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abominationcreator · 2 years

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The Quiet Forest

TW: Homophobia, transphobia, abuse of curtains.

You and your fiancé, Mark, wake up miraculously within mere moments of each other. The hotel bed you share, barely large enough to house you both, forces you close, his bosom pressed to the thick layer of hair adorning your chest like a bath mat while his soft, perfect hair, rests against your neck. You slowly untangle from each other and don your clothing. You are going camping with your parents, and you will reveal your engagement. His dad has not been very approving of your relationship, but you hope that confronting him like this will open his eyes, or make him at least shut up.

After having prepared for the day and re-packed all of your belongings, you both exit the hotel. You begin to peruse online and find some of the folk lore of the forest you'll be camping in whilst your fiancé drives you both to the campsite. There was a missing persons case in the 40s, some cabin owner who went missing in the woods. It was dramatized for a few years, turning the town into a tourist destination, because of the fact the agent was working for the federal government. This tale nearly died off after a few years, but the sudden disappearance of his cabin jump-started the media, bringing enough tourists to turn the quiet town into a proper city. You find the story ludicrous, but your fiancé disagrees, obviously scared by the eerie nature of the tale woven before him. You make an effort to assure them, it's been 80 years after all. This works a little, to assure his anxious mind, but they still appear somewhat worried. He is often worried about such things, but the way his face scrunches up in that cute way always makes you smile. Such a reminder of your love is adorable...

Sorry, back to the tale. Ahem, now, at this point in the drive, you are entering the woods. A satisfyingly, subtle drop in elevation as you enter puts you at ease. You open your window to take in the sounds of the woods, but there is none but the sound of your automobile. You watch the fallen leaves turn to powder behind you in the side view mirror, but you don't hear a noise. Even the wind you're accustomed to at 20+ MPH, the wind you feel assaulting your every pore, is silent as it batters your eardrums. You decide to shrug it off as a side effect of the testosterone supplements, though this does little to calm your nerves. No- don't do-, tell- ugh. Instead of actually talking with Mark about your anxieties, you just keep them to yourself and shut the window. Like a fool. You don't even ask your partner about the side effects of testosterone supplements and birth control, let alone telling them about your sudden onset apparent hearing loss. Dumbass.

You continue your dumbassery until you arrive at your campsite: a clearing, lush with grass and moss, surrounded on nearly all sides by tress, dense shrubbery. The dirt road you came here on is the only interruption to the seemingly impenetrable wall of green. Your beloveds parents are already here, setting up their tent for the night despite the fact it's only 6 PM. You greet Marks parents with your usual hearty "Hello", receiving no more than a nod from his dad, Gabriel, but his mother, Elizabeth, waves to you and gives you a smile through her uneven, British teeth. You begin to unpack your belongings from the vehicle while Mark greets his parents, popping an antihistamine for his fungal allergy. While unloading, you find the box containing your rings. You handle them with great care, placing them within your pocket so as to protect them. You unpack all of your belongings, placing the food items in a sealed container and beginning to carefully set up your tent, opposite the campfire from Gabe and Livs tent. As the sun began to set you and Mark awayed to your tent, so you could change into evening-wear.

Your stylish, striped pajamas and evening sandals, Marks plain black t-shirt and ponytail; You're a pretty hot couple. You head out, and grab one of the rods so you can begin roasting marshmallows for the particularly gooey confection you call "Some Mores". These "Some Mores", a confection of chocolate, marshmallow, and Grahamed crackers, are a favorite of Gabe. Hopefully this will place him into a good mood. You tell him you have something to tell him. Mark adds a "We" and places his hand in yours. You take out the rings, handing Marks his and putting on your own. Gabe looks shocked, but Liv looks... disturbed. Gabe is surprised, sure, but he looks like he's... smiling? Elizabeth looks like she was just informed you both have every terminal disease known to man and Me. She stands, eyes moist with anguish, and runs off into the woods. Gabe tells Mark you'll talk about this when he returns and runs off after her, calling her name. He fades into silence much faster than it seems he should. You hope you aren't going deaf; could this be a reaction between the Birth Control and the Testosterone, you wonder? No, your rational mind tells your lying ass brain. There is something wrong. You hear Mark just fine, your phone just fine, and his parents just fine. These woods are wrong.

You are broken from these thoughts by your lover, crying. You go to him, wrapping him in your embrace, but he breaks out and walks a few steps away. Through tears he tells you he needs to go after his parents. "2 50+ year olds, running in the woods at night? I-I couldn't live with myself if they got hurt because of me. I-I'll be back soon." He ran off, before you could stop him. You sat down, processing that Marks dad wasn't homophobic. While he is certainly still transphobic, the realization his homophobia was a facade for his wife, the woman who baked you cake and made you feel at home all those times, is enough of a shock to lull you to sleep. You don't know what time it is when you wake up, but you feel like you're being watched. Your phone is dead. Your watch is dead. Your car has... disappeared. Along with the road. This is new. You look around, your campsite has been overgrown with moss and a few collapsed branches. The tents have been collapsed, the curtainous entrances have been torn asunder. You look in the direction Mark and his parents went off in. You pass the bushes, the clouds and the canopy obscuring your view and causing you to nearly lose their trail. You trip over something. You look down, it's Gabes shoe. A tree has grown through it. There is something wrong with this forest, you finally realize. You stupidly shake off this feeling, and continue on the path. You find Marks antihistamines, and take them with you. He might need them. You keep running, eventually reaching another clearing. A humanoid figure is in the center. You run to it. It's... a natural art piece. A bush, wired to grow in the shape of a person. But... there are no wires. Just... crooked, British, wooden teeth... It's Liv. She's a bush. You run back to where you found Marks antihistamines, and look for him, but he isn't there. You run back to Gabes shoe, but instead of your beloved fiancé, you find his dad. Gabe is on the ground, a wooden statue of himself instead of a wooden representation with the occasional, sharp wooden feature. His nose is broken inward, but you tripped over his legs. You see the imprint of Marks ring on the wood. Your fiancé punched his father over something. Could he have been defending you, you wonder? You hold back your loving tears and run, eager to find your beloved in the hopes you haven't lost them. The silence around you is deafening as you run. Despite having recently gotten up from a rest, and exercising regularly, you feel yourself growing weary quickly. You spot, ahead, a clearing with a grand shape in the center. Could it be Mark, could my love have lived on as a tree? But no... you rush ahead to find a huge mushroom, with a humanoid figure on the ground next to it, made of solid mycelia. The chest has been exploded outwards... the lungs are in pieces... there are chunks of mycelial ribs all over the clearing. The fungal allergy killed him before this forest could take him from you. How was this fair, forest? The homophobe, taken painlessly? The transphobe hardly tapped before his death? The cute, sweet gay man, consumed from the inside out, and possibly left conscious to feel his exploded chest cavity for the rest of his days. But... what will become of you? You return to the campsite, tired. As you sit in the chair, you notice your hands are wooden... and ablaze. You can't hear the fire burn. The world is silent around you as the fire overtakes you. And your ashes are taken by my Quiet Forest.

Thanks for listening to my stream.

#my writing #fiction #spooky

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gramilano · 5 years

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Onegin with Roberto Bolle and Marianela Nuñez photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

John Cranko’s ballet Onegin was brought to La Scala in 1993 as a vehicle for Carla Fracci with Rex Harrington in the title role. It wasn’t, however, Fracci’s first contact with the ballet. Her close ties with Cranko began before he became the director of the Stuttgart Ballet when she created Juliet in his production of Romeo and Juliet for La Scala; she was 21. The inimitable Marcia Haydée was the original Tatiana when Onegin was staged in Stuttgart in 1965, but Cranko first heard Tchaikovsky’s symphonic poem Francesca da Rimini, which he used as the music for the heart-breaking final duet, while at Fracci’s house in the early ‘60s. Tatiana was a role that she longed to dance, even though she had to wait until she was 56 before the opportunity arose.

The opening night Tatiana for this season’s run at La Scala was Marianela Nuñez, a dancer who has admired Fracci since she was a child, and there was a warm greeting between the two after the curtain came down on the night Fracci was in the audience.

Nuñez is beautiful in this role, and while her suitability for the last act is a given, she gives a satisfyingly credible and nuanced performance as the young Tatiana too – crunching up her dress with a hand when she feels awkward, shyly giving Onegin Princess Di looks, being simple and ingenuous while avoiding being silly and gullible. Her dancing is a marvel, with meticulous attention to the underlying expression of each placement of her foot, of every position of her hands, yet there is complete freedom and fearlessness in the athletic pas de deux with Onegin – poise giving way to passion.

Onegin with Roberto Bolle and Marianela Nuñez photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

Pier Luigi Samaritani, who is well-known for designing Natalia Makarova’s La Bayadère for the American Ballet Theatre, designed this production for La Scala. Onegin was maybe his last project as he died just a year later at 51. However, the sets don’t seem to have come from a fifty-year-old in the 1990s as they creak under the weight of his old-fashioned approach, with lots of questionable perspective too. Roberta Guidi Di Bagno is credited as co-designing the fine costumes, and I would guess that most of the work is hers. The most striking differences with Jürgen Rose’s 1960’s designs are Titania’s ball dress for her duet with Gremin, which is black, not red, and her dress for the final scene which is royal blue. Both choices subtly tell their own story, with the importance and formality of her life as a general’s wife being shown in the black, and the strong, mature woman she has become is reflected in the blue, someone who doesn’t seem put upon and downcast as she can seem in Rose’s muted brown dress.

16 Onegin with Roberto Bolle and Marianela Nuñez photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

17 Onegin with Roberto Bolle and Marianela Nuñez photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

Inhabiting these two dresses was Nuñez, commanding and majestic, the tables now turned as Onegin crumples to the floor, desperate for her attention. Her rapid breathing as she builds her resolve to order him away is impeccably judged and typical of her believability in every moment. She is despairing but never hysterical. Of course, Nuñez cheats a little… she has Tatiana inbuilt. Her honesty and goodness have come across the footlights since she first stepped on to The Royal Opera House stage as a teenager – everyone loves Nela – and maybe, like Tatiana, she lacked some emotional maturity in her early years, which was why Aurora was such a perfect fit. Now, roles such as Tatiana, (Manon, for example), are ideal for her being, at 37, she can still infuse these young girls with convincing naiveté yet has the experience and depth to develop them fully until the final curtain. Yet Nuñez the woman takes her applause looking like a delighted teenager once more.

10 Onegin with Roberto Bolle and Marianela Nuñez photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

13 Onegin with Roberto Bolle photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

Similarly, Roberto Bolle retained a Peter Pan boyishness for years that made him an ideal Romeo but less convincing in such manly roles as Onegin until more recently. As his face caught up with his body, parts like this began to fit him like a glove. The contrast between the stuffed shirt Onegin when he first meets Tatiana, and the abandonment and joy he expresses when he appears in her dream, is spot on. Outside of Tatiana’s dream, Bolle’s Onegin is an almost totally dislikeable character, though his attractiveness to her is evident. His flirting is cruel, and his lack of maturity in confronting Lensky’s adolescent jealousy to avoid a duel is unforgivable.

Onegin with Martina Arduino and Nicola del Freo photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

Nicola Del Freo’s Lensky was one of the best I have ever seen. Dreamy, fresh and handsome then confused, angry and petulant. His demanding solo before the duel was flawless technically, every step executed with ease, but also with great musicality and intention. Martina Arduino was Olga. She is blessed with a doll-like face which catches the light, and she radiated joy throughout the first scene. Her pas de deux with Lensky was delightful – she playful and vibrant, he ardent – with Lensky’s sensuous stage-level rond de jambe summing up perfectly their feelings of yearning and abandon.

Gabriele Corrado, another fine dancing actor from La Scala’s now impressive stable, was Prince Gremin. He has natural authority on stage, and with his strong build and care for detail, he must be every ballerina’s favourite partner.

Onegin with Marianela Nuñez and Gabriele Corrado photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

Unfortunately, with only seven performances, and five taken by Nuñez and Bolle, there was only one opportunity to see another cast. Yet Corrado and the magnificent Emanuela Montanari were especially memorable two years ago, and it would have been good to see them again, and indeed showcase a new couple. This is always a problem with La Scala’s limited runs. The only other cast featured Nicoletta Manni as Tatiana and Marco Agostino as Onegin.

There were many differences between Manni’s interpretation and that of Nuñez, in both her characterisation and her dancing. Manni is excellent at finding every opportunity for holding a position for a microsecond longer than most ballerinas which has the same function as punctuation in a sentence, clarifying the meaning and structure. This was especially effective in her first solo when she is trying to catch Onegin’s eye and she played effectively with every step. Strangely, although a younger dancer, she was a more knowing Tatiana from curtain up.

Agostino was warmer than Bolle, which was fine but less effective, and he sometimes appeared to be putting on a ‘stern’ mask. It recalled Bolle playing these roles in his twenties. However, Agostino’s dancing is accomplished and expressive and he cuts a dashing figure on stage. Alessandra Vassallo was a delightful Olga dancing with Del Freo as Lensky, who impressed once again.

…further photos

01 Onegin with Marianela Nuñez Martina Arduino and il Corpo di Ballo photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

02 Onegin with Martina Arduino and Nicola del Freo photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

03 Onegin with Nicola Del Freo photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

04 Onegin with Martina Arduino and Nicola del Freo photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

05 Onegin with Nicola Del Freo photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

06 Onegin with Martina Arduino and Nicola del Freo photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

09 Onegin with Roberto Bolle and Marianela Nuñez photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

11 Onegin with Roberto Bolle and Marianela Nuñez photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

12 Onegin with Nicola Del Freo photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

15 Onegin with Roberto Bolle and Marianela Nuñez photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

18 Onegin with Roberto Bolle and Marianela Nuñez photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

19 Onegin with Roberto Bolle and Marianela Nuñez photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

21 Onegin with Marianela Nuñez photo by Brescia and Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2019

Marianela Nuñez and Roberto Bolle lead an top-notch cast in Onegin at La Scala John Cranko’s ballet Onegin was brought to La Scala in 1993 as a vehicle for Carla Fracci with Rex Harrington in the title role.

#Alessandra Vassallo #Carla Fracci #John Cranko #Marcia Haydée #Marco Agostino #Marianela Nuñez #Martina Arduino #Nicola Del Freo #Nicoletta Manni #Onegin #Roberto Bolle

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scrollingkingfisher · 7 years

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Five Times Sam Gave Gabriel the Kiss of Death (and One Time he Didn’t)

Everybody Sam kisses dies, right? That's his curse. So he figures that if it works on his lovers, it should damn well work on his enemies, too.

Only this is Sam Winchester's life, and nothing is ever easy like that.

Pairings; Sam Winchester/Gabriel

Rating; T

AO3

I DID THE THING GUYS I DID THE THING!

Tagging; @keepingcalmisoverratedgoddamnit, @hectatess, @archangelgabriellives, @shippers-roost, @saragirlhere, @nathyfaith, @youarentreadingthis, @unleashthemidnight, @theriverscribe

1. Mystery spot

It starts in a moment of pure, unadulterated insanity.

Insanity isn’t so unusual for Sam these days; he was trapped in Mystery Spot for around a year, and now he’s spent almost six months without Dean.

During the dark moments, when he gets so lonely that he can barely breathe, he sometimes recalls those few, sweet memories of people who he had cared about. Not Dean, because the loss is still too raw for that. But sometimes his thoughts drift to Jessica, or Sarah.

After that, of course, when the warm glow of the memories has worn off, comes the bitter realisation that everyone he has ever kissed seems to die. Maybe he’s cursed, he wonders, staring up at the mouldering roof of his latest squat. Maybe he will never kiss anyone ever again, for fear of them turning monstrous or dropping dead. Probably both.

A wild thought enters his brain; maybe he is cursed. Maybe he should use that, the next time he comes across something that deserves it.

And seeing the trickster finally in front of him during their final confrontation, the cruel smile on his face as he lords it over Sam about how he should know better, about how he ‘needs to let go of his brother’, well. The trickster deserves a little poetic justice. This would be just his kind of irony.

So Sam lunges forwards. He has half a second to relish the wide golden-eyed surprise on the trickster’s face, and then he’s grappling with him. Sam pours his everything into the kiss, all the emotions that have been brewing up behind his sternum for years, all the hatred and the despair and the seething, boiling anger. It’s a not a nice kiss, more like an attack, all dominating teeth and tongue. The trickster is stock still under him, mouth open and slack until Sam bites his lip viciously. Then the trickster’s moving, pushing back against him, giving as good as he gets until Sam has to yank away to breathe.

He pulls back and staggers back a step, panting. He can taste iron on his tongue, whether it’s his own blood or the tricksters, he can’t tell.

The trickster stares at him. He stares back. The room is filled with the sort of awkward shellshocked silence that makes Sam realise that he’s really, truly caught the trickster unawares. He feels a little stupid, now that sanity’s caught up with him. What was he trying to do, kiss him to death? But he glowers at the trickster anyway, defiant.

Sam expects the trickster to say something, to dismiss the kiss or mock him or kill him where he stands. But instead the trickster just stalls there, expressions flickering across his face faster than Sam can catch them. Then, without saying a word, the trickster raises a hand and snaps.

It takes Sam a while to adjust to Dean being alive again, but he finds himself thinking about the trickster occasionally in the next few months. The Kiss of Death hasn’t worked, as far as he knows. But for now he has Dean back, so for the longest time, Sam does his best to forget all about it.

2. Changing Channels

They had known what they were letting themselves in for the moment that they had stepped into the warehouse.

This time, he didn’t really want the trickster to die, per say. He’s angry, of course he is. He hasn’t forgotten the desperation of those six months. But this time, he wasn’t going to be manipulated. He wasn’t going to let the trickster push him around in his little ‘games’.

So when he finally bursts through the door onto the set of the sitcom, Sam sees a potential opportunity. He waits while he duct tapes Cas’ mouth shut, and while Dean gets more and more angry. Then finally, he starts preaching to them about ‘playing their roles,’ and Sam has had enough. Anything to shut him up.

With one quick step, Sam corners the trickster against the hideous wallpaper and drags him in by the lapels. The trickster is a little more prepared this time; after the first second, he’s kissing back, his tongue slipping into Sam’s mouth, taking over the kiss with experienced precision. Damn, he’s good.

It’s infuriating.

Sam dives back in, using every trick in the book. He licks into his mouth, their teeth clacking together. Then strong fingers grip his arms, supernatural strength flipping them around until Sam is the one pressed back against the wall, the trickster practically climbing him to get closer. Sam can’t help a little startled groan at the change in position, heat tingling through him as he pushes back against the restraining hands.

They break apart, panting for breath. The trickster’s hair has come down from its usual stupid combed back look and is flopping over his face in disarray, the front of his jacket all rucked up and lopsided. That, combined with the satisfyingly stunned look on his face, make him look utterly flustered and debauched. Good. Sam lets himself smirk a little.

The trickster narrows his eyes at him before disappearing in a crackle of static. The game is on.

That should do it! Sam thinks in triumph for a second before turning around.

He’d completely forgotten that he had an audience. Dean is staring at him, eyes wide and mouth open. Cas just frowns at him over the tape, confused.

“Sam… did you just… what the…?” Dean is spluttering, appalled, absolutely lost for words, and if Sam wasn’t slowly turning red from mortification, it would have been hilarious.

Luckily the trickster saves Sam from any further humiliation by choosing that moment to throw them headlong into a procedural cop drama. Sam’s still dreading getting out of here. Dean’s going to tease him for years.

If they live that long.

3. The Revelation

So. He isn’t a trickster. He’s an angel.

And not just any angel, either, the freaking archangel Gabriel on top of that.

Sam doesn’t really know how to deal with that. He had kissed an archangel. An archangel who stares out of that circle of holy fire at him with such a familiar level of anger and frustration reflected in his eyes that it’s hard not to empathise. Sam flicks on the sprinklers once he’s explained himself, and he’s vanished before Sam even turns around.

Gabriel isn’t gone, though. He keeps appearing after that, popping into Sam’s room whenever he freaking fancies it, apparently just for the pleasure of riling him up. Sam knows what he’s really doing, though. The archangel shows up, makes a few inflammatory comments about them having to end the world, then waits around looking hopeful, like a puppy that’s pulled off a new trick and now expects a treat.

And Sam can’t help it. He gives in. Because Gabriel is frustrating, and annoying, and also (though it takes it a while to admit it to himself), because Gabriel is an excellent kisser.

And somehow, the kissing gets less angry and turns into making out. And even more making out. Which morphs into a spectacular round of angry sex on the day of a particularly bad hunt. Which leads to a second round of slow, gentle sex later that evening. And then he’s confessing to Gabriel about how he had to kill all those poor people the werewolves turned, and he falls asleep with Gabriel’s hand gentle in his hair and his voice in his ear, telling him a story about Thor and ancient asgard.

After that it just… keeps happening. Dean complains loudly, mostly because he refuses to knock on the freaking door and catches an eyeful or two, but Sam has never cared less. Being with Gabriel is a whirlwind of kissing, and comfort, and a few occasions of Gabriel getting pissed at the demons who keep catching them (and Sam’s never going to admit how hot he finds it when Gabriel comes storming in, all hard gold burning eyes and wings out, and obliterates a warehouse with a thought. Never.)

There’s only one dark spot on his newfound happiness. It occurs to him while he’s lying in bed, listening as Gabriel whistles while he cooks them breakfast in the tiny motel kitchenette. He smiles, a warm feeling glowing in his chest. He might actually… he might…

Sam might actually love Gabriel.

He has a minute of golden happiness before the realisation sinks in and his eyes widen in horror.

Oh, god.

Oh, god, this isn’t good.

Because he remembers how all this started. He might as well have pushed Gabriel in front of a firing squad. Nobody who kisses him lives, loving him is a death sentence. Sam is poison, he knows that.

He had kissed Gabriel at first, and nothing had happened, but what about now? Now that his feelings are genuine? Maybe the curse only works if he actually feels it, because fate is a cruel bitch and Sam’s life is never kind.

Gabriel pops his head around the corner and grins at him, wearing nothing except a kiss the cook apron, and Sam fakes a smile back. He can’t leave Gabriel. He’s in too deep. But now there’s a terrifying doubt at the back of his mind that even this small piece of happiness that he’s carved out of the chaos of his life can never last.

4. Hammer of the Gods

“Are you alright?” Dean asks from where they’re huddled behind the table, and Sam has to resist the impulse to laugh hysterically. He’s just seen his lover get stabbed in the chest with his own blade. Lucifer, the devil who has been trying to seduce him into letting him wear Sam’s skin, is battling the goddess of death just across the room from them. Of course he’s not fucking alright. But before Dean can say this, someone answers for him.

“Not really.”

He whirls, and there’s Gabriel. He looks older, even though it’s only been a few short minutes since he’d seen him last, and a thousand times more tired.

Gabriel’s eyes linger on his for a second, but there’s no time. Gabriel smacks something into Dean’s chest. “Guard this with your life.”

He’s about to go. Without thinking, Sam lunges forwards, pulls him back down where they’re crouched behind the table with a hand twisted into the front of his jacket, and kisses him. It’s hard, and desperate; Sam tries to pour everything he feels into the kiss, all the love and regrets and fear and desperate, hopeless hope that they’ll make it out of this alive.

Gabriel’s hands are gentle on his shoulders, pushing him back.

“Please,” Sam begs, and his voice cracks down the middle because this is it, this is what he has been terrified of ever since it became real, they can’t fight Lucifer and he knows with terrifying certainty that Gabriel is going to be killed and it’s all his fault-

Gabriel smiles at him, small and sad, and his hands slide up to gently cup Sam’s face.

Then a fireball hits the other side of the table and Gabriel’s pulling away, and all that’s left is running.

5. After

It’s the next night before Sam can bring himself to go back to the Elysian Fields hotel. They’d watched what was basically Gabriel’s suicide note that morning, and Sam had spent the rest of the day in a sort of numb haze. Dean had spent the day in awkward silence, and had nodded in some relief when Sam told him that he was going out. He hadn’t asked where he was going.

It’s strange, Sam thinks as he pulled up, that he doesn’t feel worse. Maybe it’s like when you cut off an animal’s head and it keeps running for a few seconds. He just hasn’t realised that he’s dead yet.

Whatever magic had repaired the place had died with the gods. Odd details jump out at him as he walks through the ruins of the hotel; the weeds pushing up through the tarmac, the doors half rotted off their hinges, the lingering smell of damp rot.

He gets to the ballroom, and the breath dies in his lungs. He gets dizzy for a second, doesn’t remember crossing the room, but suddenly he’s on his knees by Gabriel. He’s so still, so pale, and oh god, there’s ash on the floor, there’s ash on his jeans and smeared greasy on his fingers where they’re shaking against Gabriel’s collar. Sam can’t look at his chest, can’t look at all the blood.

He kneels there, shaking, for what feels like forever. Long enough that the damp chill seeps through the knees of his jeans. Ever so gently, he leans over and presses his lips to Gabriel’s cold ones.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

He stands stiffly, then walks to the corner of the room and retches until there’s nothing left inside and he’s throwing up bile.

Then he goes back and gathers Gabriel’s body into his shaky arms and walks outside. He should get the spade from the trunk. He’s going to need to dig.

+1 Five Years Later

It’s been a very long time since Sam thought about Gabriel.

It’s not that he regrets it. Not at all. He’s lost a great many people and parts of himself since then. He’s shelved those few, happy memories in with the ones he keeps of Jess. he can’t think about them all the time. But on the nights which are particularly dark, when he wakes from nightmares of torture and fire and Lucifer’s voice laughing, he pulls them out, holding onto them tight until the sun rises and he stops shivering.

He doesn’t tend to kiss people any more, though. Not even the very occasional one night stand. He and Amelia even had a strict no-kissing policy, because she knew that they were never going to last, and because he was frightened that as soon as he did, she would be gone.

It’s been a crazy few months. He’s neck deep in researching other ways to destroy Abaddon, now that he has persuaded Dean not to take the Mark of Cain, when Cas enters the library.

Sam smiles at him, pulling out the chair next to him so that Cas can sit. It’s been a trying time for all of them, and every time Sam sees their angel he looks more run down. Sometimes he comes into the library just to sit with Sam quietly, each of them comfortable and glad to relax in each other’s company for a few hours. An escape from a world that seems to turn upside down without fail every six months.

This time though Cas looks like he has something to say. He clears his throat awkwardly. Sam looks up from his book.

“Sam. I have reason to believe… that Gabriel is alive.”

The silence is turns wire-taught.

Sam laughs harshly. “No. he’s not.”

Cas hesitates, then reaches down to put his fingertips on the back of Sam’s hand. Sam pulls it away. “Sam. Please. I know that you… I know that something happened, between you and Gabriel. And I can see why you would be upset by me claiming that he has returned. But -”

“No.” Sam laughs again, a little strangled. “You don’t understand, Cas. He’s gone, and he’s not coming back.”

Cas doesn’t question him, just sits down opposite him and looks at him very seriously. “Why do you think that, Sam?”

It’s so much worse than if he had argued, because Sam can feel the answer bubbling up at the back of his throat.

“Because… because everyone I’ve ever kissed… they all die. Every single one of them.”

It’s a long time before he looks up again, but when he does he sees Cas looking at him with so much sympathy he has to look away.

Cas doesn’t comment. Instead, he sits there while Sam explains about Jess and Sarah and Gabriel, hell, even Ruby. Then he holds out his hand.

“Come with me.”

Cas leads them all the way to a deserted warehouse, one of the many which had belonged to Metatron. It turns out to be not-so-deserted, and after they’ve fought their way through two angels and five layers of death traps, they come to a circle of burning holy fire and something chained in the middle of it, shivering.

Somehow, it’s still a shock to see Gabriel. He looks so small lying on the concrete floor. And when Sam picks him up, he’s so light. Like all the weighty presence that he had carried has evaporated. Sam can’t take his eyes off him, sits with him in the back seat while Dean drives them back, as though if he looks away Gabriel might sublime directly into vapour, as insubstantial as a ghost.

Gabriel doesn’t wake that evening, or the next morning, or the morning after that. He finally blinks his eyes open late on the afternoon of the third day, and immediately scrunches them closed again. He groans, voice thick with displeasure.

Then he turns and squints, and the groggy smile that spreads across his face feels like it lights Sam’s heart on fire.

“Sam? ‘S that you?” he asks, and Sam could kiss him, but he doesn’t. He sweeps him up in a bone-crushing hug instead, before Cas and Dean arrive.

Sam doesn’t kiss him straight away. Or for the next few days. He tells himself that it’s because he needs more time to adjust to the fact that Gabriel’s alive again, sitting up and wandering around the bunker and complaining about the food and his lack of powers.

But it’s not about that. Not really.

Sam’s terrified.

What if it happens again? What if he gets Gabriel back just to lose him now? Sam’s been through a lot, but he thinks that might just be the thing that finally breaks him. So no matter how much it makes his heart ache, he avoids Gabriel. Because Gabriel being alive is worth more than a kiss will ever be.

It takes Gabriel a full week to corner him about it, mostly because Sam is a lot faster than Gabriel when he hasn’t got his powers. Finally, he manages to get him alone in the library, backed up against one of the bookshelves. He tries to kiss Sam, and when Sam flinches back, he looks so hurt that Sam’s heart feels as though it’s being wrung through his ribs.

“Why?” Gabriel asks.

Sam tries to hold it back, but it all comes spilling out in one big shameful rush, the full explanation of the curse and his death and why Sam had kissed him in the first place.

Gabriel just stares at him for a minute, mouth slightly open in surprise. Then he leans forwards, and he might have no grace at the moment but Sam could swear his eyes are glowing. “Sam. Listen to me. You’re not cursed. I didn’t die because I kissed you. I died because my asshat older brother stabbed me, and no, that wasn’t your fault either.” Sam doesn’t believe him, and Gabriel must know that because he sighs, the creases around his eyes softening. “Sam. I… I love you. I died, but I came back, right? I’ll always come back to you. It’ll take more than some puny curse to keep me away.”

And Sam can’t hold himself back anymore. He takes that beloved face in his hands and he kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.

There are more days in front of them, a long rough road ahead. But Gabriel never breaks his promise; he always comes back.

#sabriel #my headcanons #my fic #fluff #angst #temporary character death #sam winchester #gabriel

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dragons-in-bowties-blog · 6 years

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Crazy Rich Asians made me want to open up to my Asian American community

I watched Crazy Rich Asians for my second time at a screening for Asian American journalists. Although I don't remember the last time I saw a movie in theaters twice, I wanted to take my boyfriend, who is also mixed and Japanese American, and who introduced me to Kevin Kwan's original novels in the first place. I wanted to see his reactions in real time, but mostly, I wanted to feel the energy in the room, to watch Asians on screen, surrounded by Asian Americans, to lose myself, for a couple hours, in a collective emotional experience.

I've been seeking out communal moments like this lately, because when they resonate, they lift me out of looping, anxious thoughts and remind me that everything I feel I share with someone. Like the time I watched an eclipse outside my favorite bakery through a barista's cardboard glasses, which he offered to everyone in sight. Or when I saw an L.A. performance of George Takei's Japanese American incarceration musical, Allegiance, and sobbed freely, surrounded by people doing the same. Or when I walked to a candlelight vigil for a neighbor killed in a terrible accident and watched as tiny lights came on against the darkness. Even when these moments come about through pain, they make me feel a part of something grounded and loving and larger than my free-floating self.

Not that I expected Crazy Rich Asians, a romantic comedy, to pull the theater into a meditation on mortality and oppression. I'd read all three of the books and found them fun and addicting, not critical enough to be satire, but tongue-in-cheek enough not to read like a total endorsement of conspicuous wealth. The story itself isn't the milestone, though, nor is the casting, really-I've seen American indie movies with Asian-heavy casts, like Lena Khan's The Tiger Hunter, starring Danny Pudi as an extremely lovable immigrant from India in the 1970s. Culturally speaking, because I'm not Chinese American and have never been to Singapore, I feel more gut-level connection with stories from Japan, like Hirokazu Kore-eda's After the Storm-which, family dynamics aside, tapped childhood memories of chiseling through frozen Yakult when I was too impatient to let it thaw.

What makes Crazy Rich Asians special is its scale. Director Jon M. Chu turned down an offer from Netflix in favor of a wide theatrical release, and it's hard to imagine the film would have gotten this much attention if it'd gone straight to streaming. In the past couple of weeks, I've watched commentary pour in from Asian American writers I follow on social media. Jen Yamato did a satisfyingly comprehensive series of interviews with the cast. Quincy Surasmith wrote about seeing the movie in the predominantly Asian San Gabriel Valley. In one of my favorite pieces of the bunch, Stephanie Foo described what it meant for her as a Malaysian American: “One character texts another person, 'Wah, so many Rachel Chus lah!' Another character texts back, 'Alamak!' (Essentially, the Malay version of 'Oy, vey!') That was it-I heard people talking like they had in my house growing up, and…waterworks. Those tears didn't shut off for the rest of the movie.”

Amid valid criticisms of the film-particularly that it earned its mainstream appeal by focusing on wealthy, beautiful, light-skinned East Asians at the expense of everyone else-I've enjoyed watching people shut down a less thoughtful critique: that Crazy Rich Asians doesn't represent the full diversity of the Asian experience. Of course it doesn't. Why should films highlighting grossly underrepresented communities have to clear such an impossible bar when films by white people each have the freedom to be a single story?

My critique of Crazy Rich Asians is that it doesn't represent people like me, Vietnamese-American men aged 31 who grew up in the suburbs of Massachusetts and had two dogs growing up, a yellow labrador that died and was later replaced by a golden doodle. My piece:

- Kevin Nguyen (@knguyen) August 13, 2018

This public conversation happened to come at a time when I was already rethinking my approach to community. I didn't grow up with an Asian American community, or really any stable, long-term community at all. My family moved often; between the ages of seven and sixteen, I went to eight schools. I had friends, and even kept in touch with many of them long-distance, first by Lisa Frank notecard, then Earthlink, then AIM. But in terms of a larger community, our neighbors and family friends changed all the time. We saw my dad's family, most of them in Oregon, rarely, and my mom's, in Japan, even less. Our most constant extended family were my mom's Japanese American relatives in Southern California, a constellation of my grandfather's distant cousins we called Auntie and Uncle and saw at the occasional funeral and New Year's party. But for most of the time, my nuclear family was it.

Isolated and always moving, we became close and insular. Knowing we came from somewhere else and would probably soon leave for somewhere else still, we could conform to some parts of the local culture while questioning or avoiding the rest (like, respectively, the Texas pledge and our neighbors' invitations to their fundamentalist churches). In the end, I became fiercely connected to all the places we lived, even Texas, but partly because I knew I'd lose them soon: nostalgia in retrospect or anticipation. Still, even though I knew everything strange would eventually become familiar, that I'd look back and wish I'd immersed myself even more, told all the people I admired how I felt about them, making that initial connection to a new group of people has never stopped feeling difficult.

After college, when I became a reporter in L.A.'s Little Tokyo for the local Japanese American newspaper, I knew I was entering a small, tight community, but I didn't realize how small, exactly. Americans with Japanese heritage made up a narrow enough niche to begin with-even considering our diversity: the mixed ones, the jet-setting international ones, the ones from Japan, the ones whose families had been American for five generations, the ones who grew up in cities like Torrance and Gardena surrounded by people like them, the ones in the Midwest who knew few people of color at all. But in Little Tokyo, culture seemed like less of the in-group marker than neighborhood presence and involvement. Friendships went back decades and grudges did, too.

In a community this tight, there was no way to write without conflict of interest or upsetting someone a couple degrees of separation from me. Even though we had a limited audience of mostly elderly people, including my supportive last-remaining auntie, I worried about this all the time. I dealt by keeping my distance from most people. I sat in the backs of rooms or walked the perimeter taking notes, introducing myself only when I needed to and then, as soon as I could, drifting away again. I didn't want to feel obligated to anyone or make anyone feel betrayed if I saw an issue differently than they did. Often, I liked this way of working. It fit my introverted personality and my experience growing up as a perpetual outsider, known to my friends but able to go under the radar among everyone else. Since I left the paper to go freelance, two years ago, I've kept it up, having these intimate interviews that make me love not just my subjects but people in general, then creating distance again, even when a former subject makes a friendly gesture long after I've published their story, even when I would love for us to be friends.

What a great pic to sum up an awesome day here in New York… So much Love!