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straighttohellbuddy · 3 years ago

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to show you the stars (and win your heart) {Wilbur Soot}

Request: This is really simple and no where near as interesting as your writing. But, what if the reader has a rooftop spot they go to a lot to think or draw or whatever. And one day they get the news that they've lost their job so they go there but a really lanky guy with curly brown hair is already there. Idk, not my best but it's somethin

Summary: Five moments after you move to Brighton, and the one where it finally feels like home. // (Five moments online after Wilbur Soot meets his new neighbour on the roof, and the one where he finally introduces them to his audience.)

Need to Know: They/Them. Some discussions of unemployment, a bit of possible second hand embarrassment. Reader has no idea about Wilbur's online activities. Fluff.

A/N: 5075 words. I LOVE THIS REQUEST!!! My life has been kind of falling apart lately but Ive been working on this on and off for a week or so. So I kind of tweaked the prompt, I hope you don't mind, so instead of the reader having just lost their job, it's the aftermath of having lost their job and having to relocate to a new city (because that's literally what happened to me), and adapting to the new city and meeting Wilbur while settling into the city, you know?? I hope you like it, it brought me great comfort. Written on my phone and unedited.

The air smells different here. On top of the building? Brighton? On the other side of your life going absolutely tits up? Where is here, really; it's such a relative concept. But the air smells different. Different to your old home. Different to your old town. Different to your old life. Not good necessarily, just different -

The door to the roof creaks something dreadful as it opens. You're focus is caught, naturally, and your pensive expression turns upon a surprised stranger.

"Sorry," tall, brunette, pale but not freckled enough for them to be visible to you at this short distance. He hovers in the doorway but ultimately joins you on the roof. When he lets go of the door, there's that noise again, that awful, attention grabbing noise.

"No, it's fine," you're not sure why he apologised, or why you're accepting it. Maybe the noise of the door. It's like the two of you are locked in a stalemate; he clearly wasn't expecting anyone to be up here.

"Am I in your spot?" You ask, already getting up.

"No! No, uh, no," he shakes his head, and he apologises again, this time gesturing to the city beyond the edge of the roof. Maybe he feels guilty for drawing your attention in the first place, is urging you that it's safe to go back to whatever you were doing.

Giving an awkward nod, you turn back to the city, to breathing this new air and new life. Behind you the sound of his sneakers against the pavement gets marginally fainter as he finds a spot for himself a good distance away from you.

"It's a good roof," you're not sure what possess you to say it, voice rising above the faint wind to make sure you're heard by this stranger sharing your silence.

"What?"

"It's a good roof," you repeat yourself without a hint of hesitation. You feel like an utter fool, at least until his reply comes.

"'spose it is."

You head back inside. The door's creak, as always, begs for attention, and gets it; glancing over your shoulder you meet the stranger's gaze. He nods at you with the faintest smile, but then his attention his back on the horizon. He doesn't watch you leave.

New air. New city. New neighbours.

----

(There is nothing about Wilbur Soot's next stream that would differentiate it from any other in any significant way.

It doesn't matter, you don't know who Wilbur Soot is.)

----

Music flows from the flat above yours, and you find out in the best possibly way. It's not that it's loud at all hours, soaking through the floor to wake you up, there's nothing to complain about, instead, with the window open for the sweet, Spring breeze, the faintest guitar notes carry on the wind, as if from an adjacent open window. It's not enough to pick out a proper melody, it's not even enough that you can still hear it if you move away from your window.

It doesn't even sound particularly rehearsed, it almost sounds like it's being rehearsed. Alone; an in-progress melody.

Encore, you want to cheer when the music grows quiet and the window slides shut, but the musician wouldn't hear you. Every part of this building begs for the attention it's occupants don't seem to want. Closing doors, closing windows, louder always than a hello in the hall.

Still, you keep your window open.

And sometimes the music comes back.

At least this new building sounds better than your old one.

----

(It's been a few months since Wilbur's played Soft Boy for anyone online, whether that be his own stream or for his friends. It's March now, well into Spring, and Tommy's stream is as good a place as any. Wilbur himself isn't live, he's just on a headset at home, desk by his open window where the street below is for once mercifully quiet. Still, it's not ready for proper release, he has other priorities, maybe he wants to workshop it a little more before getting it properly produced. But the fans and his friends enjoy it.

You, of course, are ignorant to all this context; still you don't know who Wilbur Soot is.)

----

The stranger visits the roof at night as often as you do. Rugged up at night despite the days growing ever warmer, you grant yourself a reprieve from job hunting if only to take peace in the stars. At night the horizon sometimes becomes difficult to discern, stars dancing dangerously close to the night light of the city.

It's different again at night, a new kind of night that you're still getting used to. But the creak of the door is familiar. The stranger's apology is familiar. The way he sits a bit closer to you each time, or you to him if he's there first, that's all becoming familiar too.

"I'm Will," he offers the second time the two of you meet. He's still a fair distance away; it will be weeks before the two of you are side by side. You introduce yourself and he nods, "you moved in not long ago, right?" Something about the lights of the city make him glow.

You nod. He smiles.

"It's a good view," he looks back out to the city, and you take a long moment before you look away from him. You like the way he smiles; you like these moments on the roof, the ones that have passed and the ones yet to come. You're not quite sure why you prefer the moments with him in them rather than the moments alone on the roof without.

"'spose it is," and though you're looking out to the city, you don't really see it.

----

(Recently, Wilbur has been streaming earlier in the day, at least for him. Not every stream, of course, maybe once a week. He seems disappointed when it gets too late after he loses track of time.

"Alright, Cinderella," Quackity scoffs after Wilbur comments that he has to go, that it's later than he realised, "abandoned me," he plays up being hurt, "what is it? What's more important than me, Wilbur?"

"Don't be like that, Q," Wilbur responds dotingly, "I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"How?"

"I'll DM you how," Wilbur's voice goes low and exaggeratedly flirty, giving an over the top wink to his camera, "you can't see it but I'm winking suggestively at the camera," he adds for Quackity's sake, who at seems placated by the exchange. Then, Wilbur finally explains; "I've got a friend who keeps a strange schedule, I'm- I'm just trying to work around them right now." And Quackity finally gives his blessing, which makes Wilbur laugh.

You don't see the quiet sigh of relief he breathes when he gets to the roof and sees you there. Even if you did, you wouldn't even begin to know why. Well known internet celebrity Wilbur Soot has started scheduling his work is in the hopes that he'll see you more often... Not that you know who Wilbur Soot is.)

----

The stranger Will has an office and you don't even have a job. Still. All this you learn while going for a job in the same building as his office, apparently. Except that it's late in the afternoon and you're just leaving your interview and he's just arriving and he seems just as confused as you.

"Do you work here?"

"Hopefully," you answer, and something about his look of genuine interest has something stirring in your chest, "I just had an interview," you elaborated, not wanting to admit to yourself that this single moment, in which Will tells you he's also hoping for the best for you, has you more flustered than the interview itself.

When you ask if he works here too, he candidly admits he does, but is cagey about the details. He's not part of company you'd just interviewed with, his office is his own.

"Will I see you on the roof tonight?" He asks, catching you completely off guard.

"What time?" Thankfully at least your mouth works faster than your brain, "I'm headed home now." Then, as he's checking the time on his phone you blurt out - "have you- will you have eaten before then?" And he looks at you with confusion, "I could make some food, if you're working. I could make dinner for when we hang out on the roof."

Will absolutely beams.

Something about his smile has your heartbeat stuttering in your chest. It hits you in this moment that Will genuinely enjoys your company on the roof just as much as you do his.

He asks you how late is too late, and when you let him know, he nods and suggests and hour before then. How does his smile seem to get wider? There's a look in his eyes that's all warm and fond; did that always happen when he smiled? How had you not noticed it before?

"That's very kind of you, I can see about getting some kind of dessert for us on my way back," he offers, and you try to waive off the suggestion but he laughs softly, "I never said it'd be gourmet, I was thinking more along the lines of something from a petrol station, I'm not sure what else would be open; any preferences?"

"For petrol station sweets?" And even though you're grinning, you're clearly endeared.

"For petrol station sweets," Will confirms with a nod. It takes you a moment to think it over before giving a few suggestions as options, and he takes a long moment to focus on remembering them, repeating them back to you to confirm.

Then he tells you he's looking forward to it, and he sounds so sincere, and the feeling in your chest is frighteningly hopeful. This is a new feeling in your not so new town that you weren't anticipating.

You grin back.

"Me too."

----

(Close to the end of April, there is a day in which several members of the DreamSMP go live together for a lighthearted, mostly lore-free stream. These creators included, among a few others, Wilbur Soot who happened to be in notably high spirits.

"Am I not allowed to be in a good mood, Tommy?" Wilbur jokingly demanded when Tommy pointed it out.

"No, it's freaking me out," Tommy didn't even hesitate to play along with the bit, "do I have to bully you? Do we have to bully you?"

"I think... we should," Ranboo agrees after a moment of deliberation, holding back his laughter.

"Tommy, I love you man but you need to come up with new go-to solutions," Wilbur responds blithely, "and I'm pretty sure you couldn't actually bully me in any way that mattered," he turns his nose up, wearing a wide grin, "I've got dinner on the roof to look forward to, nothing can ruin today."

"Can I try?" Tommy deadpans without missing a beat, and Wilbur breaks into surprised laughter almost immediately.

"Tommy," Philza just sounds faintly exasperated, and Wilbur can't stop laughing.

His friends and his content are his entire life, and he's acutely aware of how lucky he is to be a content creator, the opportunities he's been afforded, so he keeps it to himself that the best part of that night wasn't the filming, it was coming back to seeing you smiling on the roof of the flat.

Because it didn't take him long to figure out that you had no idea who Wilbur Soot was; every time he remembers this, he lets himself enjoy it quietly, letting himself get close to someone who, for the first time in a long time, has no preconceived notions of him. You like him for him, and one day he hopes he can tell you how much that means to him.)

----

You're surprised at how long it's taken you to ask what floor he lives on, and even more surprised to learn that he's on the floor above you.

It's been a very long day, instinctively looking forward to heading to the roof at sunset after finishing a trial shift that you're not completely confident went well.

"Are you the one with the tiny, little pot plants on your windowsill?" He asks, which surprises you.

"Uh, yeah I am, they were gifts from when I moved into my last place," part of you wants to ask how he knew, but somehow it makes sense. Of course he's seen the pot plants, of course he knew they'd be yours.

There's a pleasant lull in the conversation before you think to ask -

"Are the walls thin?"

You don't even for a second consider that there may be some suggestive implications until Will squints at you in confusion. There's a parcel of fish and chips open between you both, and he had been picking through the chips trying to find the most crisp.

"Not as far as I've noticed," he pauses, before adding pointedly, "floor seems pretty soundproof too." He's too invested in figuring out what you're implying to go back to food, at least not immediately.

"No, no!" Realising your mistake your smacked your hand to your mouth out of embarrassment. Wide eyed, you find yourself waving with one hand trying to chew and swallow your own food faster to clarify, "no, sorry, nothing weird, I swear," you laugh awkwardly, finally finding your voice, "I just wondered if you knew who lived in the flat directly above mine, they play guitar, I thought that you might have heard- that it might help identify -" but Will's expression has turned unreadable, and again find yourself realising your misstep only after the fact yet again. Immediately you begin apologising.

"Sorry, I- I must seem so creepy I'm so sorry, I should just go up and knock on their door instead of eavesdropping and asking you, I'm sorry Will -"

"Is it good?"

Your mouth snaps closed, and when you look to Will you're surprised to see him looking genuinely curious. He picks up a chip and gestures like he's prompting you to answer.

"What?"

"Do you think they play good music?" He asks again, tone free of any kind of judgement. It takes you a moment to process the shift in the mood.

"I don't recognise any of it," you murmur, trying to properly order your thoughts, "I don't hear it a lot, only very occasionally, when I'm sitting next to my window if it's open, which is why I think it's the person above me..."

Will blinks at you, eyebrows raised, still waiting for a proper answer.

"I like it," you nod, ducking your face to hide your embarrassed smile, "I keep wanting to call out 'encore'," you chuckle a little self consciously at the admission, "but that feels like crossing a line."

"You are very sweet," you hear Will mumble, his tone endeared, "and you have no idea who it is?"

"Every time I think about going up and knocking on their door I feel like a creep," you sighed, "which, I mean, given the situation I definitely am, and it gets worse literally every day. It's not like telling them at this point would do any good."

"It might," he offers.

"I admire your optimism but I'll keep my dignity while I still can."

"I think it'll go better than you'd think," he muses, doing a bad job of fighting back a smile.

"Oh yeah," you roll your eyes, "just knock and admit," perhaps your patience is wearing thin after a long day as you put on a mockingly saccharine voice, "you play such lovely music! How do I know this? Well I've been listening in for months like a stalker, just downstairs, sometimes I'll even make a cup of tea and pretend like it's my own private concert!" You let go of the act as you pitch yourself back to lay on the roof, scowling at the sky, "I'd rather die," you huffed.

"Months," he murmurs, almost awed and barely audible, before asking, "your own private concert? That's kind of adorable, honestly," he tells you, sounding frankly delighted.

"Oh shut it, Will," you sulked, crossing your arms over your chest.

"You're very sweet," he reiterates in that same soft tone as before.

"You're biased," you roll your eyes.

"Of course, that goes without saying," Will answers blithely, and you can hear his shit eating grin in his voice, "considering I'm the musician who lives above you."

You know he's watching you, he's waiting for your reaction.

"Will you know if this is true that I'm never going to recover from the embarrassment, right?" You manage, as level as you're able, your body stiff as an absolute board with tension.

"Nothing to be embarrassed about," he assured you, though in this moment it wasn't exactly effective.

"You're pulling my leg, aren't you?"

"Would you like me to prove it to you?" He offers easily. When you finally sit back up, clearly apprehensive, there's nothing but that familiar, warm kind of fondness you find in his smile. He gives you time to process, he doesn't push you, doesn't grow impatient or irate as you scrutinise him. Finally, you sit back, as if done with your analysis of him and were still unsure of what to make of all this information.

"Come on," he says gently, getting to his feet and offering you his hand, "let me play you something I've been working on, I need a second opinion." Warily, quietly, you take his hand.

The shock wears off. He makes you tea. You peer out his window to see your little row of pot plants just below. Then, just as he promised, he plays you something that you're already familiar with despite it never having been released.

Front row seats to your own private concert.

He turns faintly pink when you do in fact ask for an encore, but he can't stop smiling.

----

(Lovejoy, the band which Wilbur Soot fronts, releases their first EP 'Are You Alright?' on May 8, and it almost immediately begins to trend across various charts, including internationally. It's unequivocally a success, and is being plugged online by fans and friends alike.

Wilbur, however, is blindsided by the text he receives from you in the week that follows the release. If you were ever going to find out what he did for a living, it would have been this week, instead:

[interview went well, I've got my fingers crossed, thank u for the luck xx and omg literally in such a good mood I mistook a song on the radio as one of yours THAT WOULD BE SO COOL TOO HEAR THO!!]

[hey actually if you're up for it do you wanna call? I'm all high on adrenaline and there's some stuff I wanna talk about when I feel like I'm on top of the world 😅💖]

And Wilbur, who was due to start streaming in only a few minutes, pushed back from his desk and pressed Call. On the other end of the line you're bright, brimming with excitement and enthusiasm and confidence and -

"I've been wanting to ask you for ages, actually even before I found out you were the talented musician living above me, that was just a bonus, and might be the reason I'm calling, because that song I heard was so familiar -" you're rambling, something Wilbur rarely heard you do. When he asks if you're okay, you grow quiet, "I'm nervous."

"About what?"

"Misreading things. Fucking with our friendship."

Oh.

"I have it on pretty good authority that you have nothing to be nervous about," Wilbur assures, a warmth flourishing in his chest as he hears your breathy, relieved chuckle.

"I'd like to get a drink with you some time," you tell him with a newfound confidence, "or see a movie, or a band, or anything. A date. Away from our building." There's so much excitement in your voice it's infectious, Wilbur finds himself grinning.

"I'd like that very much," then, after a long moment, he clears his throat, "do you remember what the band was called?"

"What do you mean?"

"On the radio, you said you thought you heard my song; what band was it?"

"Oh," you pause, considering, "not quite sure. Love-something?"

"Ah."

"Ah, what? Wilbur I don't like that tone, ah what?"

"Ah, I might have to tell you something."

"Christ, what now?"

"I'm at work; if you want I can pick up take out after and we can have dinner together."

"Are you going to tell me what you do for a living yet?"

"Do you trust me?" He asks softly, and there's a long pause, in which you sigh.

"Of course I do, Will," you answer honestly, "always, you know that."

"I know," he agrees fondly, "and that means a lot to me. I promise I'll explain it all tonight, I promise." Softer now, he smiles, "I hope you know how glad I am to have you in my life," he hesitates for the barest moment before quickly adding, "and I'm very proud of you for getting the job."

"Thanks, Will," he can hear you smiling, "I can't wait to see you tonight."

Five minutes later, Wilbur Soot begins his geoguesser stream. There's something different, the vibe has changed, but no-one can put their finger on why.

There's no outward difference, but there's electricity in the air. When you finally find out the truth about Wilbur Soot, when you see the VOD for the stream, see how big he smiles right as he signs off, you will call him a sap.

----

Your tiny, little pot plants sit nicely on Wilbur's windowsill. It takes a while, but slowly your things begin to migrate from your apartment upstairs to his. Before coming to Brighton, you'd paired down your things, and so it's nice to find space for yourself in his apartment, in his life. It doesn't feel empty here, it doesn't feel sparse and new.

And Wilbur? It seemed like things with him just kept getting better. You took every chance you got to hype him up, endlessly proud of him and all he was doing with his online and musical careers.

When you meet his band, they all greet you with a warm familiarity, and Wilbur spends the first half hour bright red as they jump at the chance to tell you that they feel like they already know you. However this makes you turn all sappy and endeared, and it takes all of your energy to stay even semi professional and not act as enamoured with your boyfriend as you felt.

While you end up meeting and getting along with his family, the thing that gets you properly nervous is when he asks if you want to get lunch with his friends Phil and Kristen. You know the family-dynamic bit by now, so of course you say yes; you need them to like you so much.

Both Phil and Kristen hug you when they first meet you. It's like they can tell you're nervous, their words, their tone, everything about them is gentle. At one point, Wilbur and Phil get caught up talking about some upcoming streams they're planning, and while you're excited to watch, their discussion goes over your head for the time being. Almost as if by instinct, you look to Kristen, as if to gauge how you should be reacting, but she's looking back at you, expression endeared.

"This is still new to me," you admit, shuffling your chair a bit closer to her as to not interrupt the other two. She laughs softly, but the sound is kind and understanding.

"It gets more coherent in time," she assured, to which you ducked your head to hide your faintly embarrassed expression.

"I understand all of the words individually, but this streaming stuff is so far out of my usual realm," carefully, you look up to watch how animated Wilbur is getting as he talks over his plans for the DSMP stream for the following night, running it past Phil, "tell me I'm not weird for watching old VODs in my spare time to try and figure out how it all works, and what's happening in that Minecraft thing. I know he's doing cool shit, I'm just trying to figure out how to properly appreciate it."

"You're not weird, that's adorable," Kristen is grinning from ear to ear, which served to brighten your own smile, "you'll get it in no time."

Wilbur looks over for a moment, practically glowing with enthusiasm, hands raised mid-expressive gesture, and catches your eye. His expression softens as he seems to briefly forget what he was saying; Kristen looks between the two of you and fondly shakes her head.

It's easier to hug them goodbye than it was to say hello, no nerves as you tell them honestly it was good to meet them, that you look forward to seeing them again soon. Something eases in your chest when they both return the sentiment in kind, genuine in their affection.

"Home?" Wilbur asks as he unlocks the car, and you pause as you turn the word over in your mind. He's said it before a million times, but somehow this time is different, this time feels real. Home.

"Yeah," you say softly, sounding a little dazed as you climb into the passenger seat.

"You okay there?" Tone light, he's smiling as he asks, and you turn, unable to stop the grin as it makes its way across your face.

"I love you," you tell him like you can't quite believe it yourself, though maybe it's more the fact that- "I can't believe I've never said that before."

"What do you mean you can't believe you've never said it before?" He's grinning now, endeared.

"I love you, Will, I've loved you for ages, we practically live together," you laugh, "but I've never actually said it, I hate that! I hate that I've never said it! I love you, Will!"

"I love you too," he tells you sincerely, leaning across the centre console to kiss you, which you enthusiastically meet him in the middle for. You've kissed him more times than you can rightly remember, but it never feels to give you butterflies.

At home, he's quiet, smiling to himself while lost in thought throughout the afternoon. When you ask about it, he hesitates.

"You never had to say it," he admits with a shrug, "I knew." When your brow furrows with confusion, his expression turns vaguely guilty and self deprecating, "you have to admit, I was acting pretty sketchy about a lot of my life -"

"- with good reason," you countered, but all he could do was smile fondly, shaking his head.

"In hindsight," he points out, "now you know why I was being evasive about a lot of things it makes sense, but at the time I didn't really know, or, well that's not true," he flushed, "I didn't exactly believe why you would still trust me after all that," he looks to you once more, "but you did."

"Of course," you answer automatically, before it hits you what he's saying, "because I had a crush on you; because I love you." Then, as he's nodding in agreement, your eyes go wide with realisation, crowing with glee; "because you had a thing for me too!"

He doesn't disagree. He wraps you up in his arms and kisses you, and this moment feels like home.

----

(Wilbur's stream entitled 'SPECIAL SPOOKY GUEST CHATTING AND LOWKEY Q&A BE ON YOUR BEST BEHAVIOUR!!' happens on Halloween. Its the first video to ever even explicitly name Y/N, let alone feature them.

"I'm so nervous I'm going to be sick," is the first thing the internet hears of you, while Wilbur's sitting in frame, watching you off frame.

"You don't have to do this," he assured. He's wearing something shimmery on his skin, and plastic vampire teeth that are giving him a faint lisp. He's wearing eyeliner.

"No, I know we're live, I want to do this, I do, I do!" You insisted, before making a noise of anxiety, "but I might pass out. I need to study more." At that, Wilbur gives you a fond look, before looking to his camera.

"They call watching my VODs 'studying'," he explains. You make another anxious noise, before taking a deep breath and quickly sitting yourself into the chair beside him, looking at him and not the camera.

"I'm going to get a good grade in streaming, which is both normal to want, and possible to achieve," you mumbled; you too sparkle with some sort of shimmer, but are holding your plastic fangs in your hand, fidgeting with it.

Even without explaining who you are, everything about the way Wilbur looks at you says that he's in love with you. After a moment, your anxious expression softens as you find yourself fascinated by how he's sparkling, and you reach out to faintly touch his cheek. While you may have forgotten the audience, Wilbur has not, yet he still allows the moment to go on as you grow more comfortable in front of the camera, beside him.

"Love?"

"Yeah, I know," you mumbled, finally coming back to reality. Looking away from him and to the screen in front of you both, "Q and A," you murmur, reading the stream title. Thankfully you don't seem as daunted as moments before, "the first question seems to be 'who am I'." You take a deep breath and look to Wilbur, who grins back.

"Welcome to your first stream, you wanna say hi?"

"What if I just didn't? We go the whole stream without explaining who I am," you couldn't help yourself, snorting a laugh, which makes Wilbur cackle at the idea.

"You do whatever you want, I'll support you, that's hilarious."

"But cruel," you conceeded, despite how amused you were by the idea. Looking back to chat, you could see half having a meltdown at the idea. But you are not cruel; you'd both talked about it for far too long to chicken out now.

It's time for the world will know who you are.

"I'm Y/N, nice to meet you all!"

"And," Wilbur adds with a proud smile, "if you hadn't guessed, they're my partner.")

#wilbur soot x reader #wilbur x reader #wilbur soot imagine #wilbur imagine #cc!wilbur x reader #cc!wilbur imagine #cc!wilbur soot x reader #cc!wilbur soot imagine #cyltlanp #we fell in love in october event

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borderline-rat · 5 years ago

Text

SUMMER IN BRIGHTON GOTHIC

Summer and winter are two different worlds. Saturday and the rest of the week are on different planes.

You know the Lanes are a maze, they’re meant to be friendly and pleasant to the tourists, and most of the time they are. Most of the time. You know they shouldn’t come here when the sky is grey, but they’re so stubborn.

You were in the city centre today. You live uptown. You hike your way back home. You walk. Up. And up. And up. And up. And up. And up. You don’t look behind you. In front of you, the road keeps going up.

Seagulls. They are everywhere. They outnumber pigeons. You hear them scream and call for each other out at night. Sometimes it sounds more like rage, agony or cries. You ignore it. You turn in your bed, tuck yourself under the blanket. Just the seagulls. Just the seagulls.

Sometimes, as you walk in busy, colourful streets, you take a turn and end up in a tiny, hidden, narrow back alley. The buzzing sound just stops, although it comes from right behind you. All of a sudden – utter silence. You spot a cat. You follow it. It stops in front of a house, a flat. It won’t go any further. You’ve been here before. Something is missing. You’ve been here before. You can’t point out what it is. You’ve been here before.

You walk out of the alley. It’s night. You could have sworn sun was shining when you walked in.

The beach near the North Pier is always so crowded when it’s sunny. People from all over are sunbathing and planning to go out Iater tonight. They’re having fun, they’re not concerned. When you sit on the ground next to them, the pebbles are softer, the sea looks calmer, you know they’re safe here. Here.

You keep walking along the beach, heading West. Just a ten minutes walk from the North Pier, and yet it’s so different. You walk along the shops, they’re all open for now. Noise, people. Life is back here. You didn’t notice it was gone. To you, silence is normal– this is a lie. They don’t notice.

You take a turn to reach the pebbled beach. All of a sudden, the air feels different on your skin. It’s colder. Wind rises, slides underneath your T-shirt, pushes your hair away from your face. Eyes half closed, you keep walking. Your ankles twist as you walk your way down. The pebbles here aren’t soft at all. They try to make you fall. But this is your place, and this is a test. You’re gonna pass it. Not everyone does.

The West Pier beach. What else is there to say? You sit in front of the sea, as close as you can. It isn’t calm here. It isn’t tamed. It is free. You’ve learnt to respect it.

You respect the Pier itself, too. You have to. When you were younger, you didn’t dare to look at it. Now that you grew up, you know you can face it, but you still feel that pinching sensation in your stomach. You know that you’d better come here with good intentions. You came here angry once. You didn’t salute the Pier. The pinching turned into a pit. You fell inside yourself. Now, no matter how bad you feel, you bow. You’re on Its land, It’s not on yours.

It’s never the same. Everytime you come, and you come nearly everyday, It’s never the same. You’ve taken a thousand pictures. You’ve hanged them on the wall of your bedroom to compare, but you had to take them down. You felt like they were changing while you were asleep.

You remember seeing It on telly when you were a kid. 2003. March and May. It was burning. You didn’t see it with your own eyes but there were photos everywhere, everyone was talking about it. Some guys claimed the arson, calling them political statements. It was never proven. Can’t have been the weather either, said a man on television. So many rumours. No truth. You don’t ask. You know better.

You sit in front of It. Wind blows, waves crash. It stays silent. People are swimming. They could reach the Pier. It’s not that far away. But they don’t try, not even the tourists. Something tells them to stay away, and you’re glad they’re listening. Once, you saw a man trying to get closer. You watched him, you didn’t look away, you were afraid but you needed to know. The Pier must have been in a good mood, because he just looked like he was hovering. He gave up and came back to the shore. You felt relieved. Next time, maybe It won’t be that kind.

Night comes. The sky turns blue, purple, pink, lilac, fire, fire, fire. The Pier is burning all over again, majestically. It won’t ever let anyone forget. As the moon shows herself, and all the sky and the sea are melting into each other, that’s when you can see them. Inside the remains of burnt wood, a glimmer, a light flickering, and something moving underwater. You only notice before your eyes blink. You know what lays under. You suppose that everyone does. But no one ever mentions it.

You have to go back home now. You get up, climb back, tripping on the pebbles again. You can feel the Pier calling for you. It wants you to look. It wants you to stare. Like in the legends – don’t look back, leave, and never look back. Another test. You force yourself to keep going. It’s pulling your hair, you bite your lips, you know walking faster won’t help. Your heart is pounding.

Don’t look back. Don’t stare. Keep going. Don’t stare. Go home. Don’t stare. Juste another test. Don’t stare.

If you stare at It, It will stare back at you.

#regional gothic #gothic #small town gothic #town gothic #gothic horror #eerie #cryptidcore #strange #liminal spaces #liminality #liminal tumblr #regional horror #regional stories #horrorcore

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dvp95 · 6 years ago

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quiet on widow’s peak (4)

pairing: dan howell/phil lester, pj liguori/sophie newton/chris kendall rating: teen & up tags: paranormal investigator, mystery, online friendship, slow burn, strangers to lovers, nonbinary character, trans character, background poly, phil does some buzzfeed unsolved shit and dan is a fan word count: 3.9k (this chapter), 13.5k (total) summary: Phil’s got a list of paranormal experiences a mile long that he likes to share with the world. Abandoned buildings, cemeteries, and ghost stories have always called his name, and a particular fan of his has a really, really good ghost story.

read this chapter on ao3 or here!

Phil did not invite Chris and Sophie to come to Rossendale with him. Not because he doesn't like spending time with them, but because he wouldn't know how to explain a situation to his parents that he doesn't even understand himself. To his knowledge, PJ also did not invite them.

"Change it," Chris whines from the backseat. He'd lost the scuffle against Phil to claim the front, and he's been complaining about Phil's music choices for half the trip so far in retaliation.

"You like McFly," Phil huffs, continuing his search for an album that won't elicit a loud sigh from behind him.

"That's fucking slander, is what that is. You hear that, PJ?"

"Oh, I hear you both," PJ says, flat. "Loud and clear."

They've only been driving for probably forty minutes and PJ already looks like he wants to kick them all out of his car. Phil doesn't exactly blame him, although he resents being lumped in with Chris in the 'annoying background noise' category.

He has no idea how they've managed to invite themselves along, but Phil was too polite and PJ was too smitten to tell them off when they came out to the car with their bags.

So, this is a group activity now. Phil's parents had been thrilled to hear it when he texted them the updated situation - they're taking it as a sign that Phil has a motley crew of good friends again, like he'd had as a kid and again in uni. He supposes that they're not wrong, exactly, but he's definitely anxious about introducing them to Chris.

"I like this song," Sophie says, mild, and Chris closes his mouth.

"Fine, this one is alright," he says begrudgingly. Phil glances at them in the rearview - Sophie is patting Chris' knee and giving him the sort of smile that always makes Phil feel like he shouldn't be present. He looks back down at his phone so he doesn't have to sit with that feeling too long.

PJ turns up the volume, probably to curb any more bickering before he has to toss them all out of his car, and Phil tries to just lose himself in the music for a little bit.

His friends sing along at varying levels of obnoxiousness and Phil tries not to keep opening the Tumblr app to see if someone has messaged him. Well, someone specific. I'm going north today!, is the last message sent between them, and Phil is still waiting for Winnie to offer to meet up or something.

After their non-starter interview, Phil and Winnie kept missing each other's free time to finish it over Skype. Phil kind of wants to hear more from them before he checks it out himself, but that's not looking likely at this point, especially if he's lugging his housemates along with him all weekend.

Phil opens a puzzle game on his phone and lets the mostly-mindless swiping distract him. It's a long drive up to Rossendale, and the last thing Phil wants is to be left alone with his thoughts.

Phil's parents love having guests round almost as much as they love to have him home, so Phil isn't at all surprised to walk in and smell a roast cooking. He expects that treats will be made as soon as the oven is free, because that's what his mum is like.

"Hello," Phil calls into the house, kicking off his shoes. His friends follow his lead - PJ puts his boots carefully on the mat that Phil didn't bother aiming for, and Sophie struggles with a particularly stubborn knot in her laces - as he hangs up his jacket. "Mum? Dad?"

"Child," his mum greets him happily, appearing in the entry to the kitchen and making grabby hands at him until he envelops her in a hug.

"Missed you," Phil tells her, quiet enough that his friends won't hear to make fun of him.

"Oh, I missed you," she says, giving him a kiss on the side of his face. She turns her beaming smile onto his housemates, who all pause in what they're doing like a frozen tableau. It's a little funny. "More children! Hello! I'm Kathryn, it's so nice to meet you. And so nice to see you again, PJ," she adds in that somewhat pointed voice that Phil hates so very much.

"Hello, Kath," PJ says, grinning wide. He gives her a hug, too. Chris holds out his hand for her to shake when she's done squeezing the life out of PJ, but Kath will have none of it.

"Don't be silly," she says, wrapping her arms tight around Chris' waist with a laugh. "We hug in this family."

"Really?" Chris asks, and the look he gives Phil is almost more embarrassing than if he'd asked 'so why isn't your son a hugger?' out loud. "Something smells absolutely delicious, Kathryn. Is that you, or is supper cooking?"

Phil stops himself from groaning out loud, but barely. He probably shouldn't be surprised at all that Chris' cheeky, flirtatious charm extends to mothers as well. Kath laughs and smacks lightly at Chris' chest before she turns to Sophie.

Skilled at making people feel comfortable in four seconds flat, Kath chatters away about supper and how lovely Sophie's curls are and how long it's been since she's seen Phil, did they know how long it's been? She herds them all into the kitchen like they're cattle and insists that Phil take their things upstairs while she puts the kettle on.

"Er, alright," Phil says, looking at the small collection of bags that they'd brought with them. Their clothes and toiletries are all there, of course, but so is all the filming and hunting equipment. He'll have to make at least two trips.

"Your father got the guest room and Martyn's room all set up before he went out," she tells him, either not noticing or ignoring his internal struggle.

Oh, wonderful. Phil had somehow forgotten about the part where they had three beds for four of them. He's positive that his housemates won't mind sharing with each other, but now he's been tasked with the anxiety-inducing puzzle of whose bags to put where.

"Okay," Phil says again, even though they've moved on to talking about their favourite kinds of cakes so that Kath can wow them all with her skills. He tries to catch PJ's eye, but PJ is too wrapped up in a conversation about strawberries to notice.

Alright, well. Phil grabs as many bags as he can carry and brings them upstairs, feeling some tension deep inside him get a little tighter as he notices that most of their personal effects are packed away, either in storage or already on the island, and his childhood home looks more like a show home than he's comfortable with. The stairs only creak a little under his weight, nothing like the old house in Brighton, but Phil still feels unsettled.

In the end, he throws PJ and Sophie in the guest room. It's a selfish move more than anything, because he's brought PJ for enough visits to be familiar with the way his parents look at each other every time PJ teases him.

They don't ask. They're not the type of people to pry, and Phil isn't the type of people to offer information unprompted. They've all been in this limbo for years where Phil doesn't tell them that he likes boys and they don't outright question if PJ is just a friend and, frankly, Phil is tired of it. So, Chris can sleep alone.

He takes his own bags up last, because he knows that stepping into his bedroom and seeing all the personality stripped from it is going to make him feel things he isn’t prepared to feel. Phil takes a deep breath before he goes inside, and releases it shakily as he drops his things on the floor.

The beige carpet is almost mocking him, telling him that it's time to grow up, and Phil leaves the room as fast as he can.

God it is so hard to get anything done here. Sorry to complain at you randomly but like... I forgot how hard it is to work when my parents are hovering and asking a million questions lmao

Winnie still hasn't responded to Phil's early morning message, but the frustration of his parents distracting him and his friends from their work is starting to get to him. Chris has completely charmed them, somehow, and both Sophie and PJ are too polite to put headphones on and ignore them the way Phil has decided to.

Surprisingly, he gets a reply right away: omg how have i never considered the fact that you had to tell your parents you wanted to hunt ghosts for a living thats so fucking funny also that sucks i live in a house full of students and i always have to go to the coffee shop to work on essays and shit

There's nothing good like that where my parents live. Your coffee place is in the city, right?

“No! He didn’t!” Chris is laughing, somewhere in the living room, and Phil has to turn up the white noise on his headphones. The idea of his parents and housemates trading embarrassing stories about him while he's holed up at the table with audio files he hates makes him itch.

yeah, Winnie says. Phil is so thrown off by the short message that his fingers pause on the keyboard.

Is he annoying them? He doesn't mean to. Phil thinks over the messages they've exchanged since talking on Skype, the wheel of worst case scenarios spinning quickly.

Before Phil can apologise or even really get his anxious mind to settle down, his laptop bloops again, once, twice, three times. Relief from the worry that Winnie doesn't like talking to him curls around Phil's shoulders, relaxing them.

It's a screenshot of Google Maps with an address pulled up, a different building circled in a bright blue. yeah i hella recommend and it's really close to wilkins as well, is the message accompanying the screenshot. Then, right afterwards, 10/10 hot chocolate if i do say so myself.

Phil isn't very big on hot chocolate on its own, but he is very big on quiet coffee shops.

It takes a lot of cajoling and promises that he won't be out too late for Phil to convince his parents that they'll be fine to drive to the city by themselves. His dad gets the same look on his face that he always does when Phil talks about work, but his mum merely pats his cheek and says, "Oh, love, be careful. I'll be cross if I have to get you from the police again."

"That was one time," Phil says, feeling his face flush as Chris looks at him with glee.

"One time too many," Nigel says, a bit too sternly to be a joke. Phil wonders if his friends pick up on it or if they just think he's banting like he's been all through supper, that same dry humour that Phil can see in Martyn making him funnier than his housemates had expected.

PJ and Sophie both laugh a bit, so... probably just Phil's knowledge of his dad making it more pointed than it really needs to be.

The coffee shop is open late, so Phil and his housemates decide to do some recon at the Wilkins place. The sun hasn't quite set yet, and the street isn't completely deserted or anything, so they have to wait for a good moment to leave the car.

They're careful. They've done this before.

The Wilkins place is an older townhouse in Rusholme with windows that have been boarded up since the early noughties because they kept getting broken. Technically, someone still owns the property, but the Wilkins family either didn't care about it or had forgotten it existed, because it's been abandoned as long as Phil can remember.

It also isn't very scary in his memory. It's draughty and has rats scurrying about, but the electricity and heating still worked, somehow, and the social situations he'd gotten thrown into at Martyn's shoulder were definitely more nerve-wracking than the house itself.

All of these things are still more or less true, according to everything Phil has been told, but when Phil climbs in through the loose boards of the kitchen window, the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up. He hesitates for so long on the sill that Chris pushes a bit at him, reminding him to move before some annoyed neighbour calls the police.

It's dim inside but not so dark that Phil's eyes strain; the streetlights and setting sun filter in through the boards and showcase the dust covering every surface.

Phil helps Sophie and then Chris through the window, PJ giving them boosts from the outside. They take the various bags from PJ and Sophie immediately pulls out the camera, ignoring the thuds that PJ's feet make as he launches himself up and clambers in like a monkey.

"Sexy," Chris drawls as PJ nearly tumbles onto his face. He's grabbing out equipment of his own, and so Phil is tasked with getting PJ through the window safely.

"At least I've got a modicum of upper body strength," PJ says. Neither of them are bothering to whisper, and that's making Phil anxious.

He can't put his finger on it, but... it doesn't feel like they're alone in here. There's probably someone hiding out from the chill of late October in one of the various empty rooms, and Phil's worst case scenario wheel is spinning so fast it's making him dizzy.

"Do you hear that?" Sophie asks, hushed. That stops PJ and Chris from continuing their bickering, and all three men freeze as they strain for whatever it is that Sophie's hearing. After a moment of complete silence, Sophie shakes her head. "It stopped. Hopefully the mic caught it over you lot."

PJ looks appropriately abashed, but Chris just shrugs. He's got a flashlight and an EMF meter, and he slings one of the bags over his shoulder before disappearing.

This is technically for Phil's channel - they're checking the place out, and Sophie is filming just in case something happens - but Phil still feels weird when PJ ducks off in another direction and Sophie stays at his side instead of following one of her boys, camera steady in her hands and the tip of her nose pink from the cool air.

"What did you hear?" Phil murmurs, beckoning her further into the house. The sound of creaking wood is so loud, like it's right above their heads, and Phil can only hope that it's one of his friends going upstairs.

"It could have been the wind," Sophie says mildly. "Or rats."

"Is that what it sounded like?"

Sophie blinks up at him and her mouth twists in an emotion that Phil can't place. "No. No, it sounded like a person talking."

Yeah, that's what Phil was afraid of. "Someone might be living here," he whispers, focusing on the dark hallway and trusting that Sophie is following.

The creaking again, this time from beside them, and Phil peeks his head around the corner to confirm that the staircase is what he's hearing. Chris is halfway up it, flashlight off between his teeth as he grips the railing like he's afraid the stairs are going to give out under him.

Phil hates this part. He'd rather do this completely alone than have to herd his friends like sheep. He leaves Chris to his own devices and moves into the lounge. This is where the majority of the litter is, empty bottles and cans and crisp bags everywhere. Phil takes a couple photos of it all and sends them to Martyn.

Remember your friend who used to bring a garbage bag to every party? Looks like he was the only one lol

He pauses. All too aware of Sophie's eyes and possibly the camera lens on him, Phil sends the photo to Winnie as well with a different caption: Does it always look like this?

Neither of them respond by the time Phil has picked his way through the first floor, which is at least good for his focus, but it doesn't explain why the house feels so much different than it had seven or eight years ago. Phil feels unsettled here in a way that he doesn't usually get anymore, goosebumps down his arms that aren't from the cold and the constant, unnerving feeling that someone is looking at him from the shadows.

Phil's phone buzzes as he and Sophie debate in whispers if they should go upstairs. Phil hates leaving anything to someone else, even if it's just a few rooms that surely PJ and Chris are capable of exploring on their own. He's in the middle of trying to explain that to Sophie when his voice catches in his throat.

"Peej says we should go," Phil says, interrupting himself. "He found something weird in the attic."

"What's he doing in the attic?" Sophie hisses.

"Dunno. I didn't even know there was an attic."

"We should go, then," says Sophie, like that decides it. Although it does rankle a bit to be lower on the totem pole of his own project, Phil has to admit that Sophie is right. If PJ is saying that it's time to go, then it's time to go.

Phil climbs out of the window first, taking the equipment with him, and then helps hoist Sophie safely down. She's so small that it's not even a strain, really, even with how little exercise Phil gets. They wait, huddled together, and Phil feels some of the knot in his chest start to loosen when he hears Chris and PJ arguing in whispers before the window boards get slid out of the way again.

"What did you find?" Phil asks immediately, and PJ hushes him on his way down.

"Let's go, I'll tell you at the café," he whispers, leading the way down the pavement with strides so purposeful that Phil wonders if he's been in this area before. It's all the rest of them can do to keep up with him, and Phil spares a moment to feel sorry for Sophie and her short legs.

He hangs back with her and lets Chris keep pace with PJ. Chris is still talking at a silent PJ in a hushed, passionate tone, like he's fighting with a brick wall, and Phil doesn't need to be involved in that.

The coffee shop is only a couple of streets away, but the tension that the Wilkins place and PJ's subsequent discovery has brought to the group makes it feel much further. PJ stops in front of a purple door, and Phil has a begrudging respect for his ability to remember where something is after simply being told the address. The shop is small and a little dingy, but the lighting inside is soft through the narrow windows and there's a fireplace that Phil longs to curl up in front of like a cat.

Chris scowls at PJ and holds the door open for him in the same breath. Phil doesn't understand their relationship and at this point he's too afraid to ask, but he ducks into the inviting warmth anyway to try to get the goosebumps off his skin.

The two employees behind the counter look at the door like they've been caught with their hands in a cookie jar. A girl with brightly-coloured hair is holding a bunch of marshmallows, a hand poised mid-throw, and an unreasonably tall guy with an unreasonably large mouth is gawping as one of the marshmallows hits him in the chin.

"You missed," Phil informs them, grinning a bit as he unwinds his scarf.

"Oops," the girl laughs, setting the marshmallows down and pulling up a customer service smile. "What can I get for you guys?"

While PJ and Sophie pore over the menu and Chris starts asking if she'll throw marshmallows into his mouth if he asks very nicely, Phil's eyes drift to the other worker.

His mouth is still open, a bit, and his face flushes when their eyes meet. "Er," he says, glancing behind him as if Phil is looking at someone else, and that's so endearing that Phil is sufficiently distracted from the mystery down the street.

Phil isn't extremely self-conscious or anything, but he also knows he's not going to be the hottest guy in a room, so he's a bit flattered and a lot confused about this guy's reaction to him.

The thing is, the guy is very attractive. A couple of perfect curls poke out from under his cap, and there's some type of shimmer on his face that Phil could not put a name to if you paid him. He knows literally nothing about makeup, but he knows that it makes this giant of a man look softer and his blush even more obvious when it deepens.

"Hi," Phil says, giving him a little wave. He can still hear Chris chattering on and Sophie debating the merits of a hot chocolate versus a cappuccino, so he's pretty sure nobody is paying them any attention. The guy twitches like he wants to look over his shoulder again, but he stops himself.

"Uh, hi? Sorry to be, like, weird, I just - I didn't expect -"

The voice is familiar, the rambling is familiar, and then it clicks. "Oh, hi," Phil says again, warmer this time. He steps closer to the counter and grins up at them - an unusual thing in itself, since Phil doesn't meet many people taller than him. "You didn't mention that you work here."

Winnie's shoulders slump forward in a kind of relief, and they scratch the back of their neck, looking awkward and out of place even in an outfit that coordinates with the colour scheme of the whole shop. Phil looks the uniform over and immediately regrets it, because he didn't mean to see Winnie's name tag and now he feels weird about knowing something he wasn't actually told. He doesn't feel too weird about being here, though, because - well. Winnie had technically invited him.

"Honestly, I didn't know you'd be 'investigating' so soon," says Winnie. They're still blushing and the finger quotes are somehow cute, even though they're being used to poke at Phil's career. Their nails are dark and sparkly, and Phil desperately needs to stop noticing things about their hands. "I would have told you, probably, or I'd just - I dunno, try to make a better first impression."

"You're making a fine first impression," Phil assures them.

Winnie snorts. "Oh, bullshit."

"Phil," PJ says, nudging him. Phil suddenly remembers that there are, in fact, other people around him, and he can't just keep looking at Winnie's long, dark eyelashes. "What are you having?"

Honestly, Phil hasn't even looked at the menu. He's so easily distracted by pretty boys with big hands and - oh, right, he's got to be careful about that, even in his own head. Especially in his own head. Winnie isn't a pretty boy, he really shouldn't be thinking about them like that at all.

"Uh," Phil says eloquently. He's very particular with his hot drinks, usually, but he's got a lot going on in his mind right now and it's easier just to shrug at Winnie than to look away and think. "Dunno, actually. Surprise me?"

Winnie smiles, and Phil's stomach twists. "I can do that."

#quiet on widow's peak #phanfic #phanfiction #dnp fic #words words words

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exequie-somnia · 5 years ago

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☥ ORIGINAL UNIVERSE Muse Information ☥

See Also: VtM Muse Information

Since I’m intending to make this both a VtM and original universe blog, I’ll be writing up some information about both versions of these characters. I’m going to be trying a different version of Morgan’s backstory and this will apply to the VtM version as well (though take out the parts about nightingale and siren bloodline because that’s all OU stuff)

Morgan Erikson: Born 1865, forced to become a vampire against her will in 1890... Was brainwashed by her Sire for nearly a year before she was turned. Was kept by him and the rest of his coterie as the group punching bag until she escaped to the city of Santa Marta in 1900. Prefers the company of humans and other supernaturals to vampires. Has no idea that she isn’t a Nightingale but is rather part of the less common Siren bloodline. Especially talented in transferring her emotions to others. Prefers to hunt via romantic entanglement and during sex. Currently in a closed triad with her soulmates (Camellia O’Friel and Cain Erikson).

Laci Lydia Brighton-Lee: Born in 1976 and turned into a vampire on Halloween night, 1998. Due to an experience with an eldritch monstrosity and the severe trauma of her change, Laci’s “mental age” fluctuates between around 13 to 21, usually hovering around 17. After her encounter with the eldritch monstrosity known as The Myriad Eyes, Laci became connected to the entity and is now subject to visions regarding its machinations. She is dedicated to trying to stop it. Laurent DeFantome: Born 1970. Originally from Montreal but came to Santa Marta in his early teens with his brother and parents. Became a vampire as part of his quest to gain occult knowledge and served as the assistant to a vampiric witch for the first ten years that he was a vampire. Owns an occult bookstore called “Eigengrau” Currently in a dedicated relationship with Camellia O’Friel.

Louis DeFantome: Laurent’s twin brother. Artist, himbo, video game enthusiast, Siren Bloodline vampire. Hunts pretty much exclusively his models. Currently estranged from his brother for various reasons.

#{muses}#{a lost child}#{a lover}#{an artist}#{an occultist}#{ooc}#{from the mun}#{Original Universe}

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seromreven · 6 years ago

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title: blue velvet | chapter three.

pairings: john lennon/male!reader & paul mccartney/reader | various pairings both including and not including the reader.

summary: it’s the turn of the new decade; you’re the leader of a band that has its residency in a popular nightclub in Hamburg. One fateful night you meet The Beatles, a band new in town, and things take a turn as your relationship with two of the members of the band evolves.

author’s note: am still ill so i hope this chapter makes any sense as i’ve proven well enough that my brain completely abandons me when i’m sick

tumblr is a working website and the line i usually put after the read more won’t appear when making this post.

You were in a daze for the rest of the way home. Having been kissed unexpectedly by someone unexpected; you knew not how to feel. It was a nice kiss and you still felt the warmth in your cheeks from it. And while Paul was nice (and quite cute), you felt hesitant in thinking that you had any more feelings than that about him. You had come to value him more than a possible quick lay.

And, quite honestly, you felt more for John, even through the minimal interaction you had had with the guy. But Paul had kissed and in result making you sure that he was into you- into men. That you didn’t know about John and he had already punched you once; you wouldn’t want to risk getting another if it turned out he was the angry kind of a homophobe.

You walked the way to your apartment alone deep in thought; not noticing either John or Paul staring back at you in turns. The air was getting chiller these last few nights and you had yet to fish out your winter coat from the back of your closet; you were still not ready to accept summer having passed. It held your arms snugly around yourself as you neared the apartment.

And when you finally did reach it; you saw Paul waiting for you there as the rest was ascending the stairs.

“I hope I didn’t make a wrong move or anything, like,” he scratched the back of his neck and looked nervously around. You shook your head and shortly glanced around too, “I am… into men. It just came as a... surprise.” You assured him with a small smile and a pat on his shoulder as you both stood out in the cold.

Your abode was pretty neatly placed in the middle of the red light district of Hamburg. All around you were drunkards, people out on the street partying and sex workers as flashing lights from windows and signs hung from buildings filled the air around you. The sound of the low beating hum of music was intertwined with the loud talking and yelling of people around you. Just across the street where a cabaret; a source of great pleasure for the women-loving members of The Eighth Wonder as it was more of a burlesque show than much else.

“It was nice!” You suddenly said, surprising even yourself at your outburst. In your attempt to save the moment; you continued, “and, well, you’re an attractive lad so I can’t really complain,” you joked and was met with a smirking Paul as you removed your hand from his shoulder. Hm, he reminded you of the cat who just ate the canary. Had you done the wrong thing in admitting that? Because he looked like he was planning something.

“Let’s head inside, yeah?” you shook with a, slightly worried, chuckle as the chill was setting firmly into your bones and you much rather wanted to escape the cold and the lack of conversation that was slowly turning awkward.

You slowly ascended the narrow stairway with Paul close behind you. You could practically feel his eyes on you and you slowly regained the warmth from the long way to the top of the building where you had resident that left you flushed.

“Here we are,” you said with a deep sigh as you looked back to Paul with a smile.

The door to the apartment stood open and you could see various people inside move back and forth from conversations and tables filled with beverages and snacks. Your bandmates had really gone all out for the party. It was very rare one was held at your place so excess should have been expected from pals like Charlie and Booker.

Next to the open apartment door stood John; his arms were crossed as he looked at you recover from your journey up the flight of stairs with a raised brow. It usually wasn’t such a tough climb but you chalked this exception up to be due to the hovering presence of Paul behind you.

“...’m fine,” you muttered with a wave of your hand, sharing a short glance of eye contact with John before entering the populated apartment. The short eye contact was enough for you to get warm and you sighed as you looked around. In the time it had taken for you to get here; news about the party had apparently spread. Not only were your bandmates and your new friends here but so were some of your neighbours and random strangers. It also appeared that they had brought their own supplies as alcohol you hadn’t bought was being shared around.

You quickly found George in a corner by himself nursing a beer as guests stood in their own small groups, talking and dancing.

You got to him quickly through the crowd and patted him on the back with a short laugh as you got to him. He jumped slightly as he had been taken by surprise at your sudden appearance. He must have had been deep in thought about one thing or another.

“So, Georgie boy, what’s on your mind?” You asked with a great big smile as you looked at the young boy. While you still didn’t know his age; you held fast in your belief he couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen. And as such probably shouldn’t be in this company or with a beer but you were not one to judge. You had been up to far worse things at that age.

“N-nothing,” he stammered with a sudden blush and glanced quickly to his feet. You raised a brow and looked to where his eyes once had stared as if there had been a bushfire. It was a group of the Cabaret women and one, in particular, stood out in a rather scandalizing outfit. You grinned. Even for you; it wasn’t hard to see what had grabbed the young lad’s attention. As much as you wanted to help him talk to her, like what you would see in the movies; you knew it was very well a lost battle. You had seen her around before and the men she ran with weren’t exactly comparable with young George.

“C’mon,” you muttered with a small chuckle and guided him by the shoulder into the empty kitchen. You placed him down a small rickety chair and grabbed a glass of water for yourself and looked down at him from your place, leaned up against the kitchen countertop. “Having a good time?” You asked him, studying him as he looked down at his bottle. From what you had experienced; he was a tad shy but surely he wasn’t new to the party scene as he were in a semi-successful band in the Hamburg scene.

He nodded but told you that he, “just wasn’t in the party mood.”

You understood that feeling very well, having been a victim more than once to Booker’s surprise parties. Charlie only goaded him on while Wolfgang was nowhere to be found. He always turned up eventually after the party had long ended. You never were sure if he were warned or just had the uncanny ability to sense when a party was imminent. This one was no different as you had seen him nowhere in the apartment or on the way to it. It was just like he had vanished into thin air at the pure mention of ‘party’.

You couldn’t very well abandon George to sit by himself, nor force him into a party. He had gone along with the group to it. Out of group pressure, peer pressure, or because he wanted the company; you couldn’t know. But you wanted to stick by him anyhow.

You placed your glass in the sink and sat down at the other side of the table. Fishing around for ideas of conversation was for nought and you landed on asking him where the hell the last member of the band was; Pete Best was his name if you were to have remembered correctly. He shrugged and said something about him leaving before they had even gotten into the apartment lobby.

“Shame,” you muttered but it hadn’t felt genuine. He had made no impression on you whatsoever so you didn’t really care whether or not he had joined the party as it wouldn’t affect you in any major way anyhow. “So,” you were about the ask George something when the kitchen door opened with a quiet creaking and Paul poked his head in.

“Interrupting something?” He asked in his usual charming matter and you couldn’t help but shake your head and invite him in. Even though he had, in fact, interrupted something. He was followed by John who closed the door behind him. The kitchen was getting crowded, you sensed but invited them to take a seat on the remaining two chairs at the table. Paul quickly seated himself next to you and John across from you. Placing you in an interesting predicament as you reflected on your feelings of both of the young men.

You realised the interrupted question fitted in now better than before when it had just been George and decided to go ahead in your attempt to ask; “so, you’re all from Liverpool?”

It was met with nods as they resembled a choir in their synced verbal response to your question. You had guessed as much from their accents but you had heard through the grapevine, so to speak, about them being from around there. “I myself am from Brighton.” You felt a rush of homesick of the mentioning of the name. You hadn’t been there for so terribly long as you had been all wrapped up in business and were unavailable to go on any kind of vacation. “So is Booker and Charlie. We all went to school together too; like you three. Though if you ask Charlie; he’d tell you he’s a Dubliner through and through.”

The night continued in the same way. Telling stories of home and from each of your time in Hamburg. It seemed that The Beatles had been quite busy in the short time they had been in the city as between the three of them they had always collected quite a mass of stories. You had your own little party in the solitude of the kitchen as you sat around the table sharing tales and jokes.

Paul had at one point during the night placed his hand stealthy on your knee and were moving it in soft circles, much to your frustration as it made it increasingly harder to focus on the conversation at hand but he only smirked at the pointed glances you shot him. It was when the hand slowly made it way up your thigh that you should up your seat and with a slight awkward chuckle excused yourself from the room.

Entering the hallway you quickly realised it, fortunately, wasn’t as full as you feared. The little devil that Paul probably was had with his continuingly surprisingly soft hands (Seriously? With how long and often he played the guitar, they shouldn’t be so wonderfully soft) worked wonders in making your pants feel tight and you hurried to the bathroom.

You noticed the time on the way in your escape to the bathroom and saw that it very much nearing early morning. Explained the lack of people but; had you and the boys really been talking for so long?

You sighed deeply as you splashed cold water in your flushed face. Looking at your own reflection in the cracked mirror (Charlie’s fault), you slowly counted to ten as you prepared yourself to get back out there. How had you managed to get in a situation like this? A very attractive man was into you and you weren’t… disinterested but instead your entire attention was still unfocused on a (possibly) straight man. It hardly felt fair to Paul and his perfectly cute round face to partake in any of the very strong hints he was sending your way when all you really could think of his John and his brown eyes and auburn hair and- damn. You coughed slightly, adjusting yourself, and collected yourself together enough to finally step out of the tiny room.

And, well, speak of the devil. Who did you bump into but none other than John? You made a flustered jumble of words in your attempt in apologising as you stared hard into the floor but it was all for nought as he only laughed at it and you quickly stopped with a careful smile as you finally looked at him. God, you really had a silly teenage crush on the man, didn’t you? Funny really; considering how you first met him. You smiled in a way that felt awkward as you stood silently looking at John and his defined jaw. Wait, were you supposed to say something?

“Uh, hi,” you chuckled and looked past him to find that you were alone, though the kitchen door stood wide open and made you wonder if it was close enough for Paul and George to overhear what was going on at this end of the hallway.

He smirked and with a chuckle commented on your apparent visible flushed state of being; “Paul really did a number on you, eh?”

“Wha-” oh. He had noticed that? Shit.

The amused look in his eyes only increased with his forming grin and you cursed at yourself. He looked great like that. With the laugh lines and wrinkles at his eyes. You slowly blinked as you were (probably) staring at him in a tired haze. God, it had been a long and confusing day. All this emotional bullshit was taking a toll on you.

“Your guy… Wolf? Told us to get going so I’m just saying goodbye for the rest of the guys as they’d rather not get on the kraut’s bad side.”

You choked on a laugh and moved towards the door with John at your side; “don’t let him hear you say that.”

“I don’t care,” John said with a great big shit-eating grin and a shrug.

You reached out your hand for a last goodbye shake as you reached the door and waited patiently as John glanced down at it. It was as if something clicked in his head and his grin slowly turned to a smirk and leaned in, ignoring your hand, and placed his lips on yours in a chaste kiss. He had appeared self-assured but through the kiss, it was clear he didn’t truly feel so.

He pulled away with a fierce blush; suddenly looking mighty bashful and muttered “just wanted to see what Paul’s fuss was about” before hurrying out the door and down the stairs. You stood fast in the position he had left you, hand still out for the handshake that never came, in before you lightly shook your head and glanced to the door.

What just happened? Did that just happen?

“What?”

You somehow in your confused haze made it to your bedroom and fell onto it with a heavy thud. God, this day had been strange. Paul very clearly not hiding his feelings. John, who you thought were disinterested, had kissed you. You should be rejoicing! You crush had kissed you! But all you could think about was the peculiarity of his reaction to the kiss. Had he never kissed a man before? Was that the problem? Or just you. Fuck.

You closed your eyes tightly together as you felt a headache coming on through the mess of your mind.

The next day better be less complicated than this or you’ll… you’ll just have to accept it because, honestly, what else could you do but just go the route your life seemed to be taking?

#blue velvet fic #the beatles #john lennon #paul mccartney #george harrison #male reader #reader #reader insert #beatles fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic

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literaryphan · 6 years ago

Text

it became a sapling

summary: phil packs his things and leaves. in the journey that follows, he might only be hoping to find answers that would point him back.

notes: in which phil travels backwards through his memories in order to find what he’s lost. alternatively titled; so bitch you thought you saw the last of me; or, three years, what three years?; or rather, another fic that talks about not talking, only this time it’s during hitaus! so. also read on ao3

In the tail-end of August, Phil sits on the edge of the bed, leaves fingernail crescents on his palms and tear stains on Dan’s heart, says, “It isn’t you,” with a suitcase and two bags at his feet.

In the tail-end of August, Dan draws his shoulders almost to his cheeks and doesn’t let Phil see his eyes as he says, “You know that’s not true,” and his fingers are cold as he draws them away from within Phil’s reach.

Phil doesn’t know that it’s not true, but Phil is losing all of his words in the back of his throat and has nothing left to say. His hand hovers over Dan’s back for a moment too long before he pulls away, and the dragging sound the wheels of his suitcase make on the tiled floor leaves haunted echoes vibrating in his spine.

Dan tells him, “Leave the keys,” doesn’t turn to face him, and his voice is so low they’re both trembling. Phil’s keychain jiggles in his hand and Dan says, as if an afterthought, “You don’t need them anymore,” and the only thing Phil knows is that that’s not true.

But Phil’s not quite sure of the truth anymore, not quite sure of anything. He pauses, inhales; he takes the keys. The front door clicks shut behind him and his legs carry him away even as he leaves his unsteady breath on the doormat for Dan’s safekeeping.

PJ opens his door with uneasiness that’s evident in his tense shoulders and in his clenched hands but not on his face, not in his eyes. He gestures Phil inside and says, I’m glad you’re here, lets him stay in the spare bedroom for too long without asking any questions. Phil knows PJ knows, but he doesn’t mention it and Phil doesn’t tell him and in the silence that stretches across the rooms, there is more than the naked skeletons.

PJ doesn’t ask if he’s okay. PJ guards himself outside of Phil’s walls, doesn’t get close. Maybe PJ knows more than he lets on, but the truth remains that PJ sits in front of his work in silence for hours, and Phil drags ghostly feet across the house and doesn’t know what he’s searching for, doesn’t know why.

“You’re welcome to stay for as long as you need,” PJ says, and Phil knows he’s not lying. But as he wakes the room feels all wrong and as he walks the city’s all wrong and when PJ showers he doesn’t sing, and Phil misses home and misses Dan and knows he can’t come back, and so he lingers. PJ makes coffees in the mornings and pretends he doesn’t know, doesn’t know, knows nothing of the silence.

On Tuesday, it rains. Phil takes his shoes and his hoodie and his aching lungs and walks across the pier of Brighton in the downpour, and there’s something of a nightmare about damp woods and rusting fairground rides. Phil wonders where amusement parks are buried when they die, stops thinking long enough to breathe.

When he gets back, the soles of his shoes are squeaking soaking wet and his hair’s plastered to his forehead and Dan’s standing in PJ’s kitchen with a wineglass in his left hand. PJ says, skittish, “Phil, I’m sorry, I didn’t –“ and Dan says, quiet, “Oh. This is where you’re staying,” and as Phil’s heart fractures on the kitchen floor, the wineglass in Dan’s hand doesn’t shatter.

Dan looks at him like he’s staring right through Phil’s paper-thin transparent skin and at the wall behind his back, and PJ says he didn’t know too many times, and Phil’s heart’s turned around and around and around in his chest, chipped-off parts tearing through pulsing veins, lodged into his breastbones.

Dan looks at him, but the wineglass doesn’t shatter. His hand’s steady and nothing in Phil is steady and the wineglass doesn’t shatter.

By the time Phil gets out of the shower Dan’s already gone. PJ says I didn’t know, and Phil says, it’s okay. It’s not, but as Phil packs his things and leaves, it doesn’t really matter.

When his mum calls he’s standing in Brighton railway station, his bags at his feet and Google Maps open in his hands. He tells her, “I’ve got five minutes until the train,” and she tells him, “Come stay with me.”

In PJ’s kitchen, Dan didn’t shatter the wineglass. In Phil’s head Dan looked at him like he’d wrecked everything and his eyes were less blank and his hands more shaking. In Phil’s head, the wineglass shattered on the floor and stained every tile and there was a reason to scream.

His mum tells him, “Come home, Phil,” and he breathes into the phone and says, “Not yet.”

Phil remembers Manchester cold, always cold, the sky grey and his skin prickling and Dan’s hand tugging at his own.

Manchester, in the dawn of summer, is warm. Phil gets off the train and walks the streets carrying too many bags, his coat thrown over his shoulder, and the air is not humid, not really, but he still feels like he’s suffocating. The streets aren’t as crowded as in London and it’s not raining and he feels a stranger in his own skin, a tourist in a place that was once his.

The Manchester in Phil’s head is this: cheap sweatshirts and Pokemon wallets and clouds and Dan, sometimes smiling, sometimes angry, always there. The Manchester of reality is too polished, too monochromed; the Manchester Eye is gone, and so is Gracie’s flower shop, the Starbucks remains but Phil doesn’t go in, keeps walking, doesn’t really know what he’s looking for but is driven forward by a sense of direction that is perhaps more nostalgia than anything else.

Minutes or hours or days later on the doorstep of their old building, looking thirteen floors up, Phil’s joints bristle and his chest tightens and he stares and stares and can’t bring himself to turn back.

A family of four walks through the door, a father ushering his children inside. Phil doesn’t remember them, they weren’t there years ago. He wonders which apartment they live in, wonders if what was before his and Dan’s first kitchen and room and balcony are now a family’s. He wonders if someone re-painted the walls that once contained all he had in the world, wonders if they reshaped the form of his life.

Phil still doesn’t quite know where he’s going, lets his feet lead the way. He leaves his belongings with an old friend and takes the bus, stays quiet, isn’t stopped by too many people.

Phil doesn't feel like himself, and he thinks, maybe people recognize him less for it. His smiles come less honest, his mind’s toppling over itself, and there's a space by his side that never seemed to be empty before. He walks off the bus with his hands twisted in his pockets and finds that he unconsciously only carries bags on one side, swallows around the heart that soars to his throat.

The University of Manchester is all tall buildings and old bricks and vines clinging to dear life, it’s full to the brim with people. Phil wanders the halls as if he's chasing something, maybe the trail of old memories or something to keep him grounded. Instead, he finds a lot of things that remind him of a Dan that isn't the one he left behind.

On a corner of a hall he's not quite sure he's ever been to before, Phil leans against the wall, tucks his chin into his chest, listens. The students bustle by him, paying no attention, and down the stairs stumbles a phantom of young Dan, a ghost bleeding out of Phil's memory, wild eyes and heavy shoulders and footsteps that drag on forever. Phil follows him with his eyes and remembers once, a long time ago, a mirror of the same mirage that sat on the ceramics of his old kitchen and banged its head into the cupboards, again and again.

“If I quit uni, I've nothing,” Dan said then, utter conviction and thinned pale mouth and his jeans fisted between his hands, and Phil looks at him from the corner of the hall through the decade that's passed in the same way he looked at him that day, as Dan corrected spitefully, “I am nothing.”

And Phil -- well, he slid down to the floor and looked at the ceiling and said, in the only way he ever knew how, “If you don't quit, there will be nothing of you left,” and didn't ever say, you have me.

The words burn on Phil's tongue, after. Dan's always been the talker out of the two of them, Phil's thoughts coming to him in clusters of nonsense, and so his feelings are mute more often than not. He learns to push the words behind his molars and grind on them when the nights get too silent, and the aftertaste of them rise to his mouth now, in a hall of Manchester University.

Before he leaves Manchester, he goes to that flat one more time. Walks around the neighborhood, uploads a picture of a squirrel to Instagram, goes up the stairway slowly, like he could fool someone he belongs there.

The door stands heavy before him, and he's rooted in his place. It's strange how even places that were his alone were never quite so, his memories stained with Dan, his years coloured by Dan's appearances. This was his place, first -- but it was theirs second, alarms ringing for morning classes and video games cases laid on the table and two toothbrushes by the sink, far more frequently than only one.

He said I love you here sparingly, his mind reminds him -- let himself loose around it like he had nothing to prove, like saying it was no different than not at all, an act of maturity. He remembers the few times he did, catching Dan's eyes in the steamed bathroom mirror or laughing himself silly over an unedited video or, only once, whispering it above Dan's Law textbooks.

“Okay,” Dan said then, twisting around in Phil's swivel chair and looking at him questionably, like he wasn't sure why Phil was saying it at all. The camera equipment in the corner of the room was blocking Dan's left eye from sight and Phil hunched his shoulders, fiddled with the laptop in his hands.

“No reason,” he answered Dan's unasked questions, didn't know how to address the silence; only knew Dan's frame was shaking under the weight of his worries and knew then, for the first time, that Dan was flawed. I love you, he said, and left out, I can now see all your faults and my feelings are the same.

Phil thinks of his first moments back in this city, stepping off the train and feeling like nothing has changed and yet nothing has remained the same. He looks at the heavy front door and knows he remembers Manchester differently than it is, but only then does he realize he remembers Manchester like home.

His friend lets him stay on the sofa. The next morning he’s gone.

Seven miles off Reading, Phil stands with his hands behind his back by the gate of a house he used to know, and the tips of his shoes toe the line of the front path but he doesn’t move. Inside the house, Dan’s mum shouts about dinner and the windows rattle in tune with the memories inside Phil’s head, every stair and every wall and every story he's heard long ago.

Phil doesn’t walk in. The grass is shaped like Dan’s childhood feet and the walls are painted with the colour of his handprints and the silence is the ghost of his laughter. Phil fists his hands together and goes into town instead, drags his footsteps behind him.

In Costa, he orders mocha and sits by the window, doesn’t draw in the condensation on the glass. This is Dan’s, the seat and the coffee and the town, and Phil doesn’t know what he’s doing here and he doesn’t know what he’s looking for but knows he’s looking for something, knows his heavy feet brought him here. His heart isn’t any less heavy, his lungs ache with need. The coffee is bitter more than it is sweet and it stings his tongue and it doesn’t offer answers, but maybe it’s because Phil is too tired to ask.

A hand taps on his shoulder. He turns around to a familiar face it takes him a moment too long to name, but by then she’s hugging him hello, her curls bouncing in his face.

The last time he saw her comes to him in bits, in pieces: London street-lamps and leaning on Dan too heavy and the taste of alcohol, the howl of laughter. She might’ve been a Youtuber then, or might’ve been Dan’s friend, Phil wouldn’t know -- he only remembers the train-ride there and holding Dan’s hand under tables and looking at him, eyes and straight nose and hints of jawline lit by the lamp above, and feeling the strings of emotion balling in his windpipe.

“Not here,” Dan said then, hurriedly, bright eyes darting to the group surrounding them, self-deprecating smile more of a sullen apology for his attentiveness than a sign of joy. Phil stopped then, jerked his head, said, “What, I was gonna say your hair looks like Ghirahim’s,” the lie burning his mouth like hot pepper.

Dan flicked his bangs out of his face, stuck his hands in his pockets. He shrugged one shoulder and joined a few friends to buy beers, and Phil was left with a burning mouth and the shrapnel of the first time he’s ever been unable to tell Dan he loved him because of someone else, the first time his feelings meant something to people who aren’t Dan and himself.

In costa of the distant future, the girl purses her mouth, her coffee threatening to spill from the cup, and Phil stumbles over his parting and belts out of the door, can’t escape the feeling that a single night in London seeped into his bones for many years after, left him with a burning mouth that never healed.

The temperatures have dropped by the time Phil's back in the city. Martyn's wearing a bright green raincoat as he waits for Phil outside the station, and he shoulders one of Phil's bags when they meet, doesn't ask for permission.

“The place's a mess,” he warns when they first walk in, as if Phil hasn't shared a house with him for nearly twenty years, doesn't know the genetic tendency they have for acquiring more things than they have room for. Cornelia greets him with a hug, barefoot and smiling and offering tea, and Phil chews on his tongue and doesn't tell either of them stop being polite to me, stop. They don't seem to know what to do with their limbs, their space, their guest, so Phil takes his belongings and drops it on his makeshift bed, closes the door.

Staying with Martyn is harder than with PJ, harder than wandering. Martyn knows him better, and it's not the things he says as much as the way his eyes follow Phil constantly; they're heavy on him, one look piling on top of the other until Phil's feet feel as if they're carrying thirty added pounds of shame and loneliness and uncertainty.

Some days the three of them eat dinner together. Some days they watch reruns just past noon, and Cornelia falls asleep to the murmur of the screen. Often, they do neither, the house is empty, and Phil's left to find Martyn's stare reflecting at him from every mirrored surface even when he’s gone, only the stare is harsher, less softened by Martyn's worried edges.

Phil misses Dan, the city enclosing him both achingly small and too large. The nights are the worst part, and his sheets are always too cold, and his waking's always to thundering silence.

Martyn and Cornelia move around each other, unthinking. Phil spends most mornings on the bottom stairs overlooking the kitchen, earbuds in, music muted. He watches two opposite magnets as they balance each other: he goes left, she goes right; he reaches up, she crouches down. It's habit more than it is anything but the synchrony is scraping against Phil’s ribcage, a determined sharp-nailed animal angry in his chest.

"You're shit at drying," Martyn huffs from the kitchen, titles a plate to let water drip to the floor. Cornelia swats at him with a blue-striped towel, impatiently, and he swallows down a snort as he kisses her temple.

"Love you anyway," he notes offhandedly, wipes down the damp plate. Cornelia rolls her eyes, says, "Pal, you're washing the rest of it alone with all that commentary."

Martyn, aged twenty six and forward, started telling Phil he loved him. He handed it over with Christmas gifts and cheered it with weekend brunch beers and tucked it inside finished merch products. "I love you, brother," he would say sincerely, jokingly, unheedingly, and Phil, who once lived with an older brother who'd throw shoes at him when he dared change the television station, blinked.

Later, Martyn answers, "I'm just not fifteen anymore," easy, as the two of them change the cover of the duvet into winter-heavy sheets. "I love people, I tell them sometimes. It's not a big deal."

Phil's breath is solid in his throat, he's choking on it. He nods, slow, and changes the pillowcase instead of answering.

On a frozen day in early October, Martyn takes him to the woods. He shoves a camera into his bag and throws a wool hat into Phil's hands and doesn't offer many explanations. The world in Dan's absence, Phil exhausts to himself during the drive, is awfully quiet, and his ears are ringing in longing for Dan's constant babble.

The leaves crunch under their boots as they walk. Martyn's car keys jangle in his hand but he doesn't pocket them, flips them around and around on his finger. They pass large stumps and step around puddles, Phil climbs behind Martyn's sure stride on damp rocks woven through the forest until Martyn stops, suddenly, bends to look at a mushroom.

“You should do a video here,” he says, still not looking at Phil, “like the vlogbrothers or something. That's a thing, right?”

The muted ginger of his hair looks almost orange amidst the mud and wood and weeds, and Phil can't recall the last time he's been so silent around his brother, usually his mouth runs and runs until he can't catch up with it and it ends up miles from where his mind is.

“I can't,” he answers, as honestly as he manages. And it's true, nothing but the truth: he's done one video, maybe two since he left. But it's been a month now, more, and other than the odd tweet he's been unable to do anything at all; the camera looks at him angry and demanding and he faces it wordless, he has no more truths to tell.

“You have to,” Martyn says, simply, and Phil knows the words he's really saying, you have to move on, also knows he's right. The wood chirps around them, careless. The drive back is just as quiet as the one before it, and Phil lets his elbow rest on the windowsill of the car, breathes.

He takes all the bags he never bothered to unpack and leaves Martyn's flat the following week. Martyn may be right, but Phil's running from his truths even faster than he used to run his mouth and he has no place in his runaway load for those who'd rather give him the facts over the benefit of the doubt.

The spare keys to his parents' house is in the ceramic turtle by the door, Phil could find it blind; but he still knocks, a lone drum beating at his temple ceaselessly, a rhythm that wants him far away.

This is home, he tells the drum, tells his heart, tells himself, but he doesn't bend for the keys because his mind is not convinced, and the drum keeps beating on and on.

His mum opens the door with mud stains on her blouse and a smile curved from ear to ear, bigger than the rest of her, almost swallowing him whole. She wraps herself around him immediately, chatters in his ear, but everything's a dull sound and the suitcase slips from his grasp to the floor.

"It's a good thing you're home," she tells him later, sure, shoving his rumpled clothes into the washing machine. She tells him of his cousin and of her petunias and of the pie she burnt for supper, doesn't ask about him, doesn't ask about Dan. Phil looks at her pouring the detergent in and wonders at the last time he's heard Dan's name spoken out loud.

He settles in the guest room by the stairs, the clean white of the walls giving him a headache. This is not the house he grew up in, this is not his room; it’s a space free of memories, free of childhood belongings, free of Phil. It’s a room that has no ghosts and Phil forces himself to sink into it, forces the quiet into a good thing.

A house is not a home. Phil’s mum talks to her sister on the phone downstairs, his primary school picture is hung on the wall by the fireplace; a house is not a home and this house is filled with family, so it should be home, should be familiarity.

Phil resolutely ignores the all the ways it’s really not.

When it rains, Phil goes down to the kitchen to press his forehead to the foggy windows and listen. The weeks pass him by cold, unchanging, and he submerges into a routine of nothing, nothing, nothing. Some days his dad asks for help in the garage, and some days he takes the dog for a walk, but most days he stays in bed until the morning’s no longer so and pretends he’s slept late, doesn’t let know he’s barely sleeping at all.

In the kitchen, half past eleven at night, his mum’s huddled by the corner wall with the phone clutched to her ear. She’s in her night robe and she doesn’t see Phil, Phil doesn’t tell her he’s there, he just wants the white noise of the storm and the wind shaking the trees to drown him, create something new of his remains.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” his mum says, gentle, her face hidden in the dark. “He’s yet to say anything, I don’t know if he will.”

Phil’s heart beats, his world stops momentarily. He has been unaware that his world was turning all this time, the sudden attention to everything spinning around him and skidding to a halt making him dizzy, but here it is, here is his life unfolding before him: his mum, the phone, and Dan on the other side. Phil would know Dan with no voice, no face, no existence, would know Dan anywhere.

His mum hushes, “I know, I know,” and Phil, his lungs not big enough for breathing, shrunken and dead in the pit of his stomach, imagines a world different than his own -- where he rounds the kitchen table and takes the phone in his hand and tells Dan a million times, I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m sorry.

He doesn’t. His mum whispers, “It will be okay,” and Phil runs, runs, runs.

Martyn comes to stay with them on Thursday, rings the bell and smiles hello and pretends he’s not worried. He joins dinner with hands full of creased excuses, Cornelia’s away and the house got too silent and I just felt like coming home for a while. Phil’s mum serves the casserole and no one at the table says Martyn’s there to check up on Phil, but they’re all thinking it.

Underneath the table, Phil’s knees knock into the table legs and his limbs are too long for the seat and the broccoli tastes like plastic. Martyn doesn’t say I’m worried but he looks at Phil every time he makes a joke, and Phil laughs along because he’s tired of being treated like he’s broken.

At midnight, Martyn knocks on the door of Phil’s guestroom and leans against the doorframe in the dark, asks, “Are you alright?”, in the tone he never dared use when Phil was staying at his. Phil turns to face the wall, becomes nothing but a sharp figure in the dark, says, “I am,” because the truth is even if he’s not, he has nothing to say.

Martyn sighs and closes the door and his footsteps carry through the hallway. Phil tugs the sheets over his head and wishes it all away.

I love him, Phil tells Martyn, eventually, as they’re mowing the lawn in the afternoon. I love him, he tells his grandma over the phone, tells a uni friend he runs into in the street, tells the cashier in the grocery shop when she asks about the sadness wrinkled at his face. I love him, I love him, I love him.

I love him, Phil tells him mum at half past midnight from across the dinner table, and she warms her palms around her mug of tea and looks at him like she understands. He says this when she asks about Dan for the first time, hushed voice and her eyes downturned, and when she looks up at him again she says, you’re telling the wrong people, hun, and the thing is, knowing she’s right doesn’t make it easier.

He tells them all I love him, and they shake their heads and ask, then why did you leave, and don’t understand. Phil closes his mouth and clenches his hands and doesn’t say why he had to leave, says I love him instead, because they don’t understand. they’ll never understand, but the thing is Dan doesn’t understand, either, and it’s not fair to tell them when Dan doesn’t know.

In the kitchen in the middle of the night, Phil’s mum puts her mug in the sink silently and doesn’t turn to face him when she says, “I just need to know you know why you left, Phil,” and he tangles his fingers so tightly together it hurts, answers, “Yeah,” exhales when she doesn’t ask him to explain.

(And the bottom line is, he does -- knows why he left, knew all along. The bottom line is, he was choking on the I love you’s he’d never gotten to say, the ones he’d gotten to say and said all wrong, the ones he’d never wanted to say to begin with. And they were filling the spaces between his bones and his lungs and were scaling up his throat, and he couldn’t breathe so now he’s saying them to strangers instead, strangers and friends and everyone, anyone who isn’t Dan.

On a bus to the city nearing the end of October, Phil thumbs down his timeline and stares at Dan’s latest tweet about Lorde, almost tweets him back. He wants to say a joke about Lorde of the Rings, wants to say living in ruins of a palace, wants to say I love you, doesn’t. Only pockets his phone and stares out the window and ignores the way his splintered chest is tearing through his shirt, his heart gushing out of it.)

In the living room, his dad falls asleep with the dog on his chest. His mum reads, her glasses sliding to the tip of her nose. And Phil, he exists, and drags his way through each day, and carries the terrible burden of knowing sometimes your misery is your own damn fault.

Because the truth, the heartbreaking truth is:

Phil is losing who they are, is drowning in everything they say they are but aren’t, in everything they don’t say and are. Phil doesn’t know who he is without Dan but is starting to think he doesn’t know with him, either.

Phil says I love you and knows it’s true, knows it vividly enough that it’s all he knows some days. But Phil says I love you and at some point realizes he doesn’t know what it means anymore, and then stops saying it because he doesn’t know how.

An elderly couple lives in his parents’ old house now, the yard full of toys belonging to their grandchildren, and Phil drives around a few times, observing from afar. Still -- the hole in the fence is where it always was, where Phil used to duck and crawl and scrape his knees and look for animals to befriend, and one day he goes through it, leans against an old tree and watches the house from where he knows he won't be seen.

Maybe a decade, maybe a century, maybe a millennium; forever ago there was only Dan's gloved hands on the back of his neck in this very yard and smiles through computer screens and too much hair for their young faces. Forever ago Phil had a lifetime of short moments in this house, primary school and a dozen winters and growing up, one long spinal vertebra after the other. Forever ago this house was all Phil's ever known.

Now, this is someone else's, and the house is too small for everyone's memories, Phil only gets to save a few. A cold wind chills him, he pulls the scarf around his neck.

I love him, he whispers, maybe to himself, tosses that around in his palms until it's nothing but syllables, nothing but his voice in the wind. I love him, he says, and doesn't know what it means, can hear his voice cracking around it like china.

Phil has loved Dan for so long, he doesn't remember what it's like not loving him. Phil has loved Dan since this house, since boney bodies and muddy futures, since before there was them, since he didn't know loving someone felt widespread and tangible in his core. Phil has loved Dan since long before he knew he did, and he remembers saying it from miles and miles away, remembers mumbling it up close with his nose pressed to Dan's cheek, remembers shouting it from rooftops just because.

He remembers -- saying it because it slipped off his tongue, and later because it was the only way to describe the bubble expanding in his chest. He remembers saying it when all it was made of had been the restlessness in him that whispered I feel like this is forever even while I'm terrified it won't last; when it felt a little like an addiction, tasting sweeter and better on his tongue, words that were pure-hearted and stupid and baseless, because -- because.

Because they didn't know what love was, didn't have a meaning for the words whispered in the dark, but it sat right in his mouth and between his teeth and when he gave it a voice.

And he never stopped knowing it was true; but as Phil pulls a splintered shred of his heart out of his chest, flips it between his hands, he doesn't know when he started looking for meaning.

His mum walks him to the door, the two of them lingering as Phil's dad loads the bags into the cab. She looks at him then, crosses her arms over her chest, titles her head to one side, and he realizes that his mum's never been much of a talker, either, and yet he's never noticed the absence. Her feelings were clear to him, always; in warm hands holding his own and humour she gifted him and a specific slant to her eyes, a nonverbal language.

"You look better," she tells him, curls one arm around his shoulder lightly. He thinks it might be her way of telling him he's right about leaving, her way of saying she understands what he hasn't tried to say. He thinks maybe she knows what he doesn't yet, always and forevermore.

"I'm close to figuring some stuff out," he acknowledges, means it. The heavy feelings he's been carrying is twisting and turning, wrenching at his organs incessantly.

His mun hums, pulls both ends of her cardigan closer together. That slant to her eyes tells him you are, tells him it'll work out, tells him go. "And where will you be headed from here?"

He shifts his weight between his feet. His dad closes the boot of the car with finality. The dog barks inside, a farewell. "Don't know yet."

He kisses her goodbye, doesn't tell her of the train tickets his heart's purchased without his permission, and he leaves with his pocket weighing him down into the earth.

Piccadilly is crowded and cold and busy. Phil stands. He tugs his hat lower on his ears and his fingers shake around the handle of his suitcase and he stares, stares, doesn’t know at what.

Phil thinks of Brighton, thinks of Manchester, thinks of the train ticket to London in his pocket. He thinks of home, thinks of Dan.

A train stops at the station and a couple embraces. Phil’s heart’s beating and he remembers the cold and the rush and his fingers closing around Dan’s wrist a moment before they hugged for the first time. Phil remembers this: that first year and the one after that, the third one, the fifth, the tenth. He remembers this: cold feet pressing against his ankles at night and the dent of a dimple and too-early coffees before meetings. He remembers: his chest feeling too small for the emotion he’s carrying, his cheeks hurting from laughter, his bones aching with the heavy knowledge of loving someone as much as you can love anything at all. He remembers saying words that meant the thing you went back to at night was more a person than a place.

Phil remembers home, and for once it grounds him, doesn’t slip between his fingers. He tightens his grip, gets on the train.

In November, Phil comes back.

Dan’s sitting on the sofa with a cold mug of tea when Phil reaches the top of the stairs, carrying a suitcase and two bags and his beating heart in his clammy hand. He says, “Manchester’s too cold.” What he means is, I missed you.

Dan puts the mug on the coffee table and walks to Phil, stands in front of him three centuries older in a sweater that isn’t his and with heartbreak painted over his mouth in a curved line. He takes the suitcase and the bags and Phil’s heart, tucks it into his back pocket. He says, “I’ve got the heating on, c’mon.” What he means is, I’ll forgive you.

Later, Dan sits in the corner of the room while Phil sinks into a bath of water fifteen degrees too hot, thumbs through a book he’s not really reading. They don’t talk, but when Phil drains the water and steps out with burning red skin, Dan hands him a towel and wipes the steam off Phil’s glasses, sighs audibly.

Under the sheets, they press knobby knees together and Dan bites his mouth raw and Phil doesn’t say he’s sorry. He does say I liked your last video, and my parents’ dog says hi, and train rides aren’t the same without you. Dan’s only response is pressing his frozen knuckles to Phil’s pulse point and breathing.

Dan says okay, again and again. At three in the morning Phil’s head is pounding and he says, “I’m out of train tickets,” and what he means is this isn’t temporary, and Dan says, “Okay.” Phil takes the frozen knuckles with frozen fingers and puts them against his cheek. Dan says okay and means I’ll forgive you. Phil whispers, “I’ll wait,” and means just that.

#phan #phanfic #phanfiction #p: comp #wc: 5 #l: oneshot #u: semi #i know i know you didnt think id be back #but here i am. with three years old content revived just 4 u #like honestly bonus points for whoever remembers reading the draft of this THAT long ago #its finished!!! god bless #three year hiatus am i dan howell yet #key word in this fic is -remember-#take a shot every time kids #mine

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airporteagles-blog · 6 years ago

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Qualities of a Good Airport Taxi Service Provider

Airport taxis are a blessing for people who are looking for convenience when they travel to or from airports. At some places where airports are located at quite far off places from the city, it is important to depend on a reliable airport taxi service provider so that passengers can reach their destination safely. With so many vehicles hovering around the terminals and vying for your attention, how do you get to choose the best? This is where you should be aware of the characteristics or qualities of a good airport taxi service provider, so that you can make the right decision. Check if the one that you have chosen has the following qualities. If yes, you can rely on its services with utmost guarantee of your safety. VIP Taxi Service In The UK

1. User-friendly services

A good airport taxi service provider will provide apre-booking facility for passengers so that it makes their job easier. When you have this facility, you can book for a cab while you are at the airport and come out to see the car waiting to pick you up. This way, you will not be left alone or searching for a proper cab even for a second. Airport taxi service providers offer pre-booking and other user-friendly pickup and drop off arrangements, to make the experience more valuable for their users

2. Prompt service

This is one of the most important qualities of a good airport taxi service provider. People love to join hands with one that is prompt and punctual always. Before choosing a particular company you have to read through reviews to see what users have to say about the company's services and time management. Airport taxi service provider who value customers will never report late for duty, and it will always ensure that their vehicles are available when you need them the most. Book UK Airport Transfers Online

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A reputed airport taxi service provider cares for its users and keeps its vehicles in top quality always. Choose companies whose vehicles are neat and well-equipped with technological devices so that it is easy to track them down in case of unfortunate incidents. Also, the vehicles should be fitted with automatic mechanisms to detect accidents and alert systems so that they are less prone to risks. Brighton to LHR Airport Transfers

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Airport taxi service provider who deal professionally will train its drivers to be considerate towards their customers. These drivers speak politely and ensure that you are comfortable throughout your journey. Sometimes, they are also multi-lingual experts who greet you in your mother tongue and go the extra mile to care about your safety and comfort. They also double up as tourist guides and give you suggestions about the new city that you have landed at, places that you ought to visit here and other value-added services.

Visit here:- Heathrow To Brighton Taxi

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lothiriel84 · 7 years ago

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And I think of you now (As a dream that I had long ago)

Oh who would walk the stoney roads Of Merlin's time And keep the watch along the borderline

- Al Stewart, Merlin’s Time

Where John Finnemore and the gang went all the way to Edinburgh, and all they got us was a fantastic show. (Again.)

As I believe I’ve mentioned on multiple occasions, the only reason why a few years ago I unexpectedly overcame my fears and general uselessness, and started travelling on my own at the ripe old age of thirty - well, almost thirty-one, actually - was the overwhelming desire to meet John Finnemore, and all the wonderful people from the Fandot. This is something I will forever be grateful for, not only because it allowed me to meet so many brilliant people - including the man himself, and the incredibly lovely cast from Souvenir Programme - but also because it gave me the chance to see so many beautiful places I would never have bothered to go through the effort of visiting otherwise. It’s no secret that I immediately fell in love with the UK - not least because, to my non-British eye, it is basically the land of Finnereferences - and while London will always hold a special place in my heart, I have a feeling that Edinburgh might have somewhat taken its place as my favourite city to be in.

One of the reasons why I picked Edinburgh as my second date to see the show was that I had never been to Scotland before, even though I had been wanting to for some time. And let me just say that getting off the bus at Princes Street and looking up to see Edinburgh Castle felt pretty much like suddenly being transported into the landscape of legends and fairytales. As luck would have it, @iwanttotieyourshoe, @sircarolyn, and @my-sun-my-baelish had all planned to travel to Edinburgh on the same day to see the show, and we arranged to meet and wait around in a café until closer to the time the theatre doors would open. (What we definitely hadn’t planned was bumping into Margaret and Carrie as they walked down the street, but I’m fairly confident we managed to keep a somewhat dignified façade as we pretended not to notice them - though I fear I might have started giggling like a schoolgirl as soon as we passed them by, because I’m a very cool and proper grown-up, thank you very much.)

Anyway, the show. If you happen to be interested in a slightly more detailed account of the featured sketches and utter brilliance, you can find my old post about the Brighton show here. They had cut a few of the filler sketches, and of course adapted those parts that specifically referred to the location - ‘the Glasgow of the East’ was definitely a brilliant line from the Edinburgh Is The Worst song, and the stand up bit that John did at the beginning was pretty hilarious, with his account of how he failed to dress appropriately for the lovely Edinburgh weather, and as a result ended up buying a non-matching tartan shirt and pair of trousers. I’m particularly glad I got to see the show again, and not only because it was as brilliant as you might expect, but also because I had completely failed to understand all the references to Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah in the Since You Ask Me - I actually had to google the line ‘the secret chord that pleases the Lord’ to find out about the song, because I’m a clot - and the fact that I finally got them this time around made it so much better. And as I believe I mentioned after seeing the show in Brighton, seeing the cast on stage is a joy in and of itself, and while I’m glad that Souvenir Programme is a radio show and therefore available in my country - not to mention the perfect thing to listen to whilst driving, or doing other chores - I still wish we got the chance to see their acting and wonderfully silly faces more often, along with their brilliant voice acting.

As I had already seen the show in Brighton, I had been planning to give each member of the cast specially made thank you cards after the show. Which was a nice idea in theory, only there are two things I most definitely would not recommend about the whole thing: putting off writing the actual messages inside the cards until about ten minutes prior to the start of the show, and hovering for an indefinite amount of time in the vicinity of the cast having after-show drinks before eventually making up my mind and handing them said cards. (Nor would I recommend not having the faintest idea what to say once I was actually standing in front of them, but I guess life is too short to spend it regretting each and every time I invariably manage to make a fool of myself in front of my favourite people.)

I still can’t decide whether I should add ‘giving David Tyler a thank you card addressed to the Flying Visit crew’ to my ever-growing list of poorly thought-out decisions, but at least the members of the cast seemed to like theirs; Carrie even suggested that I should sell them, and while I know she was probably just being nice, it was still absolutely lovely of her, especially if you consider that I basically can’t draw to save my own life. (I know this might sound a little weird - and if it does, I’m really sorry - but the cast are such adorable people, all of them, and I feel so lucky that I got to know about them, and even to meet them in person.)

That’s all about the show, I think. I spent the next day with @iwanttotieyourshoe and @sircarolyn, mostly sitting in a café because it was pouring outside and none of us was very keen on walking around in the rain; but it was still brilliant, as we threw Cabin Pressure and Souvenir Programme references at one another - and that’s something I can only do when I’m around Fandot people, which is such a pity, really.

On Sunday I finally went sightseeing around the city; you can find some of the pictures I took in my Edinburgh tag, and while the weather was a bit changeable, it still allowed me to wander around for the better part of the day. One of my favourite moments was walking down the Royal Mile whilst listening to the Edinburgh special Since You Ask Me, twice, and then the entire episode, because that’s how I roll. After that, I went to Holyrood Park and walked up the path leading to the top of Arthur’s Seat, which is an ancient volcano and a thoroughly beautiful place, with an amazing view on the city and its surroundings, including the Firth of Forth. Calton Hill also has a fantastic view on the city, as well as on Holyrood Park and Arthur’s Seat.

By the evening I was quite tired, but I still had to pop by Greyfriars Kirkyard, because I just couldn’t miss the chance for such an obvious JFSP reference. (On a side note, I think I understand the ‘Edinburgh’s sinister past’ SYAM far better now, or at least miles better than I did before actually visiting the city.) I also stumbled upon some breathtaking views of Edinburgh Castle at dusk, which I would have otherwise missed, and while neither my phone nor my camera managed to do it any justice, I’m still glad I got to see it with my own eyes.

And well, I guess that’s it for me this week - or month, or whatever. I have no idea when I’ll be able to travel again, but I’m still looking forward to going back to Edinburgh at some point, and hopefully see more of Scotland too.

For Edinburgh, Edinburgh, Edinburgh is the best.

#Edinburgh #June 15th to 18th #2018 #John Finnemore's Flying Visit #Arthur's Seat #(King of the Britons or Steward of the Aeroplane?)#(nobody knows nobody knows)#Fandot people #JFSP Edinburgh special #crivens man are you a man or a moose?#moose man moose!

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bigyack-com · 5 years ago

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Coronavirus: Premier League Does Not Yet Have "Green Light", Minister Warns

Clubs are understood to have been told that the use of a limited number of neutral venues is the only way to complete the campaign, to limit the strain on essential services and discourage gatherings of supporters near stadiums.But those at risk of relegation argue that the integrity of the competition would be compromised by the neutral-venue plan.Brighton chief executive Paul Barber is opposed to the idea, with the Seagulls hovering two points above the drop zone. Brighton were scheduled to play five of their remaining nine games at home.Despite extensive contingency planning, Secretary of State for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport Oliver Dowden warned the Premier League was yet to get the go-ahead, with testing and player welfare major hurdles."They've not been given the green light," Dowden told BBC Radio on Friday."If we can get a plan that works then I'd like us to be able to go ahead with it because I think it would be good for the nation, it would be good for football as a whole."I'm really hopeful we can get this up and running but public safety must come first so it's only if we're confident of that, we'll be able to proceed."In Germany, the Bundesliga announced this week that it would resume matches on May 16, behind closed doors and subject to extensive coronavirus testing.Dowden's comments came as The Times newspaper reported that Football Association chiefs would block any attempt to declare the Premier League season null and void and abandon relegation.Relegation scrapped?At least one club reportedly wants relegation to be scrapped if neutral grounds are used.But The Times said it was understood that the FA board supported the Premier League board's position that the league table should be decided on sporting merit even if it were cut short.Burnley captain Ben Mee, whose side are 10th in the table, said he believed footballers could "get over" playing at neutral venues if it meant the game could be re-started."It's not ideal but these times, they call for different measures," Mee told the BBC. "We can certainly get over that fact."And he said players would be prepared to spend time in quarantine if necessary."I think football is such an important part of our country, whether you like it or not, and people rely on it," he said. "And if we can give that positive boost to the country, then that would be fantastic."Former Manchester United and England defender Rio Ferdinand said there was no viable resolution that would satisfy all 20 clubs."People are going to feel at a disadvantage if certain decisions are made but I don't think the Premier League can have a wholehearted 100 percent win on this no matter what decision they make, which is unfortunate," he told the Press Association.Manchester City striker Sergio Aguero and Brighton's Glenn Murray have raised objections from a safety point of view but Ferdinand said they should put their faith in the authorities."The Premier League, the FA and the government, if all of those three bodies give it the green light then I'm sure the players' protection, health and well-being will be at the top of their agenda to make sure they remain healthy and not at risk," he said. Read the full article

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little-black-dress-24 · 8 years ago

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Pater’s Rose

AU, I hope you will like it!!! tell me what you think about it.... Looking forward to hear from you!!!

Breathlessly, I open the compartment, all my belongings in my hands. I enter the warm cabin, smiling at the other traveling passengers. A wealthy man stands up, helping me with my battered suitcase. With a slight movement he stows my suitcase away over my head.

I thank him, falling exhausted in my seat. He takes the seat opposite me; tiredly I smile, watching outside. With a loud toot, the railway signals that we’re ready to leave.

My hands are still clad in my new lace gloves. Carefully I pull on the fingers of the right hand, sliding out of my right glove, doing the same with the left. Holding both gloves in one hand I place them gently on my lap; in the same movement I bend forward to remove the hairpins which are holding my hat in place. Putting the hat on my lap too, covering my gloves, I close my eyes,feeling how the heavy machine starts to move.

*****

As I step outside of the train, my gloves and hat firmly back in place, I stand on the small train platform, looking to the right and to the left, a little smile on my face, because I know I have something of my own here for the first time in a while.

All the people examine me. I guess it’s a rare sight that a well dressed young lady steps off the train here. All the young people spend the summer in Brighton or another seaside resort.

I smell the fresh air on my face and for a split of a second I close my eyes, relishing the salty breeze, which is so different from the sticky, hot air in London. It was the right decision to visit my sister and her family at the seaside. The last time I saw her, she was heavily pregnant with her second child. Walking to an alcove, I put down my suitcase to pull out the letter she sent, searching for the sentences where she tells me who will pick me up.

Preoccupied with the letter I don’t notice him. He has a deep frown between his searching eyes. Here I find the line: the priest should pick me up. I fold the letter.

“Excuse me, Miss,” a soft voice interrupts me in my movement. I see only his black toe caps, the rest of his feet are covered by his black habit. The priest.

I smile, looking up. My eyes widen, and I hold my breath for few seconds. With shaking hands I try to put the letter away. The paper falls on the ground while I drown in his eyes.

“Everything alright, Miss?” he asks with the voice of an angel, bending down to pick up the letter.

Following him with my eyes, I swallow when he stands up to hand me the letter and our eyes fix on each other for too long.

Softly I take the letter from his hand.

“Yes,... Yes.. I wasn’t expecting you.” Blushing, I look on the ground. He laughs and the green of his eyes sparkle.

“Not every priest is old and quirky, Miss. But I’m glad that I found you. To be honest, it wasn’t difficult. Such a well-dressed pretty young Miss doesn’t arrive here often.”

His words hover between us. He gives me a smile, and I respond with a shy one of my own. Carrying my suitcase in his left hand, he offers me his right arm. I hesitate a moment, but then I slide my gloved hand under his arm. Holding my breath again, I feel his strong arm under mine. He carries my belongings in such an easy way that I can divine how his body looks under the black habit. Shocked over my own thoughts, I cough slightly.

He walks towards a car, and I’m impressed that he has a car here in this rural town. Opening the door he directs me to the passenger seat. This time I don’t hesitate. Sliding my hand into his waiting one, he looks at me through his green eyes, and my heart starts to pound. A soft smile appears on his lips as he gently squeezes my hand. He slams the door and rounds the car. I observe him while looking in the rear-view mirror. I can see the dust on the hem of his black cassock. I follow the black buttons up. A small crucifix rests on his chest. My eyes follow the chain now; it’s hanging around his neck, which is clad in a white priest collar. The cassock emphasizes his broad shoulders. And that wouldn’t be the first time I ask myself why such a young handsome man decides to live the life of a priest.

As he climbs into the driver's seat I see his hands. They don’t look like working hands; they’re neat and soft. Maybe sometimes an ink spot is there because he wrote a letter. I shouldn’t have such thoughts. Turning my head, I look outside the open window. The wind caresses my face, and some disobedient strands fly around my head. Furtively, I peek out under the brim of my hat. He has a furrow between his eyes while he concentrates on the street. His brown hair flaps in the wind, and one untamed curl is falling on his forehead. I feel the urge to stroke the brown hair off of his sweaty skin. It’s very hot, as we write the 30th May, 1914.

Folding my hands, I bite my lip, looking down at my clasped, gloved fingers.

“Olivia is really excited to see you again. She has had no other visitors for weeks. Only you.” His glance detaches from the street to look at me. The corners of my mouth twitch.

“Oh, she’s such a lovely child, I hope she likes the gift I brought her.” I say, smiling to myself, thinking of the white dress in my suitcase.

“You will stay the whole summer?” he asks, and I don’t know if hope or despair swings in his question. Sighing, I nod, turning my head towards him. “Yes, Father. I will stay the whole summer.”

We drive past green fields and meadows with apple trees and flowers. I feel how my heart opens after a long time again, and there is a light feeling of happiness which grows in my chest. Yes happiness; that’s what I missed the most in London. I love the city, but I’m caged in the big house. The door is open, but the freedom outside is a lie. Sitting in a tea house with the other women, talking about the weather, listening to their tiny problems, pretending I’m living a perfect marriage.

He drives the car around a little green hill, and then the sea is in front of us. Quiet, soft in the dark blue, the sun plays with the water and I have to squint my eyes. I have to look out of his window to see the beautiful landscape.

“The sea is fascinating. In one moment she is quiet and beautiful, but in the next untamed and destructive.”

“Yes, Father. All beautiful things have something destructive. Like the rose: her flower is stunning, but she has thorns. And how many men has the sea taken?” My eyes fix on the white lighthouse, thinking of how many lives this tower has rescued. Asking myself where my lighthouse is.

He swallows, looking at me as if I were a rose, a rock where the ships burst.

He looks with new concentration at the street in front of us.

“Well said, my child.” he smiles faintly.

The car curves around the corner, stopping in a cloud of gravel dust. I open the door, sliding from the seat. Nothing has changed since my last visit. The manor is still the old pile, the green of the grass intense, and the flowers shine in a bright red from the windows. The door opens, and a little shape runs in my direction. Squeaking my name, Olivia hugs me, pressing her head on my stomach. I have to laugh, tilting my head back. The priest looks at me, supporting himself on the open door. Contemplating the whole situation. Our glances meet and he looks away, touching his crucifix.

“Hello, my darling! Let me have a look at you,” I say, pressing her away with my hands on her shoulders. “You’re such a beautiful and tall girl!” I note. She’s really pretty. She’s a typical English beauty. Her long blonde hair falls in soft waves over her back, and the blue of her eyes is intense like the sky. As I look into her eyes, I feel the urge to look again in his green ones. My sister appears with the newborn in her arms in the door, and I immediately forget my urge in my desire to see the baby.

Gathering the material of my skirt in my fist, I lift the hem so as to not trip as I run towards her. I lose my hat as I run. Giving the newborn to her old housekeeper, Mrs. Smith, my sister spreads her arms to welcome me.

Only she knows the real reason why I fled from London. Yes. I fled. That’s the right word. Closing my eyes as her arms loop around my body, I feel welcome and home. She always smells like jasmine. Tightening my grip, I press her to my chest as if I would lose her forever.

“I missed you,” I whisper.

“Now that you’re here, everything will be fine.” is her response, and I breathe out shakily.

He’s still standing there, watching the scene, how we address each other again, probably asking himself what’s happened because it’s not the normal joy of seeing each other again after a long time. He’s a priest, a man who can read emotions, a man who knows humans. And yes, he knows it; he sees it.

I release my sister, smiling at her. She strokes the wild strands behind my ear.

“Your hat.”

I turn around, seeing him standing a few meters from me, holding my fashionable hat in his hands. His green eyes are like arrows which dart directly into my heart. My sister strokes my arm, which is clad in a blue blouse. Slowly I walk down the few stone steps, holding eye contact with him. The gravel crunches under my shoes.

“Thank you, Father.” I stretch out my hand, taking the hat, but he holds it too. It’s like we’re connected through the hat. But suddenly he opens his hands, letting the hat go.

“Mrs., Miss.” he greets my sister and me, “I have to go, a lot of work is waiting for me,” he gives us a boyish smile.

“Oh Pater Styles, please join us for dinner. We would love to have you,” my sister asks softly.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” he responds hesitantly, looking at me. I feel how my heart starts to pound again.

“Pater, I insist!” she says emphatically, taking the little girl back in her arms.

“My child,” he sighs.

“Pater! I won’t accept any excuse!” That’s my sister. I have to smile, holding the brim of my hat in my hands, turning it around in my still gloved hands, looking on the ground.

We’re sitting in the dining room, the cloth napkins in front of us, our stomachs full with the delicious and tasty meal. My sister sits diagonally across from me, Father Styles beside her, her husband at the head of the table. John is a handsome man, with a little belly, but I think that makes him likeable. His brown eyes are awake and watch you while he’s talking to you. John’s laugh is deep and contagious. I like him; he’s a good husband and father. I can see how he looks at my sister, and that fills my heart with love. She found her soulmate, her better half in him.

John is holding his glass of wine in his hand, leaning back against the backrest of the chair, stroking with his free hand over his belly.

“It was delicious! Martha is a pearl!” We all agree and Father Styles sips his wine.

“Tell me, my love, where is William? Does he spend the summer in London?”

I freeze. My sister coughs, and John is looking at her and then to me. I look at my lap, playing with my fingers. I feel his glance resting on me, how the green eyes drill into my flesh. Touching the gem at my throat, I give John a wan smile.

“He has a lot of work in the chancery.” I say quietly, avoiding his green eyes. My sister folds her hand.

“John do you want to go in the salon with Pater Styles?” my sister flutters her eyelashes at her husband and he understands immediately.

“Come on. Pater. Have I shown you my latest achievement? The whiskey is a poem! You have to taste it. It’s smooth on your tongue.” John laughs but Pater Styles looks at me, and I swallow. He knows that I’m not a Miss. Our eyes hang on each other’s for too long, while he is putting back the glass on the table. Standing up he looks at my sister and then at me, my glance lowered. Why am I ashamed by the fact that he knows that I have a man?

“Mrs.” he greets us, stepping out of the room with the babbling John.

“Sorry, my love. I didn’t tell John.”

“It’s ok, Em.” I look up, touching my gem again, feeling the lace of my collar under my fingertips, pressing my lips together.

“Darling” she stretches out her arm, across the table, reaching for my hand. “Don’t look so sad. Let us join John and Pater Styles.”

I nod, raising up from my chair, walking in the salon. The dark wooden double door is wide open. and I stand in the door frame, peeking in the room. John is sitting on the red velvet sofa. Legs crossed, leaning against the pillows, supporting his head with his right hand, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt; in his free hand, he holds a glass with golden liquid. Whiskey.

He is standing in front of the open fireplace, his back turned to me. His left arm rests on the mantelpiece; next to his soft fingers there stands a glass with the same golden liquid in it. His shoulders seem so strong in his black cassock but his waist is slim. Soft waves curl at his neck and he runs his other hand through his hair. His head is bent forward so he stares in the empty black fireplace.

Why has he chosen this life?

“John, I can’t agree,” he says in a deep voice, while he looks up, spying me in the mirror, which is hanging above the mantel. A broad golden frame garnishes the mirror.

His eyes are dark, darker than earlier today. They look mysteriously in mine. He only captures my eyes with his and my heart skips a beat. John says something, but he is caught in my eyes. He’s not able to responds to John. So John looks up to him, seeing me in the mirror too.

“Please,” he says to me, making an inviting gesture. My sister appears behind me, pushing me in the room, so I look down at the hem of my dress. While we enter the room he is turning around, holding his glass in his hand. I need something to hold too.

“Emily, we should let her play the piano! Your sister is a brilliant pianist!” John exclaims, looking at my sister.

“Pater, you should hear her play. It’s like listening to an angel!” He laughs.

“John, Harry for you, I said it once. I would love to hear it, but I guess the young Mrs. is tired because of the long journey.” he gives me a polite smile.

I can speak for myself. With two steps I’m standing beside the black piano, lifting up the black shining wood. A familiar crack resounds as I open the lid of the grand piano.

Stroking over my skirt, pressing a hand on my belt, I slide onto the piano stool. Squaring my shoulders, I open the little buttons on my sleeves. It’s different here, not like stiff London. I do it like John, rolling up my sleeves. Here nobody would judge me for this obscene gesture.

It has been a long time since I played. Laying my fingertips on the cold white keys, I close my eyes. I never like it when I have listeners; I play for my own amusement, but every Christmas my sister and I had to play. She played the violin, and I played the piano.

We have a grand piano too in London, but I don’t like it. It’s too black, too shiny, and too new.

Pressing my fingers down, the first tone flies through the room. The tones form a tune, and I feel the blood pulsing in my body. He still stands on his place, but his eyes are closed and he has a painful expression on his face.

I can feel his eyes resting on my shoulders which are in a steady motion. My fingers dancing over the keys, still with my eyes closed. It’s like I can talk after a long time, telling them my story. Opening my eyes I see my sister, sitting on the edge of the sofa, John’s flat hand resting on her back. Neither breathes, and I can see how my sister blinks tears away. Raising my glance, I see him. His lips are open a tad, eyes still closed; his back is pressed against the mantel and his right hand rests on his chest like he can’t breathe.

The last tone echoes in the cozy, wood panelled room. Nobody is saying anything and suddenly I recognize how exhausted I am. My hands rests in my lab, my shoulders hanging limp.

“That.., Darling, that was amazing!” John exclaims. I turn around, still sitting on the piano stool, I appreciate John’s opinion, but I’m more interested in another one. Slowly I look at him. His green eyes have a piercing glance. My mouth is dry as I see how he opens his mouth.

“Verily, it was amazing. My child, you got that special gift from god.” he says in his deep quiet voice, looking at my hands and then into my eyes. My heart pounds and I think it will disclose me. It will be a wonder if nobody recognizes our glances.

His elbow rests on the mantel, and in his hand he holds the amber coloured liquid. A soft smile appears on my lips.

“Thank you, pater.” It’s the second time today that I lose myself in his delicate features. The grandfather clock interrupts me, and I jerk at the deep bell stroke. Eleven or Twelve? I don’t know. I only see his face in front of me.

“It’s late, and I had a long journey.” I say, standing up, smoothing my skirt.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me I want to go to bed.” I turn around to my sister and John. Both are nodding. Now I have to say good night to him. Inhaling, I close my eyes, turning towards him.

“May I accompany you to the steps?” he asks. My eyes widen, and I nod flummoxed. I say good night to John and kiss my sister’s cheek. I walk out of the room, and he walks densely behind me. I feel his body his black silhouette appears next to me. Silently we walk towards the stairway. My hand embraces the wooden ball of the baluster, as my foot touches the first step. Turning around I smile shyly and lower my glance.

He replies to my smile with a faint smile while he grabs my right hand. It’s the first time I feel his skin on my skin, and it feels intimate, like my hand belongs in his.

He guides my hand carefully to his mouth and I hold my breath. Tenderly, he presses his soft lips on the back of my hand. An unknown weakness overcomes me, and I’m glad that there is the baluster.

“Good Night,” he breathes.

“Good night, pater” I whisper shyly. I gather my skirt and walk tiredly with a pounding heart up the stairs. As I arrive on the last step I look down; he is still standing there, looking up to me. I disappear in the dark hallway which leads to my room.

“Good night, my rose,” he whispers to himself, embracing his crucifix so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

#harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #harry styles writing #original writing #harry styles smut #harry styles

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sportsleague365 · 6 years ago

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Dimitar Berbatov previews this weekend’s Premier League action including Manchester City v Leicester (Picture: Metro/Getty)With Liverpool away in Qatar on Club World Cup duty, Manchester City and Leicester take centre stage in the Premier League’s standout fixture of the weekend. Brendan Rodgers has done an outstanding job since taking over the reins at Leicester and will be desperate for the Foxes to extend their four-point lead over City with a result at the Etihad. Arsenal appointed Mikel Arteta as their new head coach on Friday and the Spaniard returns to former stomping ground Goodison Park in Saturday’s opening match. Arteta will be looking to get one over on Duncan Ferguson who shared a dressing room with at Everton once upon a time. MORE: SHOWBIZ Love Island's Tommy Fury feeling festive as he rocks cheeky Rudolph pants for weigh-inManchester City's stance on Ben Chilwell and Caglar SoyuncuJessie J shares 'happy' Instagram posts after split with Channing TatumElsewhere, Manchester United will be confident of victory away to bottom-placed Watford and Jose Mourinho faces former club Chelsea at the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium in a mouthwatering clash on Sunday. Betfair Ambassador Dimitar Bebatov reviews all of those games and more exclusively for Metro.co.uk… Liverpool are on course to end their 30-year wait for a league title (Picture: Getty) Everton v ArsenalMikel Arteta was appointed Arsenal head coach on Friday (Picture: Getty)Everton have had that lift they needed, which is down do big Duncan. It is great to see how passionate he is on the touchline, going crazy, waving his hands and showing his passion. The players have his respect, he commands it and because of that they have had some good performances. Arsenal are shaken at the moment and they need some stability. Dimitar’s prediction: Everton 2-2 Arsenal Aston Villa v SouthamptonVilla are hovering above the relegation zone (Picture: Getty)Villa had that great result midweek, albeit against a very young Liverpool side, and that will give them confidence and they are playing well. I think they will continue and impress against Southampton. Dimitar’s prediction: Aston Villa 2-0 Southampton Bournemouth v BurnleyBournemouth beat Chelsea at Stamford Bridge last weekend (Picture: Getty)On the face of it, it doesn’t look like this will be a classic, with all respect. Both teams are performing how they would expect to be and this match kicks off what is going to be a busy Christmas period where you can pick up lots of points. I think home advantage will prove to be important on this one. Dimitar’s prediction: Bournemouth 1-0 Burnley Brighton v Sheffield UnitedChris Wilder’s side have impressed in the English top flight (Picture: Getty)Sheffield have been a big surprise and they are really doing well. They stick to their system and they are comfortable with it, which shows with their results. It doesn’t matter who they play the have their game plan and they execute it. Dimitar’s prediction: Brighton 1-2 Sheffield United Newcastle v Crystal PalaceSteve Bruce’s side sit 11th in the Premier League table (Picture: Getty)Crystal Palace have had some good results on the road this season and they are unbeaten in their last four matches, but St James’ Park is a tough place to go and I think Palace’s run will come to an end. Dimitar’s prediction: Newcastle 2-1 Crystal Palace Norwich v WolvesJan Vertonghen scored a last-gasp winner against Wolves last weekend (Picture: Getty)Wolves will be fuming still after losing against Spurs in the last minute and believe me it hurts when that happens. I think they will bounce back and get a strong result against Norwich. Dimitar’s prediction: Norwich 0-2 Wolves Manchester City v LeicesterBrendan Rodgers has done an outstanding job at Leicester (Picture: Getty)This is a big game. Honestly, at the moment I think Leicester are doing really well, but their run will come to an end at some point. City aren’t playing at their highest level but if they want to have a chance to catch Liverpool they have to keep winning, they know that and this weekend will be a big test for them. People shouldn’t underestimate Leicester, they have been champions before, I don’t think anyone can afford to underestimate them, especially now with Brendan Rodgers working miracles for them. Dimitar’s prediction: Manchester City 3-2 Leicester Watford v Manchester UnitedOle Gunnar Solskjaer’s men have beaten City and Spurs in recent weeks (Picture: Getty)Bottom of the table Watford are unstable at the moment with all the changes there, there confidence is shaken. At the same time, United are finding their rhythm and if they stay compact, concentrate and use the speed they have they should cause Watford a lot of problems and they can not afford to lose again. Dimitar’s prediction: Watford 0-3 Man United Tottenham v ChelseaJose Mourinho manages Tottenham against former club Chelsea this weekend (Picture: Getty)It will be an emotional one for Mourinho for sure. Chelsea have lost their last two, Spurs got the late winner last time out. But when you play a big rival it’s different, the games in the past don’t matter. Spurs have the opportunity to break into the top four with a win but they can not underestimate Chelsea. I think this one will be a tight match and very close. Dimitar’s prediction: Tottenham 2-2 Chelsea MORE: Mikel Arteta reveals the Pep Guardiola ‘secret’ that he hopes to bring to Arsenal #PremierLeague #BrendanRodgers #DimitarBerbatov

#PremierLeague #BrendanRodgers #DimitarBerbatov

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thisdaynews · 6 years ago

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El Clasico: Why Barcelona's Frenkie de Jong & Real Madrid's Federico Valverde could stand out

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/el-clasico-why-barcelonas-frenkie-de-jong-real-madrids-federico-valverde-could-stand-out/

El Clasico: Why Barcelona's Frenkie de Jong & Real Madrid's Federico Valverde could stand out

Barcelona host Real Madrid at 19:00 GMT on Wednesday

More than seven weeks after they were supposed to meet, Barcelona and Real Madrid go head to head at the Nou Camp on Wednesday in a match that looks set to decide who leads La Liga at Christmas.

Both teams started the season poorly but have improved significantly over the past few weeks, and they go into the midweek showdown – which was postponed from 26 October because of independence protests in Barcelona – level on points at the top of the table.

Old hands like Lionel Messi, Luis Suarez, Gerard Pique, Karim Benzema, Toni Kroos and Sergio Ramos will be on display, but a new twist to the rivalry comes with expected first El Clasico starts for two dynamic midfielders whose personal battle could help define this fixture for years to come.

Here is how 22-year-old Dutchman Frenkie de Jong has joined Messi as one of the first names on the Barca teamsheet, and why 21-year-old Uruguayan Federico Valverde has subdued talk of Paul Pogba heading to Real.

‘Born to play for Barcelona’

De Jong rose to prominence during Ajax’s thrilling march to last season’s Champions League semi-finals. That led to an almighty transfer race – which Barcelona won ahead of Manchester City and Paris St-Germain.

It has not taken long for De Jong to justify his £65m fee, with the Netherlands international starting 15 of 16 league games and spending more time on the pitch than any outfield player except centre-back Pique.

Andrea Orlandi, the former Barcelona, Swansea and Brighton midfielder who is now a pundit for La Liga TV, believes the main question facing manager Ernesto Valverde is not where De Jong should fit in, but how to accommodate others around him.

“There is no doubt he’ll start El Clasico. It’s Messi and De Jong, plus nine others,” Orlandi told BBC Sport. “He’s done even better than I expected and looks like he was born to play for Barcelona.”

One of the key conclusions from Barca’s collapse at Liverpool in last season’s Champions League semi-finals – a nightmare that still hovers over them – was the urgent need for more pace and power in midfield to avoid being overrun by more agile opponents.

De Jong has been the man to provide it alongside the relatively slow and immobile Sergio Busquets, Ivan Rakitic and Arthur Melo.

“He’s amazing on the ball and his passing accuracy is always over 90%,” added Orlandi. “But even more important is he adds a physical element to Barca’s midfield. He competes for a lot of balls.

“He’s very important off the ball because he runs constantly, like Xavi did in the past. People often didn’t realise that Xavi always covered more ground than anyone else, and now De Jong is bringing that quality back into the team, which is what they desperately needed.”

Dynamic Valverde’s breakthrough season

Athleticism, versatility and quality on the ball. Many of De Jong’s attributes are also evident in Valverde, who is set to make his first Clasico start after breathing new life into Real Madrid’s midfield this season.

Valverde came through the youth ranks at Uruguayan giants Penarol in his hometown of Montevideo, before being snapped up by Real in the summer of 2016.

Los Blancos boss Zinedine Zidane started to put faith in Valverde towards the end of 2018-19 and picked him in five of the final eight games, but in the past couple of months he has taken a giant step forward to leap ahead of 34 year-old Luka Modric in the pecking order.

Valverde is an old-fashioned, box-to-box midfielder who does everything well and without fuss.

“He always seems to know what he has to do and where he has to be,” said Phil Kitromilides, the commentator for Real’s in-house TV channel.

“He is relatively inexperienced, but he left his country as a teenager, came to the other side of the world and then had a season on loan at Deportivo, which was a real learning curve.

“He keeps it simple, has incredible energy and is really quick. He’s young but he’s had a good education and has an intelligent football brain.”

There have been suggestions Zidane may take advantage of Valverde’s physical capabilities and selfless attitude by employing him in a man-marking role on Messi on Wednesday. However, that would detract from another of his assets, and one area where he looks superior to De Jong: his ability to create and score goals.

Valverde has two goals and two assists in his 12 La Liga appearances this season, and Kitromilides added: “He’s got that Toni Kroos-like ability to arrive at the right time on the edge of the area and strike the ball cleanly. I think we’ll see a lot more goals from him.”

Forcing a way into the Kroos-Modric-Casemiro axis – arguably the best midfield in the world over recent years – would not be easy for any player. But Valverde has been delivering everything Zidane hoped the signing of Pogba would bring, and talk of the Manchester United midfielder coming to the Bernabeu has cooled during the Uruguayan’s breakthrough season.

We have to believe El Clasico will go ahead – Zidane

Tactical conundrums on both sides

Zinedine Zidane’s Real Madrid are second in the La Liga table on goal difference behind Ernesto Valverde’s Barcelona

The question of exactly where De Jong and Valverde will be deployed is one of several unknowns which make this game tactically the most interesting Clasico for years.

Barcelona are likely to line up in their usual 4-3-3 formation, with Busquets flanked by De Jong on the left and Rakitic on the right.

But manager Valverde has occasionally dabbled with a 4-2-3-1, with De Jong alongside Rakitic, Arthur or Busquets, and three from Messi, Antoine Griezmann, Arturo Vidal and Ansu Fati behind centre-forward Suarez.

Valverde could also opt for a 4-4-2 and seek to control the game in the centre of the pitch by omitting Griezmann and bringing in an extra midfielder – probably Vidal for his disruptive energy.

There are also questions over what Real will do, with Zidane’s selection complicated by the absence of the injured Eden Hazard – a certain starter if fit.

Like Barca, Real usually set up in a 4-3-3 and have two of Gareth Bale, Rodrygo and Vinicius Junior alongside the in-form Karim Benzema up front.

However, in the recent Champions League meeting with Paris St-Germain, Zidane reverted to a midfield diamond with the lesser-seen Isco at the tip. The players responded with an excellent display and that system could be deployed again on Wednesday.

Zidane has said he likes to regularly vary the formation to make it more difficult for opponents to prepare to play against them, and we can’t rule out a surprise selection from either manager.

It would be even more surprising, though, if the names of De Jong and Valverde do not feature in the starting XIs.

#stand #Valverde

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