche Mode Never Let Us Down at Ak-Chin Pavilion

Take off your hat, sir.”

I've come to enjoy the security theater that happens outside Ak-Chin Pavilion every time I go see a show there. The security staff at Ak-Chin is really committed to their roles. Like the finest of ham actors, they know not to let an opportune moment pass them by.

Warpaint are already playing inside the venue. Their dancey yet moody music spills out into the parking lot. A swarm of black-clad revelers are amassing at the entrance, eager to get their Wednesday night goth club stomp on. I'm standing behind a gentleman wearing a blue baseball cap, who's rather nonplussed that the security guard is asking him to take his hat off.

“Dude, what could I possibly have under this?,” Blue Hat asks. The guard shrugs and flashes him an “I know, right?” grin. But the guard still insists he take it off. I imagine Blue Hat plucking off his cap, revealing a razor blade Scotch-taped to the bald spot on the top of his head. But alas. He was contraband-free. 

Walking past the cops lined up at the entrance, the mood changes instantly into one of conviviality inside the venue. People look stoked to be here, more so than at most shows I've been to. Perhaps it's because the crowd skews older – the average age here has to be early 40s. People move about, buying beers and merch, with purpose: They had to pay babysitters so they could be here, they had to take the day off work tomorrow, so you can bet your ass they're gonna groove to some dark jams tonight and get lit.

By the time I get to my seat, the quartet of ladies in Warpaint are wrapping up their set. A set of screens that look like windows loom behind them, with smoke curling around their sides and lights flashing purple, blue, and yellow across the stage.

The handful of songs I get to hear them play leave a powerful impression, though. Tracks like “New Song” take their ghostly vocals and moody atmospherics and give them driving rhythms and pop energy. For a band that sounds so spectral and introverted on record, they have the volume and the presence to hold a stadium crowd's attention.

The stage is cleared for Depeche Mode.

A tall elevated stage/backdrop is set behind the instruments, including an array of guitars, keyboards, and a peace-sign decorated drumkit. Throbbing electronic instrumentals kick and snap through their preshow. When the lights cut out and the fuzzy strains of The Beatles' “Revolution” starts playing, the crowd leaps to their feet. It's only fitting that the first thing we see onstage is feet: a pair of cartoon white legs, striding purposefully forward on a projection screen hanging over the stage.

As the band enters, the backdrop comes to life with a brightly colorful Jackson Pollockian splatter image. They begin playing “Going Backwards” and Dave Gahan enters, dressed in black.

Throughout the entire show, Gahan is the only one onstage without an instrument. But he doesn't need one – more than his voice, his body is his instrument.

He sashays and chicken-walks and spins and struts onstage. You can tell that he must have studied the great rock 'n' roll frontmen the way guitarists study Hendrix and Clapton – he had all their moves down cold. The Bowie Thin White Duke poses, the Pete Townshend windmill, the messianic Bono lean, the Mick elbow-on-the-hip, the cock rock crotch-grab (a move nobody could miss because the Jumbotron cameraman lingered on it — he knows that you gotta give the people what they want).

Speaking of Bono: Seeing Gahan with his slicked back hair, leather vest, and Claude Rains mustache made me wonder if he was one of the models that Bono used for creating his decadent Fly character during the Achtung Baby/Zooropa years.

Onstage, Gahan embodied a kind of sensuality and cheerful sleaziness that you don't see much of anymore in modern music – few people have the charm, the chops, or the chutzpah to pull it off. But Gahan is so good at it that it's criminal that nobody's cast him as the Master of Ceremonies in a post-punk production of Cabaret yet.

The band worked their way through their later work for the first half of the set, supplementing impassioned live performances with video projections and backdrop changes.

During “So Much Love,” a video of Depeche Mode as a trio appeared behind them, playing the song in black and white as they stood in front of a chainlink fence. Later on, Gahan would appear onscreen as an astronaut walking around town as the group tore through “Cover Me.”

The best multimedia moment of the night came during “In Your Room.” Starting off with the image of a woman reclining on a velvet couch getting felt up by a dude with a mohawk, it turned into a ballet. The two of them danced in a crumbling apartment, their bodies spinning and intertwining and breaking away as Depeche Mode played their cacophonous tune.

That was perhaps the most surprising thing about their set. Depeche Mode are fierce live, far louder and rocking than you'd ever imagine from listening to their records. They even strike some interesting stage pictures, like the way Martin Gore would sometimes play a guitar shaped like a sparkly silver star or how they introduced “World in My Eyes” by having purple lights overhead shake and tremble like the beams of lights were having a seizure.

After “Cover Me” ended, Gahan headed offstage for a bit. In an interesting departure, Gore took up vocal duties for the next two songs: “A Question of Lust” and “Home.” The former was a highlight of the set. Backed only by a spare keyboard arrangement, Gore's plaintive and moving vocals inspired the crowd to singalong. As great as it was to see Gahan showboat, commanding the stage like a goth Joel Grey, it was a refreshing change of pace to see the more reserved Gore seize the stage with such a different approach.

Gahan returned to the stage with “Where's the Revolution” (a bit too heavy-handed a song for my tastes) and “Wrong.”

Following those numbers, Depeche Mode closed out their set with four all-time classics: “Everything Counts,” “Stripped,” “Enjoy The Silence,” and “Never Let Me Down Again.”

“Everything Counts” inspired a singalong as fervent as the one that broke out to “A Question of Lust” with people shouting along to “everything counts in large amounts” as the band made sprightly video game sounds onstage. The cameraman swooped around the crowd, showing people looking positively jubilant and dancing to the music. One lady even held up a license plate that read DM DVOT.

“Enjoy the Silence” stood out with a series of arresting images of neon-lit animals onscreen — cows, pigs, chickens, dogs, and rabbits. The song dissolved into a synthy, noisy jam as it lead into “Never Let Me Down Again.” Had the band ended the show right after that point, it already would have been a pretty great gig.

But then there was the encore.

I normally hate encores. They're often so perfunctory: “Here's two more songs that you knew we were gonna play!” Credit to Depeche Mode. Their encore was the rare one that dazzled. It was basically a second mini-set.

The encore opened with another Gore vocal turn – this time for “Somebody.” Gahan came back on to do “Walking In My Shoes” as a video of a trans person getting dressed for a day out on the town played behind them.

The band played a subdued, wintry cover of Bowie's “Heroes.” A black flag rippled on a white screen as they paid their respects to one of their biggest influences. The band, for a moment, sounded like they had morphed into New Order — early New Order circa “Ceremony,” when they were still trying to shake off the ghost of Joy Division.

Depeche Mode ended with the one-two punch of “I Feel You” and “Personal Jesus.”

For a band famed for their synths and keyboards as poster boys of New Wave, many of the evening's most memorable moments came from guitar licks. As much as “Personal Jesus” is defined by Gahan's insinuating vocals and the electronics twitching in the background, it's Gore's weird, loose-spring guitar riff that makes it such a classic tune.

It was the perfect song to end a night of music that made me want to reach out and touch faith. Or at the very least, it made me want to lose some weight so I could pull off wearing a leather vest the way Dave Gahan can.

[stevedonnellyfaith-blog]

The Coconut Monkey (Post 121) 12-31-15

My younger brother Sean has told my children several times that I have carted around the same odd five or six personal possessions for the last forty years. Of course that is an exaggeration, but I don’t have large collections of stamps, coins, beer cans, Star Trek figurines, or Beanie Babies that I mindlessly transport from domicile to domicile. I have some few items that remind me of Pam or my grandparents, some junior high woodworking projects, some mementos of my naval service and a coconut monkey given to me as a Christmas gift by my younger brother Dan when we were in elementary school.

We didn’t start out giving each other gifts at all, but when we got into grade school my mother set aside some money for us each to buy each other presents.  The budget was small as four boys times six presents can run into a lot of time and money during a season where mom’s routinely have little of either.  At the time we started the present swap, my sister Amy was still being fed Gerber products with a spoon, so she wasn’t shopping, but I’m sure managing a toddler along with four older brothers just added to the chaos.

Anyway things got easier once we got old enough to have paper routes, and we had Christmas tips added to the kiddie.  We could also walk around a mall by ourselves. These days, most people would probably not cut a tribe of kids that age loose in a mall by themselves, but those were different times with fewer known crazies and a gun shootout at Spenser’s Gifts, Orange Julius or Kay Bee Toys was something that no one would have considered. 

 Having us split up throughout the mall was never my parent’s intention to begin with.  Usually our dispersal just sort of happened, although all of us boys would immediately make off and ditch the family whenever my dad headed into a book store.  Our entire house was full of books and there was nothing more boring than watching our father stand in the same spot for fifteen minutes staring at a row of bindings, reaching out and selecting one, opening the book to read the jacket, closing the tome and returning it to its approximate position on the same shelf. We all knew that when Dad headed towards Walden’s, it was time to peel off the back of the formation and escape up the nearest escalator.

Because we all usually walked around the mall in one direction or the other, we would usually collect again naturally as we collided like ions attaching themselves to a larger molecules.  Usually brother Dan was the last to be found. Sometimes we would have to split the main molecule back up into smaller search parties to locate him from his several peculiar haunts throughout the mall, but eventually he would be found usually by whoever was staking out Hot Sam’s in the food court. Dan loved candy bars, powdered donuts and anything available in a mall food court so he was bound to turn up there eventually.

Dan was easy to buy presents for as his taste was pretty low-brow.  He liked decorated mirrors, velvet art, KISS memorabilia, and tee-shirts with bad jokes – I liked those too.  Usually you could shop for Dan in Spencer’s without fail, except you had to time your stop in that shop very specifically so as not to run into Dan himself or any of the other family members shopping for Dan.  It was usually OK to kind of case Spencer’s entrance from another store like Chess King and wait until Dan’s glucose dropped to an unusually low level, maybe 100, at which time Dan would book out of there in search of some cotton candy or caramel popcorn.  Then it was OK to rush into Spencer’s quick and buy him a Smokey and the Bandit lager stein, tee-shirt depicting the orangutan from Every Which Way But Loose making an obscene gesture or whatever item you last saw Dan pick up and put down.

 My brother spent a lot of quality time in that store, which made it very unsurprising to me when I opened up my gift from Dan one Christmas and discovered I was the proud owner of the a coconut rudely carved into the likeness of Curious George the chimpanzee of storybook fame.  I was less than delighted.  I was heavily into board games of all sorts: Clue, Risk, Yahtzee, Life, etc.  My brother had purchased me something that he liked instead of what I liked.  It represented a total failure of empathy on his part.  He had in no ways paid any attention to my Christmas List.  It was a bummer.

 But I kept the monkey.  It followed me to High School in Boston and was a decoration for my room in the family Ohio house during my four years at Annapolis.  Once I graduated, the coconut monkey was packed into my little chest of eight or so most personal belongings that followed me into matrimony and life in Virginia, Kentucky, Carolina, Indiana and California. Finally, the coconut monkey has returned to Ohio with me and sits on a book case in Stephen’s room where the décor suits the much-traveled simian.  When I happen in there each evening to rake up my son’s laundry, I often notice George staring down from his gargoyle perch and think of my brother Dan both as he was at ten and as he is now, a protestant minister in his late forties who I call for counsel whenever I need to make a difficult decision.

It is odd how the monkey was at one time a very imperfect gift from my brother who desired the monkey for his own; Dan collected monkeys of all sorts.  But the monkey became something else for me, a touchstone that can transport me back Chutes and Ladders style passing by much pain and difficulty to my childhood where we were innocent, or as innocent as a bunch of boys could be who would ditch their family to search for the taste of illicit corn-dogs and some time to weigh the value of purchasing a second lava lamp against the marginal utility of owning yet another black light poster.

 I believe that we are all imperfect gift givers of various sorts.  We give each other love … well sort of anyway.  We buy each other gifts and hope that the return gift is that secret thing that we have had our eye on.  We buy our spouse the thing that she has been hinting at, but botch the brand or color. Sick of missing the mark with the kids, we get a gift card to a place where they can pick out their own electronics, clothing or music.  Sometimes we hit the mark and there is joy; other times we get a shake of the head and toleration.  Infrequently, there are tears of a good kind or the other.

We are also gift givers to Jesus, and the Son of Man truly does have everything.  We offer Him our prayers, our gold, our frankincense and our myrrh.  Our gifts to Him please Him although He wants for nothing. He does desire our love, which our sacrificial gifts demonstrate.  Our special gifts to our spouses, children and family members are really just another aspect of our practice in love which brings us closer to Him.  Sometimes we give an imperfect gift like the coconut monkey that I received so many years ago, but with Christ even a gift that is imperfect is transformed.