#he doesn’t need to know apostrophes

[daydadahlias]

polo ash is so important to me personally

[newtonsheffield]

So Anthony is the player’s box (that apostrophe really stumped me and I’m still not convinced 🤔) Is he supportive, antagonistic, petty, quietly anxious? All of the above? Would love to see a snippet of him supporting Kate because apparently (and unsurprisingly) I am very specifically hooked on that. 🎾

Yeah he’s pretty much all of the above. Only he doesn’t want Kate to see most of it because he needs to be focused on herself. Not being being an idiot.

But he feels every shot when Kate plays. He Sits in the box and watches anxiously. He even feels nerves flutter through him when they have breakfast the morning of a final. Just a month after Wimbledon they’re having breakfast in her hotel room in New York and Anthony has no idea how to act.

“Are you… sure you don’t want coffee?”

Kate raised her eyebrows, “Why would I want coffee?”

Anthony hesitated, looking to Edwina for help. She scoffed, “All yours buddy.”

“It’s… just that you’re… drinking mine.”

Kate raised her eyebrows in question as if to say And? And Anthony decided not to push the topic, clearing his throat. “Nervous about today?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

He felt a little helpless, knowing there was nothing he could do for her even as they left the car with camera lights flashing and her fingers intertwined in his as people clamoured for her attention.

“You feel good right?” Anthony said, his stomach churning with anxiety for her as they stood outside the entrance to the dressing room. “No soreness or anything. No nerves?”

Kate shook her head, kissing his cheek. “You kept me calm I guess. I’ll see you after. Love you.”

Anthony nodded, kissing her quickly. “Love you. You’re gonna be great!”

Anxiety still churned as he took his seat between Mary and Edwina, “Fuck it is hard on this side of things.”

Mary hummed, waving as someone called her name. “It’s an art form.”

“Why am I nervous for her?”

He can hardly watch it, for his nerves honestly, leaning right forward. Leaping to his feet as her first serve is an ace.

“Yes, Baby!” He clapped his hands watching Kate’s lips curve in a smirk as she heard him.

It’s going well, right up until the beginning of the second set. When the ball clearly bounces out, and the Umpire says

“Point Cowper.”

“That was out.” Anthony gasped, turning to Mary who nodded.

“I thought it was.”

Kate did as well he thought, staring at the line. He could practically see the decision she was trying to make. Whether or not to challenge.

“That was out!” Anthony called over the murmuring crowd who wondered the same thing.

“Quiet on court.”

“That was OUT!” Anthony called again, standing with his hands on his hips and the Umpire turned looking him dead in the eye.

“Mr Bridgerton, don’t make me have you removed from the stands for coaching from the sidelines.”

Kate was laughing along with the crowd, blowing him a kiss as she walked towards the Umpire herself, saying something Anthony couldn’t hear.

“Sharma to challenge.”

And it’s with excellent satisfaction that the ball is in fact called out as Anthony settled back in his seat.

“Knew it.”

“You might want to pace yourself.” Mary chuckled, “I have a feeling you’re going to be doing this for a while. The support is… very sweet actually. Her Appa used to do the same for me.”

[emry-stars-art]

I’m wondering (and not sure if this has been talked about yet in a post I simply missed) about how Abram copes with Andrew’s physical affections (or lack thereof) in your lovely royal AU. With the history behind ‘pretty’ that you described for Abram in that last post, I feel like there is so much potential of him expecting to be touched, even before they are courting (but especially during/after), and wondering why Andrew doesn’t—especially once it’s established that he thinks of Abram as ‘pretty’. They are of different station so it would be so easy for Andrew to act entitled to Abram’s body like so many before, especially with Abram in a position where he’s basically serving him in some way. I wonder if it makes him relieved (due to professionalism/personal comfort at the very beginning) or anxious (due to having no ability to tell what is coming for him/later due to doubting if he is really wanted that way if Andrew doesn’t act the same as his point of reference) or a little bit of both for different reasons.

I imagine Andrew to be both a very tactile person and not necessarily so because he is so very aware of boundaries and only crosses them with invitation or purpose. I wonder how that translates here and how his touch plays into how Abram perceives him (and honestly there’s the whole part too where it’s something they have in common, trampled boundaries and bad associations and bone-deep understanding of such) or if they would ever have a conversation about that where Abram wonders about the curtesy of distance and space he is being given.

I’m like two seconds from passing out bc it’s pretty late here so idk how much sense this ask really makes but I’m having thoughts. I love your AU and your work and hope you have a wonderful day <3

YOU GUYS ALWAYS FIND THE MOST INTRIGUING THINGS TO EXPLORE I LOVE YOU (and your comments/etc, apostrophe-philosophy, are always a joy to read hehe)

(First: find the royal au writing masterpost here 💕)

I’ve been working on/thinking about this ask long enough that I’ve straight up forgotten if this was a thought I had when writing that first post (here) or if you brought it fully to my attention but we can safely assume it’s the latter so thank youuuuu for that truly. I love exploring Abram’s slow inch (and Andrew’s, but he’s had more time to get adjusted) towards finding a healthy relationship with touch 🥲 and oh my GOD don’t let me forget to tell all of you about Abram and gloves

I wrote a scene/lil collection of scenes about Andrew clearing things up here too because I’ve been wanting to explore Abram’s POV for a while 👀 there are references to canon abuse, so take care. As always, sparknotes version and additions below

I LOVE your points about Andrew, I totally agree that once it’s established and he’s allowed, he’s very much a tactile person, he just needs to get there first 💕

We all know for obvious reasons that it never once crosses the prince’s mind for Abram to be anything more than a professional bodyguard, even if he does find him attractive. He’s very good at courtesy and polite distance. How I imagine this goes down in the timeline is this:

1) Nathaniel shows up at Palmetto and he’s never allowed close to important people. Certainly never allowed close enough to touch. Totally safe there. It doesn’t take him long to understand Day really won’t take advantage of him since he never did in Evermore either, so that’s safe. There’s not much else to worry about for that long stretch of time.

2) Nathaniel/Abram becomes the prince’s guard. There’s probably a little anxiety just because there’s plenty of opportunities for the prince to try something, but as time goes on and Andrew keeps the previously mentioned distance, even acting apathetic (as he does), Abram starts to assume that the prince is straight/doesn’t care. It wasn’t as if every single person in Evermore was trying to get at him. Just the ones that wanted to. Obviously, the prince doesn’t want to. It gets to the point that Abram feels comfortable and doesn’t try to constantly watch his own back when he’s on duty.

Then the prince, perhaps feeling a little bold or hopeful or just wanting to say something so he doesn’t keep feeling like he’ll explode, makes a single comment on Abram’s “pretty face”. Even something that could be brushed off as friendly jest, if he really wanted. But Abram completely freezes up. Andrew, of course, notices. He doesn’t try to ask about it then, but he definitely notices. But he assumes that Abram took it as the genuine compliment it was, and that Abram is entirely uninterested or even wary of those advances. So he makes no more comments, he leaves the entire concept as far away as he can get it.

Now that Abram knows the prince finds him pretty, he’s just waiting for Andrew to be the same as everyone else. He didn’t even directly answer to the nobles in Evermore and they were still so bold - but he’s Andrew’s servant in the most direct way, and Andrew is a prince. Surely the prince is even more entitled to him than they were. (When he realizes this is what’s happening, Andrew tells Abram in no unclear terms exactly what is and isn’t expected of him. It takes longer than that for Abram to shake the anxiety he grew up with, but at least after that he can start repeating the prince’s words to himself when he needs to.)

3) that’s cleared up well enough, but then (much, much later) the prince wants to court him. At first Abram can’t think much beyond “there’s no way this is real” but then the more he thinks about it, the more nervous he gets again. He doesn’t know Palmetto courting traditions, what if he’s expected to do something he isn’t ready for. What if now that he’s accepted the courtship he can’t tell Andrew no anymore. It wouldn’t be fair of him to, he thinks, he shouldn’t have agreed so quickly.

But there’s a time they’re out doing whatever courtship things (maybe another horse ride for funsies idk), Abram’s getting nervous about it again, and when Andrew asks for a kiss or to hold his hand, Abram doesn’t answer. He’s also a little confused when Andrew doesn’t just do it anyway, because he hadn’t said no, but Andrew is watching him in the way that usually means Abram is acting too much like he’s at Evermore again. He tells Abram, “Nothing’s changed. You can say no.” And Abram does immediately - not because he doesn’t want whatever he was offered but because he scared himself. Andrew’s still watching him. “Don’t forget that again,” he says. Abram takes a shaky breath. “Yes, prince.”

But as soon as Abram’s past that anxiety for the second and probably final time? Andrew is still as tactile a person as before and gods know Abram is touch starved to hell and back, he’ll take any kind words or touches he can possibly get and he craves them. Specifically from the prince. Who loves to give them.

I’d love to come back and make a fluff post specifically about that point in the timeline if we can collectively come up with enough ideas for said fluff 🥰 for now thanks again for the ask, swear to GOD we’re gonna get these idiots a happy ending, but I’m having way too much fun in the meantime 😂

[shuinami]

Part 3: How to write an MLE-based London accent authentically

Part 1: Who, What (London Accents) | Part 2: When, Where, Why (Black Londoner Culture since Windrush)

As I conclude this little guide, I'd like mention that my ask box and DMs are always open if anyone has further questions or anything 🤎

In this section, I'll go over some advice, the grammar and vocabulary and provide some suggestions for references.

Section A: Basic Tips

When to use slang

The concentration of slang is key to differentiating characters as well as writing an accent authentically. As an MLE-based speaker who is not actually a roadman (meaning a gangster, though many people misuse the term to refer to anyone who uses MLE, especially if they are working class), like most of us, Hobie does not utterly kill it with slang that would likely not be understandable to the people he’s with. There are a lot of phrases and idioms/metaphors that seem self-explanatory once you know what they mean or that seem similar to Americanisms (e.g. roadman = street/hood nigga), but of course, as someone who doesn’t use the terms, hearing it in passing, it probably wouldn’t be understandable, despite the speaker thinking it is. 

Coming from a diverse place, often with immigrant parents who don’t even speak English as a first language, if fluently at all (not in the case of most black Caribbeans from former British colonies, but remember Asians and Africans are more plentiful here), trust me, we know what we sound like 😂! Most of us code-switch, as we learn standard English in school and, until more recently, where more people are 3rd gen+ immigrants as opposed to 2nd, we actually tend to pick up MLE slang from experiences outside the home as we grow up. At the same time, some people really don’t care at all and don’t change how they speak for anyone haha. I don’t recommend trying to write code-switching if you’re not extremely familiar with MLE because you’ll probably lose the flow and also, Hobie only eases up a little bit after his intro.

My point is though, that not every single sentence needs to have slang in it. Most should, but if you’re trying to be serious or sexy, for example, and you feel the need to tack on some slang just to convey Bri’ishness, even if it doesn’t really fit, don’t do it cause it’s no more authentic than just writing plain English in those scenarios.

When talking to people from his own dimension, however, slang it up if you’d like, because the expectation would be that a (working class or ethnic) Londoner would understand him. 

For humour, mocking and teasing, we love to use slang because a lot of it is funny, even to us. Like I said, we know what we sound like. Those are the moments when more obscure slang (such as Cockney rhyming slang) might come out for comedic effect.

It’s good to have some balance, so not every word needs to be substituted. If you couldn’t read it without a fucking huge glossary, you’ve probably done a bit too much.

Writing the Accent

It’s good in moderation. ‘Luv’, ‘ain’t’, replacing the last g with an apostrophe in -ing words - you all have those things down, it works, good job. 

HOWEVER, it is very clear that a lot of you have no clue what letters we do and don’t drop/change and in what words, as well as a lot of you going OT with removing the T’s from the middle of words. I know it kind of sounds like that to you but it reads like an over-exaggeration or mockery, particularly because most London accents, including Hobie’s, are much lighter in comparison to Brits from other areas, in which such omissions and alterations of letters would be somewhat appropriate but still, in moderation. I don’t recommend typing out the accent often, just sprinkle it around for a bit of flavour but don’t consistently write in that way because your writing loses legibility and it gets quite distracting.

Content

The stereotype of British people liking sarcasm is true for most and, in general, we like to have, what we call, ‘a bit of banter’. We’re a jokey people, even if those jokes can be a bit harsh or teasing. Confusingly, even if we are joking around, it doesn’t mean necessarily we’re being friendly, joking is just how we communicate (e.g. “Oh boy, humbling reality Spider-Man has arrived”, “What does that do?” “Apart from having a great name?”, “super humane and not creepy”, “this is a great look…”). I think most people have got this down really well, so keep it up guys 😎🤙

Another thing is cussing, swearing, profanity, whatever you wanna call it. We do it a lot for no reason, mainly spamming the word “fuck(ing)”. So have fun with that if you aren’t already.

We’ll get into it more in the terms of endearment section of Section B but, basically a lot of Londoners are typically not too mushy or affectionate, as is the stereotype for big city people and, additionally, British people in general aren’t the most direct in their words. Obviously, some people are but it’s not the culture if you’re trying to write proper ‘authentic’ haha. For a lot of us, saying sweet stuff can be quite laborious when sincere or cheesy or confrontational levels of direct really 😂 We ain’t the friendliest of types through our words so I'd recommend relying more on context for the sweet factor unless it's a stand-out moment.

Different parts of the UK, even within England itself, have different slang

Idk what else to say about this but yeah, there’s some phrases I’ve seen people use that have me scratching my head cause “nobody [from my area] says those words in that order” but I’m guessing it’s down to people incorporating slang which is more commonly heard up North because it’s all classed as British/U.K. slang when you look it up so, just be wary of that.

Section B: Grammar and Vocab (the thing you’ve been waiting for 😂)

I’ll link a document here so I don’t clog up your dash more than I already have. Feel free to bookmark it or anything, I’ll update it if needed. The contents are links to the relevant section so you can just click those if you’re not trying to read the whole thing.

I only included some highlights of the things that are easy enough to explain just by writing them out with their meanings but it’s by no means an extensive list. I’ve studied a few languages but I’m not a linguist so I just did my best.

If you want to go more heavy with the Cockney slang, I’ll leave it to someone who’s more familiar with it (or not… lol) to explain those terms and when to use them properly.

Section C: References

Of course, it’s all good and all that I’ve given you instructions but to make it sound natural, you’d need a point of reference. Here are some references of black North West Londoners from the early 80s, black East Londoners, black Londoners more generally and a Daniel Kaluuya interview so you can get a better feel of how we sound:

Clip from ‘No Problem’, the first Black British Sitcom

The accents within this one group of siblings is very varied and none of them use MLE, as per the time period. The two younger sisters have accents most similar to Hobie’s. The show follows a group of siblings of Jamaican descent living in a council house in North West London, first released in 1983.

Clips from ‘Chewing Gum’ by Michaela Coel [CW: they're awkwardly talking about sex in a lot of the clips + don't listen to Candice's boyfriend, Aaron, he's not from London lol]

The show takes place in Tower Hamlets, which is in East London and was first released in 2015. Tracy has a similar accent to Hobie and also uses a mix of more general/Cockney-influenced slang and MLE, so this one should both be a fun watch and be useful, you’ll also want to pay attention to Candice who has a more MLE lean to her speech.

Clips from the Foot Asylum crew most of them are MLE speakers, see some examples of our banter with friends lol

Clips from ‘Top Boy’

Another show that takes place in East London, this time in Hackney, which is an area known for being kind of rough in terms of gang activity. Almost all the characters speak exclusively MLE in this show. If you want to watch it, TW for violence and gang activity, death, etc. (18+). You can tell based on the ones I’ve chosen that Sully’s my favourite character lmao.

Fun fact, as you might hear the character, Dushane, reference, Sully lives on a canal boat for a while as a form of refuge. I know a bit about boat dwellers in London from a lecture at uni but if anyone wants me to do more research and do a post and explain the waterways and stuff, again, feel free to drop an ask and I’ll do it :)

Clip from ‘Love Island’ just pay attention to the black islanders, Tyrique and Whitney

I just finished watching this year's Love Island UK so I thought I’d throw the clip of Whitney, Lochan and Tyrique fighting in here lmao

& Daniel Kaluuya talking about Spiderpunk to bring us full circle✨

[cosmerelists]

Bridge Four: What Punctuation Mark They’d Be

Previously we considered what parts of speech the Kholin household would like best...for some reason. Next up: Bridge Four as Punctuation Marks!

1. Kaladin: Exclamation Point

We all know that Kaladin is a dramatic boy. When he arrives, he is an exclamation point embodied, usually glowing with Stormlight and there to save the day.

2. Sigzil: Colon

A colon indicates that further information will follow: perhaps a list, or a several-sentence description, or a series of questions. And as a Worldsinger, Sigzil is there to spread information and knowledge. Plus, when he found out about Kaladin’s powers, his first thought was to design experiments to get some good old data points. I can just imagine him writing, “Kaladin’s abilities are as follows:”

3. Rlain: Semicolon

Semicolons connect two independent clauses, much as Rlain, the Bridger of Minds, is able to connect disparate peoples and ideas. The semicolon is solid and steadfast, but does not end the thought like a period does. It brings different thoughts together.

4. Rock: Question Mark

I just remember the scene where we find out that Bridge Four goes to see Rock for advice, and he asks them questions to help them realize what they need/want to do. Rock is the type of person who can help people feel welcome, draw them in, help them open up. So I think a question mark suits him well!

5. Moash: Slash 

The slash can indicate separation and difference, but it can also show options and alternatives: and/or, his/her, color/colour. And yes, Moash has some black and white thinking (or should I say “black/white”)--light-eyes vs. dark-eyes, guilty vs. innocent, and so on. But he also represents alternatives: What if justice does mean killing a king who is liable in your grandparents’ death? What if the Singers should be the rulers? What if Kaladin is wrong? So for many reasons, I think the slash suits him.

He also, like, keeps slashing people to death, but maybe that’s a cheap joke.

6. Renarin: En-Dash

The en-dash is a poorly understood and little utilized punctuation mark: it is used specifically in ranges of numbers (like 14–30). And Renarin too had a specific and little-understood power--seeing the future--whose usefulness was not accepted at first. And when I use the en-dash, I have to manually download it because I don’t actually know the keystroke for it, and people tend to need some time to get used to Renarin too, as when he had to work hard to join Bridge Four.

Look, I swear this makes perfect sense in my head!

7. Teft: Hyphen

The hyphen is a support punctuation mark; it doesn’t get used alone, but rather connects together a compound noun or adjective. And Teft, as the sergeant and also as Kaladin’s friend, has always been there in support. He backs Kaladin up, even going so far as to stay behind when Kaladin was somewhat forcibly retired from the army.

The hyphen can also indicate speech or thoughts being abruptly cut off, but perhaps we won’t talk about that.

8. Skar: Apostrophe

An apostrophe shows ownership and belonging: my mother’s necklace, the captain’s spear. And Skar really is all about his love for being Bridge Four. He was the first to rip off the Cobalt Guard Patch in favor of a Bridge Four patch. He was completely crushed when he couldn’t draw in Stormlight at first, because he was afraid of not being useful to Bridge Four. He still helped others learn to drawn in the Stormlight, though. This love for the group and sense of belonging means the apostrophe suits him well, I think.

9. Dabbid: Ellipses 

Dabbid didn’t speak for a while, at first because of battle shock, and later because he didn’t want the others to know that he thought differently from most people. Now he does speak some, but carefully. And the ellipses can indicate not only silence, but also a pause before continuing.

10. Drehy: Period

Drehy is extremely dependable--he’s one of the first to back up Kaladin, one of the first to pick up fighting, one of the first to learn first aid. He goes with Skar on the mission to Kholinar, and helps rescue Elhokar’s son after we all (or at least me) thought that Sanderson had dared to kill off the one gay character.

And yes, I wanted to pick the gayest punctuation mark for Drehy, but that’s gotta be either the question mark or the ellipses (right?), and I had already used those.

11. Hobber: Comma

The comma lets you know that this isn’t the end; there is more (of the sentence) coming. And Hobber is a figure of hope: he’s so delighted that Kaladin rescues him, that he’s already smiling even though at that point it was likely that he would die. He loses his legs to a shardblade, but later is able to draw in Stormlight to heal himself. So I think “hope” is the emotion I’d associate with Hobber, and I’ve decided that the comma--the “there’s more; don’t worry”--is the punctuation mark for him.

12. Leyten: Brackets

Literally all I know about Leyten is that he is the armorer. And brackets are like strong, uh, breastplates that, uh, protect the words within? 

I’m so sorry, Leyten. I got nothing.

13. Lyn: Em-Dash

The em-dash is very versatile; it can be used in place of a comma or a semicolon or parentheses.  And Lyn is a versatile woman: scout, messenger, soldier, Windrunner. Plus, everyone likes her, in book, and I’m pretty sure the em-dash is everyone’s favorite punctuation mark.

14. Lopen: Interrobang

The interrobang is the combination of the question mark and the exclamation mark: ?!. You might say, “That’s not a proper punctuation mark!” but then, that’s the point! It’s Lopen. He likes to be improper, to joke around and try to shock people.

Plus, I think he’d find the word “interrobang” to be funny.

[dixons-sunshine]

Hiiii I was just wondering if u had any daryl dixon tips u can give me for how to wrote a good daryl dixon 😭 I'm scared I won't do him good enough or something yk? And I love daryllll

Hii! Omg I’m so honoured to get this ask. I’d be happy to help you!

These are all my opinions on how I write for him! Obviously not everyone writes for him this way and that is more than okay!

Honestly, in my opinion, there’s no right or wrong way to write for Daryl. The only thing you really need to keep in mind is how he acts during certain seasons (if you write a fic based in a certain season).

During the earlier seasons, he’s very sassy and speaks his mind, so in a fic based in those seasons, he’d be more talkative, but not overly so. This is still Daryl we’re talking about. He was very closed off in the earlier seasons, so he wouldn’t be as open with a person he doesn’t trust, which let’s be honest, is basically everyone.

In the later seasons, he’s very reserved and quiet, and the only people who truly know him is his found family.

As for dialect, there’s not really only one way to write it. Typically, I shorten words that end with “-ng” by removing the ‘g’ and replacing it with an apostrophe. So for example, “something” would become “somethin’ ”, “nothing” would become “nothin’ ” and so on. “You” can be replaced with “ya” and “your/you’re” can be replaced with “yer”. Also, use a double negative connotation (I have no idea if I’m using that right lol). For example: “ain’t nothin’ ”, “don’t never”, “ain’t never”, and so on.

Those are about all the tips I have! It’s not a lot, but I feel like Daryl is unique to everyone. There’s no right or wrong way to write for him. If it makes you happy, go for it!

[lairofdragonagelore]

Dragon Age: Vows and Vengeance

Episodes: 1, 2, 3, and 4

Episodet: 5, 6, 7, and 8

What lore do we extract from them? What seems to be questionable or a recall of a concept from a previous game? I basically collect the interesting ideas and make small speculations or comments on them, testing their reliability or lore consistency as far as I can.

Episode 1: Once a Thief…

This story starts in Minrathous and finishes in its borders with Anderfels.

Solas has been collecting relics all across Thedas. This is the reason why he has been hiring people to do research/digging work. This is not new, we know this from the book Tevinter Nights and the Comics.

The Archives of the Magisterium in Minrathous have a broad “collection of objects, scrap of writing, relics, or antiquities that are “remotely” interesting to the Empire”. Among them, the Eye of Kethisca.

The Eye of Kethisca: This is a new relic that appears in this story for the first time. We can suspect it's used to stabilise the Veil, locally. The object interacted with Nadia first, humming to her. It’s not clear if Elio is accustomed to that humming, the tense situation urges him to ignore it, or he cannot perceive it at all. I suspect the latter.

The object glows and “unleashed a wave of energy that tore the ground up and almost killed Elio.”

Solas assures that there is nothing to fear about this relic, and claims it was “made from a rare gem mined in the caves beneath them”. The object “forms a bond with a person and it amplifies their powers”. This is a strange piece of lore I cannnot connect with anything else from previous games. Binding processes are quite important and central in the stories of Dragon Age, but they tend to be magical ones with some level of ritual and procedure. In this case, it happens accidentally and spontaneously.

This Eye was “crafted centuries ago by a powerful dreamer” named An’Dante, who is related to Elio Andante [it seems that the original surname changed over the ages]. Solas implies to know Elio or his anscestors and claims that the Magister is a powerful rift mage, hence his suspicion for him to be the key to stabilise the Veil in this region via the relic.

This means that Elio Andante was related to a dreamer called An’Dante, which apostrophe [in my opinion, and all the following is a speculation] seems to imply an elvish name. I’m suspecting Elio belongs to one of the many Tevinter lineages that has some relationship or maybe even elven blood in them. It won't be the first time we are hinted with this concept: in the comic Blue Wraith we see a similar clue; Fenris claims that Francesca's plant magic was only seen in Dalish clans. It's clear for me that this increases the implications of ancient Tevinter being more tight with the Elvhenan than through invasion, co-opt, and erasure of their influence in the Tevinter culture [similar parallel can be found among the Dalish and Orlais in the South]. We also need to remember the highly cryptic codex Astrariums, which claims that Tevinter was more focused on astronomy before adopting the Magisterium system. On the other hand, via the many constellation codices we have all over DAI, we can see some bland links between Tevinter and Elvhenan culture. This link may imply that Tevinter and Elvhenan may have had better relationships than those that were developed after the Magisterium system was established. Another clue can be found in the Tevinter Mosaics, where one of the main Magisters is depicted with pointy ears and bare feet.

Solas is not sure if the magister perceived the Eye, so he keeps asking Elio if he can notice the Fade and this energy coming from the relic. We know, as listeners, that Nadia does. The lack of response from Elio leaves us without knowing if he can perceive it or not. We can assume that Elio does not, but he wants to leave a mark in the world, changing it for the better as he confessed to Nadia later. Therefore, he doesn’t deny nor confirm the lack of bond towards the Eye. He thinks this was fated for him. So, in his desire to become helpful in a moment of his life when he lost all his power and status, Elio wants to be “the chosen one” in this mission. Therefore, he performs the ritual and fails.

It’s also curious that a non-mage [Nadia] can perceive the energy [thin Veil] of the cave. Is this a lore inconsiscency? I would assume that this is a hint to reinforce the idea that the Eye was bond to her, and not to Elio.

Solas uses the word reckoning in his dialogue not by chance, this word is related to Flemeth’s words, and the revenge she has to archieve for Mythal. A reckoning that will shake the very heavens and will heal a broken, agonizing world.

The Eye starts to hum when they enter the cave. Solas explains this is an “ancient city chamber, once home to unspeakable acts. Many were sacrificed on these grounds, and the blood that was spilled weakened the barriers between the worlds.” They chant in Arcanum and Elvish. The cave seems to vibrate and probably some tear is open? Hard to know with only sounds. In my opinon, it is not really possible to connect this chamber with Horrors of Hormak from Tevinter Nights.

The ritual goes wrong. I especulate it is because the relic was not bound to Elio but Nadia. The Eye explodes, the cave collapses, and Solas and Nadia escape but leave Elio behind, since he has “crossed over”. I assume this is a similar situation to the one we saw in DAI when a tear opened right below the falling bridge of Adamant Fortress [read a refresh in Orlais, Western Approach: Adamant Fortress].

We learn later that Solas went to visit an “ancient burial grounds in the Hinterlands”. I don’t know if we can claim these hiterlands are the same ones in Ferelden.

When Nadia rides the horse at the end of the story, she has a connection with Elio. We can assume that these connections are possible due to the thinning of the Veil all over the world, and because maybe her bond to the Eye makes her bound to Elio [who carries the lineage of the crafter] stronger. However, it's a detail I would question from a lore-wise perspective. We never saw this kind of situation before. The only time we stepped into the Fade, physically, was in DAI, and there was no connection with those left in Adamant Fortress. This is a characteristc that may have been introduced now to explain what will eventually happen between Solas and Rook: we know Solas will be trapped in the Fade and bound to Rook to whom he speaks to.

Our future companion Neve is introduced in this episode.

Episode 2: The Cult of the Doom Blade

This story happens in Anderfels.

We learn there is a cult called “Cult of the Doom Blade”, which worships “The Deathless One”. It’s commanded by Bolmor. The Cult attacks and coherces a nearby town under the threat of the Hunger of the Deadless One, which has to be satified with sacrifices. Each month the villagers have a blind drawing. Two amongst them are chosen for the offering, but no one has ever seen what happens.

The ritual that Solas is performing to lock the Evanuris is causing a lot of alterations: tremors, anomalies, the veil grows thin. These events are taken advantage of by the cult to reinforce the idea of the “end of the world” and to force villagers to accept regular humanoid sacrifices. The one time that the town tried to fight them back they suffered a retaliation that made the cult take all their children.

Nadia meets Harding and explains why she is looking for Solas. Suddenly, her head rings and another contact with Elio from the Fade is established. She collapses and cames back to her senses later.

We are introduced to Drayden Kiel, a mysterious character: They define themself as a writer, scholar, and historian, who has been studying the Cult of the Doom Blade for nearly a year. Their goal was to study the cult and stop it for good. They read books about war, and claim that learning the patterns in history allows us to avoid being stuck. However, their story changes at the end of the podcasts: They were “researching the cult because they study the Fade”. The link between the Fade and the Cult is not clear for us. The Cult is not making the Fade thinier in this part of Anderfels so this line is curious at best. “If your problem lies beyond the Veil, I can actually help you”, they say, confidently.

Drayden is quite cunning. They claim they were researching the cult, had a plan of their own to escape with life and with the other sacrifice woman, and then entangled Harding and Nadia in a conversation to gently force them to fight for the town. They are good at reading the enemy and at learning their pattners to use them against them, reason why Drayden won a fight against Nadia only using their sword. Drayden made shock bombs durign dinner that allowed them to win the final battle. “It's a little trick I picked up from these things called books.” There is a lot of cunning and evasive very subtle in this character. Clearly there is more to Drayden than what they are allowing us to see.

Our future companion Harding is introduced in this episode

Episode 3: A Deadly Descent

This story happens in Anderfels, in a place that has a "crumbling face protruding from a cliff. It's the statue of The Green Guardian". In this place, neither "insects nor worms can survive the lands. No body can decay here".

There is a very popular mix in the Anderfels described as “rotten fruit sludge for your most refined taste buds.” Drayden even perceives it as sweet, which makes us assume that their year spent in this place is true: they have an “acquired taste” for this berverage.

Drayden claims that “If their studies of the Fade have taught them anything, it's that the future always hides in the past.”

Drayden is called by Haring “little egg” and by Nadia as “companion”, keeping them gender-free. Later, Drayden is smited by Davrin. We also learn they hate spiders.

In another scene, Davrin thinks and shares his thoughts to Goff about the rumour they heard: griffons are not extinct. This is an immediate call to the book The Last Flight where we discover 13 griffon eggs were saved from the Blight.

Drayden displays strange connotations; the natural way in which they speak about death makes us suspect some mortalitasi point of view in their vision of life: “Our deaths follow us like a shadow, seems only natural to make its acquaintance.”

When they step into darkspawns, Drayden claims to know about Blight magic, a knowledge we expect only Grey Warden could have. “Blight magic, look at the eyes behind it. Oh no. Genlocks”. So they know more than only Fade, they know about the darkspwan, their differences, and the Blight Magic; subjects of study a bit distant one another, and some of them extremelly secret for a particular Order.

It’s curiuous that the narrative, through repetition, presents Solas as a betrayer and a person who has “forced” Elio to perfom the ritual:

NADIA: (sighs) Elio, my partner, he wasn't just some magic wielder, he was an Altus mage and part of the Magisterium. But the Dread Wolf put a plan in motion to turn the Templars against him. He wanted to force Elio into a corner so he'd have no choice but to help him perform a dangerous ritual. (sighs) But the Wolf betrayed us. And now Elio is trapped somewhere in the Fade. Me and my companion here seek only to rescue him before it's too late. And we received information from the Inquisition that led us here. But now we walk away from the very tunnels that may reveal the Dread Wolf himself!

If we go back to the Episode 1, Elio was not forced to do this, Solas asked several times if Elio was connected to the Fade and the relic, and Elio did not answer straighfoward because his personal desire for being the source of change. Solas also said that the Ritual was as safe as possible. The misunderstanding lays in the fact that Nadia was the one bound to the relic, and therefore, the one who should have performed the ritual. We don’t know if Solas called the Templars upon Elio either. In fact, it would have been strange, considering he already had hired Nadia’s people to get the relic. If anything, Elio was the one who brougt attention upon himself with the guards. What I want to point out here is that we are shown once again how the narrative twists in a way that one character changes the facts, creates a whole different story, and spreads it to a lot of people, changing it 180 degree. This phenomenon is a reiterative topic in DA Lore: The eternal unreliable narrators that explain sitautions that have been twisted over time.

When they walk to the mine, the ground cracks, and they fall into its depths. As they escape from a mob of spiders, they find another underground chamber:

DRAYDEN: This chamber, it feels different from the cave. I can sense something. DAVRIN: You feel all that lyrium coursing through the walls. DRAYDEN: No, it's more than that. The Veil is thin here. We should be careful.

This to me reinforces the suspicion that Drayden is a mage in disguise or has spirits around them. No other characters in DA lore can perceive the state of the Veil when it’s not obvious [aka, a tear is right open in front of them]. However, the lore-questionable explanation will be given in Episode 4.

In this chamber, we find a mosaic that is described by Drayen as: “This is no ordinary mosaic. Look at the way the circle is split down the middle. The top half is onyx. It's like a mirror![...] You can see your reflection in the darkness. And this portrait below, the figures are upside down and pointing to the stars and to the sky” On it there are small wolf totems that represent the Dread Wolf usually placed at the Dalish camps in Arlathan.

This mosaic has an elven inscription that they can’t read, so Davrin translates the text from this ancient dialect: "Guide me on the path that splits the land between sun and moon." This is a concept that has started to be present in the lore in the last time, specially during the development of DAV [for example, in the Vinyl Art] but the oldest reference to suns, moons, and eclipses belong to DA2, that can be read in The Emergent Compendium. However, there were no other references all over DAI.

Solving the puzzle, Drayen presses some stars on the mosaic and the lyrium glows intensily, opening an energy fissure. If anything, this sounds like the description of an Eluvian and supports the idea that the Eluvian are made of lyrium [thus, they glow in that particular blue shown in DAI and can be corrupted by the Blight as it had happened in DAO]. This fissure apparently opens two exits: a tunel and a portal.

Our future companion Davrin is introduced in this episode.

Episode 4: Beyond the Veil

This story is located in the Arlathan Forest, which “shifts like a prism, magic rippling everywhere”. The whole episode shows its physical and time instabilities, and how dangerous it can be. This place was also featured in the comic The Missing [read the post for more details] with some questionable lore concepts [as it has been happening since Gaider left Bioware].

Bellara is chased by Templars that want her artifact. The object in question is Flicker, “an ancient Elven device built with secret metallurgical techniques lost to time.” It’s a relic that works as a guide or a hound in the Fade, “like a wisp that can lead through the Fade”. Again, this concept is quite questionable: during the time in which the Waking World and the Fade were one, why Elvhenan would requiere such specific device more suited for the instabilities that it has once the Veil was created? I hope we are provided some logical explanation about this.

The Flicker needs a “Fade sparkle” to come back to life. If anything, this process can be related to the creation of worlds as we saw in the codex Raising the Sonallium  analysed in Ancient Elven codices; Vir Dirthara where we see the creation of "life/worlds" by using the energy of the Fade.

Apparently, Bellara can animate trees. I’m not sure how this looks like, but I hope it’s not like Sylvans, since those are spirits trapped in or possessing trees. Decades of lore would become questionable otherwise.

There is a new concept of “bubbles”, places in the Arlathan Forest that have no instabilities of any kind.

The concept of Veil Jumpers is introduced: "an alliance of interested parties that have been trying to figure out what's happening in the forest, what's causing all of these anomalies, and ultimately, wants to seek to restore order on these lands". We were told about them in the comic The Missing, where Strife [also present in the book Tevinter Nights] is featured as well.

Bellara's role is to “map” the Fade, which is a concept a bit worrisome for me. We have been told via codices [reliable and not, for example Walking the Fade: Frozen Moments] during three games, that the constant change of the Fade, eternally reflecting the Waking World, makes it impossible to truly map it. Bellara also claims that “the deeper one looks, the less they seem to know about the Fade” which may be a link to the mysterious codex in DAI called The Deepest Fade which interpretation I’ve worked on Ancient Elven codices; Vir Dirthara.

We are informed that Solas has just recently taken another artifact from the depths of this Forest; this is a calling to the events happening in the comic The Missing.

We finally are explained why Drayden feels so odd: they basically can listen to spirits, an ability that always belonged to mages in DA lore. The explanation for their case, as a non-mage and yet having these powers, is highly questionable in my opinion. They developed the concept of “strange child touched by the Fade”, as if this were an unnusual case of sorcery a la DnD, when in DA lore, every single mage is a sorcerer, and wizardry does not exist. The unnecesary creation of yet another strange category is questionable, specially when we have been told in 3 games and several books that there are low magic mages, that barely can cast anyhting, and yet they feel the Fade and can suffer the same dangers than any mage. Another potential explanation, with less lore-breaking implications, is that Drayden may be an elf-blooded human, so they developed this sensitivity to the Fade as a consequence of the recent alterations that the Veil has been suffering for the last decades under Solas’ ritual [let's remember that Solas wants to heal/return the world to its previous state where elves were eternal and magical]. However, we don’t see this effect in more elves or elf-blooded humans to consider it a potential explanation. Again, a very questionable concept in my opinion. I hope a better in-lore justification is provided in the game. Addition: We also have the situation of the Seekers that acquire a magic/Fade-related power when a Spirit touches them after their tranquility. Maybe there is something of this in this character [and Lucanis].

The group jumps into the Fade and Nadia meets Elio, but due to the many hints shown in their dialogue, we can suspect this is not the real Elio but a spirit trying to trick Nadia. Later, the Templar that was chasing them in the beginning of the episode appears in the Fade as a “corrupted” entity and kills Elio. This situation messes witih Nadia's emotions. Is this Templar another spirit?

The corrupted templar rises a whole “army from the Fade itself” [?] that are all “lyrium-corrupted”[???]. Suddenly, this Templar seems less of a spirit and more of a Red Templar. It’s confusing at best.

As Bellara and Drayden try to bring Nadia to her senses, a “Fade Storm” appears, making the Fade more unstable [???]. This may be part of the consequences of the ritual that Solas is performing. Apparently, going deeper into the Storm is safer [???] since “the Templars will be just as susceptible as them, corruption or no”. The logic in this part of the podcast is highly questionable. They finally escape the Fade through a tear.

The Templar kept the ring that Elio gave to Nadia and finishes the scene with a clear intention of using it against her [?]. Very confusing.

“There's a small fluctuation in the ether right there. I think it's the Veil!” That line is so weird, I’m very worried about the lore of this game and how much has been pulled out of nowhere just to make it easy and fast.

It’s a bit funny for me that after 3 games showing the gravity of physically stepping into the Fade and the dramatic implications of the Black City, we are just able to jump in and out of the Fade as if it were not big deal and we can walk around the Black City as if it were a park. The concepts lost entirely their gravity and solemnity. The comic was more serious and careful with this. You never stepped into the Fade, you only walked through zones where the Veil was extemelly thin due to Solas' ritual.

The story ends with Nadia and Drayden falling in Pall Vollen, where qunari soldiers speak Common perfectly, without any accent, instead of Qunlat.

We are introduced to our future companion Bellara.

[whosthere54]

Prison duo playlist analysis day 5 - Laundry Day by cavetown

Yayyy more cavetown! Me when!

The first lyrics immediately make me go- oh, yeah- yeah that’s… thats somethin for sure.

“They’re not coming back. You’re living in the past.”

Okay I know I say a lot of them are specifically Icarus but that’s cause I’ve got some of the ones that are just Icarus after he dies- I don’t- listen-

So- yeah- it’s Icarus after his death.

“You’re living in the past” just- their denial. They can bring him back, he’s not gone he’s just… away temporarily but he will be back! He’s not gone I could still message him and talk to him if I wanted to but I don’t and *thats* why I’m not.

“Keep it under wraps… everybody knows”

Icarus tried to hide it, but Rae found out. (and oh two shall break my beloved) People know they’re not doing well, Ven mentions it I believe when he leaves. Ari knows. Rae knows, Athena knows. They know because it’s happened before- and they’re doing the same thing. They also know because Icarus isn’t the best at keeping it “under wraps.” At hiding how they feel, it becomes pretty obvious if not in their words in their appearance, the eye bags under their eyes, their jacket, the wound and faded whack on their shirt…

“Laundry day, gonna shrink your shirt. Makes a perfect fit for me. Don’t know when you’ll learn”

Mmm. See what I think of is a headcannon/something I’ve seen in a fic I read of them keeping some piece of his clothing like a shirt and keeping it in the Fable house with them. If we go off of bird instinct things, it would absolutely be a part of their nest. “Don’t know when you learn” I think in this context is a call back to the denial- they are doing this and they still are convincing themself that he’ll come back.

“Little pieces of their all home. All the better time for me. Please just let it go.”

Whenever they go back to even just get something from their house they hope people aren’t out and about- especially after Jamie. Before- there were moments of them saying nobody had come to check on them. Nobody came to find them- and that solidified the hurt in their head that they should be alone. That the people of the grove aren’t their friends.

Going back to them going home- y’know the episode like king, like prince where they talk with Athena? Y’know how most of that was them trying to keep him safe and away but they refuse and make it about how Icarus is repeating their actions. They just want them to let it go- to just go and be safe. Shrug.

“It’s been getting worse. You don’t wanna know, ignoring how it hurts.”

… self explanatory? Their mental state getting worse and worse- also the quixis wounds.

“Don’t feel welcome here at all. Please, just let it go.”

Again- then going home and knowing they’re not welcome. They want everyone to stay out of it so they can just get it over with.

“Stir crazy from hanging around. So her brother and me take her out of town. Silence loud, in the Forrest burnt. Man, she doesn’t want to be here. Don’t know when I’ll learn.”

TWO CHOICES-

One being family reunion and Rae coming over to talk to Icarus.

Two being Ven. Ven beloved. When they find the grave. “Man (s)he doesn’t want to be here- don’t know when I’ll learn” is that episode coded in my personal opinion.

And that’s the end of the songgggg

Shorter but I like this. I was able to get this done at school so it will be out early- a win for the me community, yippie!

Doing these makes me realize how much I say y’know because I always have to go back and correct the apostrophes… sorry I guess? But I’m probably not gonna stop-

The image chosen from my prison duo Pinterest board today is-

Te and also he.

You are loved! Go take any meds if you need to and Go eat and drink water if you haven’t already today <3

Have a good rest of your day/night :]

[nattikay]

ok I’m very new at trying pronunciations for a fictional language I currently have no access to learning but I’ve got 2 OCs in the Pandora world.

Tsu’nayi is a genuine mix between a Na’vi and a human. I got it to theoretically work out if the dna is compatible even if the… natural way doesn’t work. But bottom line she’s a “failed experiment bc the scientists in charge somehow managed to flip the lung intake system so instead of a human dying when trying to breathe on Pandora, she’s suffocating when trying to breathe oxygen. Her name is derived from her experiment number: 293 (at least they’re similar.) Someone else decided to nickname her Tsu’nayi bc it’s similar sounding to tsunami bc Tsunami was typical, but taking out the ‘m’ is so much better! (Lol)

The next one is Kai’ne (I honestly pronounce it ‘Cane’). His I got from a Navi name generator and made a little backstory to make it plausible as well. He was called Adam bc he was the first of his kind. Some lady got her DNA sent in to have an avatar created and she didn’t find out she was pregnant till later. When the first mind link thing happened, the baby was connected as well and the mom died somehow (cause TBD) but the baby could now flip physically between his human and Na’vi form. However it is to be said that the Na’vi form usually shows in like life or death situations, but he could control it as time went on. After escaping from the scientists during one of the last raids before the 15 year time of peace, he changed his name to Kai’ne as a kind of way to “kill his former self.”

I’m honestly just curious if those names are grammatically correct or if there’s a more accurate name to call them. Any advice would be appreciated tho!

Hello! Spelling-wise both those names are valid, though Kai'ne would not be pronounced "cane". If you want that pronunciation, you'd have to spell it Keyn.

As for how the spelling "Kai'ne" would be pronounced, there's some mild flexibility depending on which syllable you want to stress (you get to pick, since it's a name you're making up).

Here's what the different options would sound like, followed by a version without the tìftang (Kaine) so you can hear the difference there (making this point because it's a common beginner mistake; the apostrophe DOES make a pronunciation difference!):

[KA][i'][ne] -> [ka][I'][ne] -> [ka][i'][NE] [KA][i][ne] -> [ka][I][ne] -> [ka][i][NE]

For fun here's how Tsu'nayi sounds as well. You can change the stress on this one too, though based on the comparison to "tsunami" I'm assuming the stress is on the second syllable. There's also a bit of ambiguity on whether nayi breaks down to [na][yi] or [nay][i]--it's a subtle difference but it's there, so I did both versions, and again a sans-tìftang version (Tsunayi) for the sake of hearing the difference:

[tsu'][NA][yi] -> [tsu'][NAY][i] [tsu][NA][yi] -> [tsu][NAY][i]

For more information on the Na'vi alphabet/pronunciation and syllable structure, try these videos!

There are lots of freely available resources like these for learning Na'vi if that's something you're interested in! If that's not something you really want to do right now that's totally fine, but if it is something you want and the only problem is accessibility, there's plenty of good free resources out there, you simply need to know where to find them :) I'd be happy to help you out there if you'd like!

[simp41ida]

studying with tsukishima

warnings: swearing (?)

notes: i have ADHD so i’ve never really studied properly lmao. it’s super short, sorry. requests are open!!

okay so this man is the farthest from nice to you

like if you’re not getting something he does, and he explains it to you, he’ll do it more forcefully every single time.

almost like this;

“you need to add the apostrophe after the ‘e’.”

“the apostrophe goes after the ‘e’.”

“AFTER THE ‘E’ DUMBASS”

this does not change no matter how many times you study english with him.

the letter does vary though.

so if he’s helping you with homework and you’re not getting it, he will definitely rip the pencil out of your hand and write it with as much pressure as he can on the paper just so you get it

and if you still don’t he’s just going to give up and end up doing the whole thing for you

he will try to dumb it down, but his patience with people only goes so far

it really doesn’t go far at all

he won’t get mad at you for getting a question wrong though

he’ll tell you how it might get better next time

he doesn’t say it will because he knows it probably isn’t, but he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings.

anyways the point of this is saying don’t study with tsukishima because he probably doesn’t have the mental capacity to care about anyone else’s grades but his own.

[there-was-a-hole-here-itsgonenow]

Always #1 at Bradley… family?

NOTES FOR BELOW: I thought the sign said Always #1 at family, but it might actually be #1 at Bradley’s. This is relevant to the post because I focused on the word family. A lot of it hinges on the word family. @howtobecomeadragon has an excellent perspective about this, how Bradley’s Big Buy is written like this outside:

(A yellow sun/star, Bradley’s in blue, and BIG BUY surrounded by red also — our primary colors. Blue in the middle of yellow and red, with yellow placed above and red below. )

And yet the apostrophe s is left off on the sign inside the store (see below). Not to mention, it looks like an ‘i’ is there. Howtobecomeadragon, just like me, always assumed it said family. It likely says Bradley. But at a distance and with it’s presented angle (I don’t think it appears any other time other than this scene), it seems ambiguous. Maybe set design wants you to think it says family?

The 1 is directly above Will’s head, foreshadowing who exactly is looming over Will—who is tied to Will. Mike is rooted to Will’s side here and so, by association with Will, One is looming over Mike as well. I said in my original post that Mike is rooted to Will’s side here like he is through s4 and will be in s5. Mike is a positive tie to Will, opposing Henry’s tie to Will. Henry wants to sever the bond between Will and Mike.

Additionally though, I thought about the color choices of the neon here: Always #1 at family. One is associated with red; plain answer there. ‘Family’ is also highlighted in red. ‘Always’ is blue. ‘At’ is blue as well, and that is the word directly in-between Mike’s and Will’s heads. The starting and ending letters of ‘family’ (the tail of ‘y’ trailing under the ‘f’) are directly over Mike’s head.

What does the blue-highlighted ‘at’ directly above and perfectly in-between Will and Mike mean for them—for Mike especially, given that color is linked to him? And what does the red-highlighted ‘family’ mean for Mike? Red represents One; the neon 1 represents One and it is above Will, signaling a clear correlation, but the word family itself is hanging over Mike.

Blue (Mike) and red (One) are used in alternative fashion to color this sentence. Automatically I think of the parallels between the Creel and Wheeler families. Both families are pictured as ideal on the outside—THE picture of normalcy even. But the Wheeler and Creel families are riddled with lies and underlying facades.

Mike and Will are positioned side by side underneath this sentence, right in the middle of it and simultaneously under the blue ‘at’—‘at’ as a word itself here emphasizing the action toward the object (family) and expressing the relationship between the implied subject (Mike) and skill/capability (Always #1). ‘Always’ and ‘at’ are blue. Is Mike not in a position (in the above s3 scene especially) where he feels like he has to present a certain way? Is he not trying to emulate his family/the norm? Through similar parental-inspired clothing choices, him giving up on games he loves, and who he’s really in love with and attracted to in order to ‘grow up’/be as he knows he’s expected to be? Mike has feelings for Will, a truth that does not fit within the normal/conventional family picture. Under that ‘at,’ where he and Will sit together, doesn’t meet the expectation of an idealized family. It would break the normal path Mike is trying to stay on.

The fact this sign is in a grocery store, a place where people go to replenish what they need to live and get through their days, may also suggest that the norm/expectation is what’s required for the ‘family’ to live. Family, in this case, becomes a trap, a trap that extends from society-implemented normalcies that affect families. In addition, there is extra ‘effort’ put into the font choice for ‘family’ as opposed to the rest of the sentence. It’s all in print until it becomes cursive, a style of writing that has been expected of adolescents in order to uphold the standard of cursive penmanship that many adults were once/still can be held to (In American education systems, as far as I’m aware, this has been the case. U.S. students, as part of their curriculum, needed to be proficient in cursive. As of 2010, this is no longer a curricular requirement). I don’t think it’s a coincidence that ‘family’ is all of a sudden in cursive, highlighted in danger-coded red, and is above Mike’s head particularly as a representation for these symbolic notions. Metaphorically, the standard Mike is well-aware of is hanging over him. It can be dangerous to not uphold it and keep his family going as they are, right? Yet it’s a danger—a trap—for his own life.

Henry knows this. Henry knows from his own experiences what Mike’s deal is regarding expectation and family. Once again, “eat, sleep, reproduce, and die” is strongly relevant when considering the basic, normal functions that are required to live—with ‘reproduce’ being a social standard of function for life.

I believe it was @wibble-wobbegong who prompted Petergate, in which Henry was in love with another boy in his childhood: Peter Owens, Sam Owens’ son (a ton of evidence is there to back it up, including relevant connections to Petey Mchew in Robin’s story and St. Peter imagery; a definite must-read that is well-worth your time to sift through if you haven’t). In short, aside from many facades their families project (@aemiron-main has a great many posts discussing the Wheelers and Creels), there is Mike’s connection to Henry: their love for other boys that don’t uphold the family standard.

The fact that Henry knows, very likely directly understands, what is going on within Mike is what will make Mike vulnerable to Henry.

[daydadahlias]

Re Ashton’s grammar, sometimes I think he might do it on purpose? Because it gets talked about and it ‘confirms’ that dumb ‘they didn’t finish hs and it shows’ (or in Ashton’s case, ‘he’s the only one who finished hs but it doesn’t show’) bias, that too many people in this fandom like to spew at every opportunity. Academics don’t define intelligence! I’ve worked with university educated people who knew every theoretical aspect but couldn’t apply their knowledge to the actual work place. And look at what 5SOS have achieved! I’m honestly impressed with how they moved to the UK and later the USA at such young ages, and made it work, though I absolutely credit their tight friendship for that too.

Anyway, in a way I can see Ashton being a little troll with his grammar mistakes, for the engagement those posts get, but like you I despise how he’s painted an idiot because of it. But then I despise how Ash is always the scapegoat when something goes ‘wrong’ in people’s minds, and that he’s always the one that people demand an apology from (though sometimes just because he’s most likely to respond). He already feels responsible for everything and everyone around him, please don’t add even more to it, and possibly add to his mental health struggles. Fuck, I’m yapping but I guess I just care too much about this guy

I completely agree that academics do not define intelligence and I recently wrote a paper in my multicultural psych class about how english grammar is such a gatekeeping factor in academia. the thing that really bothers me about the grammar thing is that people don't seem to understand Why someone would be making grammar mistakes. and it's not because they're stupid. it's just that they didn't have the opportunities that other people have had to learn. I see it a lot as someone who works at a college writing center. kids these days (after that fuckass No Child Left Behind Act) just get shoved through the system with very little specialized help.

i have tons of kids who come into my writing center who don't know the difference between there/their/they're or don't know how to use apostrophes or contractions, etc etc. I see pretty much everything in there. but these mistakes aren't because they're stupid; it's because they were pushed through a system that didn't care if they didn't know. and they're always just incredibly grateful when i point out the difference to them and give examples to help explain until they get it. and, honestly, the most fulfilling and also sad part of my job was this time that I explained they're/there/their to a freshman and he told me so sincerely, "Thank you for teaching me. No one's ever told me that before." and it just sort of hit me like a truck. like if u never had the chance to learn and then people are constantly ridiculing you for not knowing, it doesnt really make you want to learn, does it?? and who could blame you for that?? I'm sure people constantly poking fun at Ashton for his grammar doesn't make him want to correct himself either. and i'll also never get over the time one of my coworkers was bitching to me about a kid coming in who didn't know how to cite sources and she said to me "god, i just dont know why some of these kids are so stupid" and i felt my stomach sink. And any time that I see people calling Ashton dumb or pointing out his grammar use, I hear her voice now.

like there is not a single person in the world who is stupid. there are some people who are lazy and don't make effort to learn, sure !! but no one is stupid, they just haven't had the resources to learn and u ridiculing them for that doesn't make you smarter than them, it just makes u an asshole ESPECIALLY when you are in the privileged fucking position of teaching.

So, for me Ashton's bad grammar is now representing all of my writing center kids i care so much about and when i see people making fun of him, i see people making fun of them.

because, genuinely, people also need to consider that we learn grammar shit like that in 3rd grade y'know and then no one tries to teach it to you again. so if someone doesn't know that stuff by the time they're in adulthood, that means they weren't taught when they were a child and that's not funny, it's really sad and a genuine failing of our education systems.

like, Ashton was a kid in bumblefuck Australia who had an absent alcoholic mother, worked multiple jobs, and was responsible for his two younger siblings, I'm sorry if he wasn't paying close attention in 8 a.m. English??

but, to ur end point, i definitely think that ashton is often used as a scapegoat for fans' cruelty because he's online the most and the "easiest" to poke fun of. and it's disheartening for sure. especially as someone who loves him so much.

[hiromicota]

Ii soogwachi deebiru!

Which means “Have a happy New Year” in Uchinaaguchi/Okinawan. Kind of. Like most translations, there’s a trade off between functional equivalency and literal meanings. In this case, I went with the functional version.

Here’s the literal one:

ii or yii: good*

soogwachi: first month (and by extension, the new year)

deebiru: is/will be**

So, “This is/will be a good new year” is a more literal translation.

* It’s very likely that both pronunciations being valid is related to why the word for “good” in Modern Japanese is ii or yoi, depending on context. I’ve done absolutely no research into this hypothesis, so take it with a grain of salt. I am a linguist, but I’m not a Japanese-Ryukyuan languages linguist; my specialization is second language acquisition and English language education.

** Kind of. Deebiru is 1 of at least 3 Uchinaaguchi copular verbs. A full explanation is probably beyond my ability at this point. If you’re familiar with Modern Japanese, this is similar to and a cognate with でございます. If you’re not familiar with Japanese, 🤷🏻‍♀️. Wish I could help, but I can’t at this time.

tl;dr Deebiru means “is” or “will be” here, but not necessarily elsewhere.

Bonus

Earlier today, a friend asked me why I use Latin characters to write in Uchinaaguchi instead of hiragana. Part of the reason is because it makes what I write accessible to Uchinaanchu/Okinawans who don’t read Japanese. The rest of the answer is because neither hiragana nor Latin characters are native to Okinawa; there is unfortunately no native writing system, and if I have to pick a colonizer writing system, I’m going to pick the one that doesn’t require weird hacks to make work with Uchinaaguchi phonology. There are a bunch of sounds that Okinawan has that Japanese doesn’t***, and there’s just no good way to write them in hiragana.

Example 1: “gwachi” (month) from the above “soogwachi” isn’t a possible word in Modern Japanese****. I’d need to write ぐゎち to get there, which is kind of goofy. If you don’t read Japanese, that’s like, “Say gu, but drop the u and add a wa, then say chi.” It’s silly, but not super complicated, which is why it’s only Example 1.

Example 2: ‘kwa (child) is pretty understandable for most folks used to reading Latin characters, aside from the apostrophe, which represents a glottal stop, which is the consonant in the middle of “uh oh” and between the Is of Hawai’i. Written in hiragana, it’s っくゎ, which will just straight up baffle most Japanese speakers, because っ is not an OK way to start a word.

Example 3: ‘nma (horse) is one step further, with an upsetting hiragana transliteration of っんま. Neither っ norん are supposed to go before a full syllable in Japanese, and here both of them are.

Example 4: But, wait. We can go one step beyond that! Nnna means “everyone,” and yes, all of those Ns are important; nna, ‘nna, and na are different words. Nnna could be written as んんな or っんな, neither of which will make anyone happy.

So, yeah. I write Uchinaaguchi using Latin characters because using hiragana just seems messy. And I like making what I know accessible to my fellow diasporic Shimanchu.

*** Modern Japanese has the sounds, but can’t use them the same way, because Japanese has a bunch of sound shifts (allophones). Like, はひふへほ are the H morae (syllables-ish), and are theoretically pronounced ha hi hu he ho, except hi and hu don’t actually exist, because the ‘h’ inふ is a bilabial fricative, which is kind of an F sound, but not, and the ‘h’ in ひ is kind of like a cat hissing at you. The S and T morae have similar things going on, with si, ti, and tu being illegal in Modern Japanese, and shi, chi, and tsu replacing them. Uchinaaguchi, on the other hand, is fine with si & shi, ti & chi, and tu & tsu. Still no actual hi or hu in either language, though. Kind of a bummer for me, but at least I get to hiss like a cat when I introduce myself.

**** It was in Old Japanese, though. Maybe Early Middle Japanese, too. I don’t know. I told you I wasn’t a Japanese-Ryukyuan languages linguist. I do know that /gwa/ was actually the Old Japanese pronunciation of ぐわ, making it interesting that /gwa/ is fine in Modern Okinawan, but not Modern Japanese.



[timecma]

I wanna know more about *stares at list* hmmm…. Apostolos… sounds a bit like apostrophe, don’t you think?

Oh good choice! Apostolos isn’t someone we’ve seen a lot of, huh? He comes into play a lot later, and, like a bunch of characters, he’s not the best of guys right out the gate.

Apostolos was the first creation of Vincent, hence why he is the King of Angels, and kind of runs the Factions of Heaven. Vinny made him to be perfect, but he realized quickly that life cannot be completely perfect when Apostolos grew into a man of his own. To rob someone of their individuality is to make them perfect, in a sense, but Vincent could not do that to his creation because it just wasn’t the right thing to do. So, he learned that in an attempt to make him perfect, he ended up making him a perfectionist instead. Apostolos was tasked with the idea creation of all the other Factions of Heaven. He came up the Seraphim Leaders of the Wind Faction, Earth Faction, and Water Faction and Vinny created them for him. However, when it came time to create the citizens of Heaven, Apostolos refused to let the factions mingle. He wanted all of the bloodlines to be pure and for there to be a distinct separation between them all. Vinny was kind of disappointed by this decision, and he asked how Apostolos planned on any of them growing their factions without others to have children with. Well, in comes Hestia, a Greek goddess who had been watching Vincent’s and Apostolos’s work. She gave her input instead—being a kind and motherly woman who had a knack for how families worked, she was perfect. Apostolos fell in love with her as she helped out Vincent get a good reign on how to create the denizens of Heaven. She’s also the one who suggest that, since he had so much space in The Heaven, he could use it to kind of let souls after their reaping have a bit of relaxation and comfort for a short while in his utopia before going into Death’s Archives.

Hestia was grand. And she ended up falling in love with Apostolos when he praised her idea, but she was a bit reserved about the reasons behind it. She thought they were rather rude since Apostolos was viewing the souls as “lesser” than he was as a Seraphim. Apostolos’s need for organization also meant that there needed to be an organization or his species as well. Anyone that came directly from his bloodline would be a Seraphim. So, despite her reservations, Hestia had the classic “I can fix him” thought with Apostolos. She also thought he was very handsome so she was extra motivated. Vincent was like “if anyone can fix him and fix my mistake on him it’ll be her, yeah let’s let her stay” in hopes that Apostolos would indeed turn into a better man. The reflection of Vincent’s ability as a Creator goes hand-in-hand with Hestia’s attempts to help Apostolos failing. Vinny is just kind of too strong when though he doesn’t mean to be. Hestia made so many attempts trying to show Apostolos what love was and to feel compassion for others.

She gave him his first child, Idouma, when she attempted to test if having a family would soften his heart. Instead of loving him, Apostolos treated Idouma like a right-hand man and put incredible responsibility on his shoulder to increase the amount of Seraphim in the Fire Faction. Idouma didn’t want to, but he was taught to live up to his father’s expectations and so he was also molded into a rather cold-hearted individual. (Please keep in mind that even though all of Hestia and Apostolos’s children look around the same age, they’re actually quite far apart. Each son was fully grown before the birth of the next.)

Hestia tried again in her attempt to make Apostolos’s heart melt (for a guy on fire he was stone cold). She gave him another child, Aliquam, and she personally raised him away from Apostolos to try and prevent what happened to Idouma. But, thanks to Apostolos’s genes meant to be perfect, Aliquam instead became exactly like his mother. And, as such, he tried to also help his father become a better person. He loved his father so much and tried to change him like his mother had been trying to, but Apostolos found him annoying and pushed him away, neglecting him and labeling him as a disappointment because he didn’t turn out like his brother.

Hestia was getting really fed up at that point, but she eventually decided that she would give it one more try. One more chance. And so she gave him a third child. Third time’s the charm right? They had their third child and named him Xanthous. By then, Hestia found that all of her children were continuing the fire motif and she suggested Apostolos adopt the last name Fotiá. Apostolos didn’t necessarily care, which put a damper on her spirits, but she started calling them the Fotiá family anyway. Vinny overheard it, thought it was cute, and he dubbed them the Fotiá family officially. Hestia had learned from her two previous mistakes, and she urged Apostolos to raise Xanthous in tandem with her so there was balance. However, the discourse between them proved that they just could not do it. But Hestia was so resilient. She never gave up on her husband.

Xanthous didn’t even get a chance to grow up. He was given rules, he broke them, and Hestia really got to see how horrendous of a person Apostolos was. For disobeying his rule, Apostolos locked up his own son, tortured him for a century, then dragged him out in front of the entire community, chopped his wings off, and tossed him out of The Heaven. It’s like it wasn’t even a second thought for him. Everyone was mortified, and when Hestia found out what he was doing beyond the punishment aspect, she could not take it anymore. She left him, divorcing him and trying to take her children with her. Idouma, however, was too faithful to his father having been raised by him. Aliquam, being raised by her, was never going to give up on his father. So her children stayed behind, and Hestia attempted to leave that chapter of her life behind.

She still sees Apostolos around, but every time she does, she has a burning hatred for him and the fact that he does not care. Unfortunately for her, Apostolos does care. He does care, but it’s only about Vincent—and it’s for backwards and skewed reasons because he is his “god” and “creator” and he needs to make him happy. Vinny hates it. But he tries to love Apostolos because he was supposed to be his pride and joy. He loves him so much. But it’s so sad and it’s not the best…ughhh. However, Apostolos does eventually get better, and it comes from the love of a Fallen Angel from the Water Faction. The crazy story behind that might have to be saved for another time.

But there you go! I don’t think I’ll get to tell this story in my story, but even if I do you’ll probably get to see a bit more of how the characters interact with one another. This is as much as I can give without inserting too many spoilers though haha. Hope you enjoyed! Sorry it was so long.

[passerine-writes]

Silent Sparks - Volt 70

Warnings: Tsukare has a panic attack, anxiety, mentions of past scars, feelings in general Word count: 5780

Notes: Italics - Tsukare signing Bold italics - Family member/friend signing 'Italics with apostrophes' - Thoughts

Masterlist

Volt 69 | Volt 71

My family and I stood outside of a door, today being the day that I meet my birth family. I fiddled with my fingers nervously, the front door of the small, cottage like house being the only thing separating me from meeting them.

"Are you ready, little listener?" I looked at the ground and shakily nodded, slightly worried about how this might go.

Slowly, I raised my fist and knocked on the door, on the second knock, the wooden panel flung open to reveal Fumikoto. Her black hair was pulled back in a neat bun and she looked excited as she quickly pulled me into a hug. I tensed up but stiffly hugged her back.

"Hi Fumikoto." I mumbled out, still on edge with her since the last time I saw her.

"Hi, honey. It's so nice to see you again, and please, call me Azuna or Auntie, we are family after all. Come in, come in, everyone's here." She spun on her heel and I sent my family members a cautious look, unnerved at her adamancy on how I address her. We all followed her inside and I held my bag closer to my body, my breathing turning slightly shakier at the reality of it all. "Mom, Dad, this is Onryo." I awkwardly waved at the elderly couple sat in the living room. The man was bald with very prominent crows feet and thin, rectangular glasses. The woman had short, gray hair and half moon glasses perched on her nose.

"Who are the others?" The older man asked and I cautiously took a step back.

"I'm Aizawa Shouta, this is my husband Yamada Hizashi, we're Onryo's parents. This is our other son, Shinsou Hitoshi." The man gave a small nod before finally turning to me.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you. My name is Ren and this is my wife, Keiko." The older man stood up and hobbled over to me, pulling me into a hug, followed by his wife, and I finally saw where I got my height from. This man was shorter then me by a small amount.

"It's nice to meet you too." I said back hesitantly.

"Boys! Come here please!" Fumikoto called into another room. I looked in the direction she yelled towards and watched a man with brown hair and a small boy on his hip walk in. "This is my husband, Yuto and our son, Sota." I waved awkwardly and glanced at my brother.

"Onryo?" My head snapped back to the doorway and I saw a man with hazel eyes and ginger curls standing there.

"Shikadai?" I asked in return, fully understanding where I got my looks from. Unfortunately, Fumikoto hadn't been lying, I look a lot like him. His eyes watered and he pulled me into a tight, warm hug. I awkwardly hugged him back, my body tense from everyone being so physically affectionate.

"I can't believe I'm finally meeting you. You must be his family." He turned towards everyone beside me and I spaced out for a moment, completely overwhelmed within the first five minutes. A familiar hand delicately placed itself on my back and I looked to Dad with wide eyes.

We're going to head out for a little while, we'll be back at five to pick you both up. Do you have everything you need? Dad asked slowly and I rapidly nodded. Okay, call one of us if either of you need something.

Okay. I love you.

He gave a rare, soft smile and we all bid our goodbyes. My brother and I standing in the same spot for a moment, not knowing what to do.

This is awkward.

Yeah. Are you okay?

I think so. Still kinda on edge.

"It's so cool that you all know sign language." Yuto commented as he sipped on a drink.

"Thank you, everyone in our family is fluent in it." I commented hesitantly, not wanting to irk anyone by calling my family what they are.

"I assume it's because of your quirk, your hearing starts to fade after a while." Shikadai commented.

"Yeah, it doesn't help that I have hearing aids already but I started learning when I was probably six." I rubbed the back of my neck, starting to regret coming here.

"You boys can sit down, don't be strangers." Azuna told us in a playful tone, clearly trying to break the tension. My brother and I sat down on some of the chairs that were pulled out from the dining room and I tugged my sleeves down to my palms. "Onryo, I owe you an apology for how I went about things a few weeks ago. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have gone about it the way I did. It wasn't right of me." I curtly nodded.

"I understand why you did, if it was Hitoshi calling me I would jump to help him despite any logic. Toshi, if I get arrested at any point, you're my phone call." He rolled his eyes and bumped my shoulder.

"Same to you."

"Onryo, I'm sorry for how our daughter has turned out. I swear we raised her better then that." Keiko said softly and I anxiously tugged my lip between my teeth.

"Can I ask.. about the uh, history of everything? If I'm being blunt, I know the bare minimum. I know she turned to drugs and at some point, I guess Shikadai broke up with her, but that's all I really know." Everyone looked at each other, silently communicating the hard truth.

"Yuto, would you mind taking Sota into the other room to play?" The man nodded, placing a kiss on his wife's head before taking their baby to a different room. "Who would like to start?"

"She was always a happy girl." Keiko started, eyes already watering behind her crescent glasses. "So bright and full of life." Keiko said as she got up and walked a ways away, coming back with a framed picture of a girl with long, dark brown hair and shining green eyes. "That was her in her second year of high school." My eyes darted around the image, not being able to focus on it without seeing her attacking me.

"We met in junior high." I turned to look at Shikadai. His voice heavy as he spoke. "We were friends for a while until I finally worked up the courage to confess to her. We were together from the time we were seventeen to the time we were twenty three."

"So, when she got pregnant with me." He nodded, clearly not a fan of this topic.

"I didn't know she was pregnant with you, but yes. The first few years were great, we were young and in love. When we turned twenty, I proposed and we were engaged. She kept the drugs hidden from me for almost two years. I thought she was just trying out those fad diets and having too much fun after classes in college. I never thought... I never thought she was using opioids. I found out after she called to have me bail her out, Azuna didn't pick up and your grandparents had gotten to a point where they could only help so much. I tried getting her into rehab, counseling, narcotics anonymous. When who you're trying to help is an adult though, there's only so much you can do. It wasn't a healthy relationship, but at the time, I didn't care, I still loved her. She would berate me, attack me, you name it, she did it. Yuto here, is my best friend and I'm pretty much the reason him and Azuna got together. One night, she told me she hated me and that we were done, I packed a duffel and went to Yuto's house. Azuna told me Shiroka was pregnant, and I confronted her. She told me I wasn't the father and filed a false restraining order against me. Azuna texted me when you were born, a full head of ginger hair, but I couldn't go see you. By the time I talked to a lawyer so I could sign your birth certificate and be with you, you were already in the system and nobody could tell me where you were. I got in touch with Kasumi when you were four and requested a DNA test, but she wouldn't allow it. With my living situation at the time, I wouldn't have been allowed to adopt you. I'm not proud of it, but I gave up, I just hoped you would have a good enough family one day. Then I saw you in the Sports Festival and you were amazing, I was so proud to see how much you've grown up." I looked at him intently, not knowing that he stayed updated on me for a while. But it raised more questions.

"Why didn't you reach out after any of the times you heard about me?" My voice was weak, quiet and trembling as I asked one of the questions I'd been waiting so long to. My eyes watered slightly, all the emotions I'd been feeling starting to build up at once.

"Onryo, I wanted to, we all did. I told them not to because I didn't want you to feel pressured or overwhelmed. We always wanted to reach out and see the day you'd come home, but we knew you were adopted and had your own family." The moment he mentioned me coming home, my body went into fight or flight mode but the only thing I could was freeze. My breathing turning shallow and I felt like an animal at the zoo.

"Can we have a minute?" My brother asked, Keiko nodding sweetly and directing him towards a different room. I couldn't even make it to the room though, my breathing growing ragged as I slid down the hall wall. "Hey, look at me. You're safe, nothings gonna happen." I stared at my brother, hoping it would help but nothing seemed to be doing the trick. We tried everything but I couldn't slow my breathing enough to respond. Next thing I knew, his phone started buzzing, showing that Denki was calling. My brother gave me a single nod and gestured to the phone he placed in my shaking hands. I slowly answered and heard the beep.

"Hey, pretty boy. My job right now is to just distract you per Shinsou's request. Hanta gave me a rubix cube to try and solve, it didn't happen.. I ended up just taking the stickers off and moving them around. I gave it back to him the next day and he was confused so he messed it all up again. So today I asked Yao-momo to make me a few brand new ones and she did, so let the pranking commence." I let out a puff of air as a weak laugh. "Hey, take some deep breaths with me, yeah? Don't think about anything else that's going on over there. In. And out. Great job, Ryo. Do you wanna tell me or Shinsou what happened?" I sniffled and wiped my eyes, taking more shaky breaths.

"He said th-that they couldn't wait to see the day I'd come home and all I could picture was Shiroka." Hitoshi nodded and rubbed my back while the line was silent for a bit.

"Well they aren't taking you anywhere. I promise." I slowly nodded and worked on keeping my breathing level. "How're you feeling?"

"Better, I guess. I'm gonna let Toshi have his phone back though, but thank you." He hummed softly and we said our goodbyes, my brother gently taking his phone from me and waiting patiently for me to be ready. Once I was, we made our way back out to the living room.

"Oh you boys are both right on time, we were about to head back there and see if you two were ready to eat. Your grandmothers special kenchinjiru just finished simmering for some time, are you both hungry?" Azuna asked excitedly and I politely nodded, my brother doing the same. "Perfect, you both can go wash up." Hitoshi and I both washed our hands and set our places at the table, sitting with everyone. My brother was on my left and Shikadai sat on my right, followed by Yuto, Azuna and their son, and my grandparents.

"So, would you mind filling me in on the last fifteen years of your life? I feel like I have so much to catch up on." Shikadai asked softly, clearly not wanting to over step.

"Uh, I guess the largest thing is I lost most of my hearing. My family is amazing, honestly. Hitoshi's the best brother I could ask for and our Dad's are amazing." I wanted to smack myself in the face for how tense I made the atmosphere become. Everyone's mood plummeted for the most part aside from Toshi's and Sota, however the child had an excuse since he was happily oblivious to what was going on as he played with his spoon.

"How did you lose your hearing? You're still pretty young, thought I should've beat you to the punch." Ren said in a light tone, uplifting the mood significantly. So I went on to explain what happened.

"We saw that on the news, I'm glad you found how to make our quirk useful for hero work." Shikadai told me softly. I gave him a gentle smile despite how perturbed I was at him calling it 'our quirk'.

"What else have we missed? I feel like we still need to know so much more about you." Keiko mused delicately, eyes shining behind her glasses.

"Well, since he won't tell you anything, I suppose I will." My brother drawled out. "We both know english and sign language, but Onryo is also fluent in spanish, and is pretty good at speaking french and italian. He's gotten into a fight, we even made a code name for when he gets mad. He's extremely talented at playing instruments and singing, he got his IQ tested by Principal Nedzu and scored a 148. We have two cats and are slowly adjusting to the dorms." They all stared at us in disbelief, not expecting my brother to give them a crash course in my life. Fumikoto gave us a small look, acting like there was something else we should say until it clicked. "Whatever detail you're thinking isn't necessary, what I said was the important stuff." She gave him a tight lipped smile and nodded.

"Well, I know I would love to hear all about it." Shikadai said happily. So we explained as we ate, answering questions I've had to before with my friends, all of them perplexed at what we told them.

We eventually moved back to the living room, Sota wobbling up to me on unsteady, chubby legs and sticking his arms out with a grin. I gave him a small smile and lifted him up, setting him on my legs. His tiny hands moved up and explored my face, giggling away cheerfully as he pinched and prodded at my skin, small bits of baby babbling slipping into the mix. I couldn't stop the grin spreading across my face as he did so, even as he curiously rubbed a finger over my scars.

"You're a natural with kids, Onryo. He's usually more closed off with new people." Fumikoto said in a delicate tone, not wanting to disturb the atmosphere.

"I've been around a lot of kids growing up, for some reason I'm good with them." I responded through bits of laughter.

"If you don't mind me asking, how'd you get those scars on your face, son?" Ren asked gently, clearly not wanting to strike a nerve.

"The one on my nose I got when I was eight, bad foster home. The one down my neck I, uh, got while I was kidnapped." I rushed out the words and scooped up Sota, moving us to the floor to play with him.

However, the movement made him erupt into a fit of giggles and he made grabby hands again. So I laid on my back and held him above me, lifting him up and down at different speeds while he continued his slew of laughter. What I wasn't prepared for, was the small bit of spit up flying onto my shirt after we sat up again.

"Shoot, I'm sorry about that, I thought he'd be okay because it's been a while since his last meal." Yuto apologized as he came over and picked up his son, Shikadai standing and slowly offering a hand. I looked at it quizzically but accepted his offer and let him help me up.

"No worries, I wasn't thinking about the bit of motion sickness he could get." I held my shirt between pinched fingers, the small stain feeling uncomfortable on my body.

"Let's get you a shirt to change into. I have some clothes that should fit you." Shikadai said to me, jutting his head in a direction to follow him. I glanced back at my brother, waiting for his nod of approval before following my birth father down the hallway and into a different room. He rifled through a drawer and held up a black t-shirt, comparing its size to my body before nodding in his own approval. "This should fit you, I'll leave a few others out for you just in case." I nodded lightly, not knowing how else to respond in that moment. He walked out and shut the door behind him.

I slipped into the black t-shirt but his measurements were slightly off. While we were about the same height, I had more muscle mass and I didn't want to wear a form fitting shirt. So after a thorough check in the dresser mirror, I slipped out of it and grabbed the light blue shirt he left out. I looked at myself in the mirror after I got it on, staring judgmentally at my exposed skin. Much like the black shirt, it hugged my form like a second skin and I slowly pulled it off. I fiddled with the next shirt for a moment, an army green long sleeve that looked to be on the slightly larger side. However, I froze when I felt a set of eyes on me. My head snapped in the direction of the door and I saw Shikadai standing there in disbelief with watery eyes.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to barge in, I knocked but there wasn't an answer." He said apologetically.

"It's okay, if you knocked soft I probably didn't hear it, it's one of the things I struggle picking up with my hearing aids." I explained awkwardly, rushing to pull the shirt over my head.

"Can I ask what happened?" I busied my hands by folding the clean shirts while swallowing the lump in my throat.

"Shitty foster homes, the care coordinator at the adoption center and uh, you're ex. Plus some others in the League of Villans." His face fell further and I awkwardly stared at the floor.

"Gods, I- I'm so sorry Onryo. I am so sorry." I shook my head and fidgeted with the sleeves.

"It's not your fault, you weren't the one who did it." He wiped his eyes and ran a hand through his hair.

"Still, if I was just faster and filed for parental rights then none of this would have happened." I shifted from one foot to the other.

"You said it yourself, with the situation you were in, I was bound to end up in the system. Can't change the past." He sniffled slightly and solemnly nodded his head.

"Can I give you a hug?" I gave him a slow nod and before I could process what was going on, he was already hugging me tightly. Hesitantly, I wrapped my arms around him and waited for him to step away. "I'm going to be honest with you. I want to be more involved in your life. I want to keep in touch with you and see you more often. But I understand if you aren't ready for that. I know it must be a lot for you and I'm not expecting you to call me 'Dad' or anything. I just, I want to be there." We both migrated to the bed and sat there as I processed his words.

"I don't know yet, honestly. I'm still processing everything." He fiddled with his fingers beside me.

"There's... there's a lot that I have to make up to you. And it'll probably be impossible with everything you've been through, but if you're okay with it eventually, I want to try. I don't blame you if you ever hated me or if you do still. I can carry the blame, I accept my responsibility for what happened." I rubbed the back of my neck as he spoke.

"I never hated you. I was angry for a while, because of how much I didn't know. But I don't hate you." He sat there for a moment, clearly digesting my words.

"That's fair. You're right to be angry for whatever you've been through. And at me for being absent for fifteen years." He dried his remaining tears and tried to compose himself. "We should probably get back out there, I know everyone else wants to spend as much time with you as possible." I nodded lightly, saying a quiet agreement and following him back out to the living room. He took my dirtied shirt and threw it in the washer while I met everyone else back in the living room.

Everything alright?

Yeah.

You okay?

I think so.

Sota came back over to me and grabbed my moving hands curiously, babbling away about something.

"Uh, how old is Sota?" I asked curiously.

"He's eleven months old, he turns a year old next month. Speaking of, we actually wanted to invite you to his birthday party. We'd love to see you there, it's going to be October twentieth. His birthday is the twenty fifth. Plus you would get to meet more of the family, more aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews. You're great with Sota, I'm sure you'd do great with the other kids in the family." As difficult as it was, I tried to control my facial reactions and kept a neutral expression as Azuna talked.

"I'll let you know, depends on my school schedule and whatnot." I managed to get out, not wanting to step on any toes.

"Well, if you want, we can always do a smaller one for you and Sota, kind of a conjoined one. You two are only seven days apart after all." She tacked on and I sent a tight lipped smile while Sota started clapping my hands together. The small action effectively making me laugh a little, in turn making Sota smile.

"Uh, I'll think about it and let you guys know, I don't know how tests and things are gonna look then." I weakly stated. My brother nodded his head in my direction.

Dad texted me, he asked me to tell you to check your phone.

Shit, I haven't checked it in a while.

He's not gonna be upset. Why are you acting so different though?

Not right now.

Bro talk later?

Bro talk later.

"You really like watching me sign, don't you?" I asked Sota, my voice lilted a bit, my hands moving as I spoke. "Yeah, maybe one day you'll get to learn sign language, too. I think you'd like that." I said to the baby cheerfully, smiling brightly as he held my moving hands while squeal-shriek-giggling. The sound making me wince at the whining feedback in my hearing aids.

"Everything alright, honey?" Keiko asked from her rocking chair.

"Yeah, just the feedback in my hearing aids is a little harsh." I explained briefly as I waited for it to end. Sota was still giggling happily, oblivious to my previous discomfort.

"Onryo." My brother said. I hummed and turned towards him. "Check your phone."

"Oh right, I forgot, sorry." I rushed out and detangled one of my hand to grab my phone.

From Drowzee: How's it going so far?

From Jangmo-o: How's it going little listener? Having a good time?

Class A Baddies

(Turtwig - Tsu, Typhlosion - Bakugou, Machamp - Shoji, Reshiram - Iida, Clefa - Uraraka, Toxitricity - Jirou, Bruxish - Aoyama, Shaymin - Koda, Machoke - Sato, Murkrow - Tokoyami, Mienfoo - Ojiro, Diancie - Hagakure, Jirachi - Yaomomo, Espeon - Shinsou, Boldore - Kirishima, Pikachu - Kaminari, Regice - Todoroki, Rayquaza - Midoriya, Venomoth - Mina, Scraggy - Sero, Whismur - Tsukare)

From Espeon: 6 image attachments

From Espeon: I think Onryo's having a fun time.

I looked through the pictures and saved all of them, multiple different pictures of me and Sota before he spit up on me.

From Venomoth: THATS IT

From Venomoth: IM MARRYING TSUKABABES

From Venomoth: HE CAN COOK

From Venomoth: HE CAN CLEAN

From Venomoth: HE CAN SING, DANCE AND PLAY MULTIPLE INSTRUMENTS

From Venomoth: HE DRINKS HIS RESPECT WOMEN JUICE

From Venomoth: HES GOOD WITH KIDS

From Venomoth: IF ONLY HE WAS STRAIGHT AND I WAS MORE ATTRACTED TO MEN

From Espeon: Well I wasn't expecting that.

From Scraggy: Tsuka's super good with kids, like, scary good

From Boldore: He's super manly!

From Turtwig: I had no idea Tsukare was so good with kids!

From Toxitricity: Me neither, he would be a good big brother

From Jirachi: That's exactly what I was thinking!

From Rayquaza: Aww! He would be!

From Regice: Interesting.

From Scraggy: Pause, hold on

From Scraggy: Where are our amigos?

From Scraggy: Denks and Tsuka have been really quiet

From Espeon: Onryo got spit up on and is changing his shirt.

From Scraggy: Okay, okay. Denki? You've been oddly quiet

From Scraggy: Anything you wanna add?

From Pikachu: Uh, no, nope, I'm good, I'm great, no thoughts in my head heh

From Toxitricity: Kaminari's so whipped

Tsukababes Pokémon

From Espeon: 3 image attachments

I saved the other photos of Sota and I, the child holding my hands happily while giggling.

From Espeon: I got more pictures.

From Venomoth: I've said it once, I'll say it again

From Venomoth: I want Tsukababes to marry me

From Pikachu: Same

From Scraggy: WOAH

From Boldore: Mina's got a point, he'd be a great big brother

From Espeon: He would.

From Rayquaza: It's weird to think that he's the younger brother between the two of you sometimes

From Rayquaza: But then I remember when Onryo thought it would be a good idea to try and eat a full tub of ice cream while working out

From Rayquaza: It didn't end well

From Pikachu: I don't think I wanna ask

From Pikachu: But I do

From Boldore: I feel like I need to try it now

From Espeon: Don't.

From Pikachu: Is Onryo okay??

From Pikachu: He hasn't answered either of the group chats

From Whismur: I'm okay, I haven't really been on my phone until now

From Whismur: There's a cute baby playing with my hands

From Pikachu: Awwww!

From Pikachu: How's it going at your bio family house?

From Espeon: Um. It's going.

From Scraggy: Tsuka?

From Rayquaza: Onryo?

From Venomoth: Tsukababes?

From Boldore: Bro?

From Whismur: It's going.

From Scraggy: Oh dear

From Pikachu: That doesn't sound good :(

To Drowzee: I'm okay, better then earlier. Tempted to leave early and say a family emergency came up though

To Jangmo-o: It's going okay I guess, it's kind of a lot though

From Drowzee: If you'd like to, we can. Sunshine and I can be there in ten minutes.

Do you think they would be upset if we left early? I'm getting drained and kind of overstimulated.

They'll probably be bummed no matter what time we leave. I say we try and tough it out at least another half hour so it's not like 'hey we got here at one and leaving at three but we were supposed to leave at five, sorry'.

You got a point I guess. I don't want to offend anyone, everything's just a lot right now. My brain just feels like this big puddle of goop.

We can head out whenever you're ready.

I let out a deep breath and nodded, going back to playing with Sota and holding small talk but I couldn't help but realize Shikadai's intense gaze on me.

I can't tell if you're looking at me like that because you're still freaked out that we look a lot alike or because you know sign language and are trying to figure out a way to bring it up without saying you were eavesdropping.

I guess both. He signed back and my eyes widened drastically.

Noted.

If you need to leave to take care of yourself, that's okay. Sure, we'll be bummed that we didn't get to see you longer but if you're drained and overwhelmed, the best thing you can do is go home.

Are you sure?

Of course, Onryo.

I nodded slowly and texted back Dad to let him know. My brother already watching the conversation so he was prepared.

"Hey everyone, Onryo isn't feeling too good right now, so he's going to head home early." Shikadai announced for me, something I was silently thankful for. Everyone seemed slightly upset that I was leaving so soon, but also sympathetic towards it.

We all bid our goodbyes and all but rushed out to our parents car. I buckled my seat belt and curled my legs up to my chest, resting my chin on my knees and looking out the window. Tears already welling in my eyes

"Onryo? Is everything okay?" Dad asked gently. I nodded and wiped the tears.

"What's wrong, little listener?" Pops asked, turning in his seat to look at me better.

"I'm not... I'm not angry anymore, I'm not angry at Shikadai and I've been mad at him for so many years, I don't know how to feel. I spent so many years blaming him, just to find out none of it was really his fault." My voice broke slightly and I harshly rubbed at my face. Hitoshi scooted over and wrapped an arm around me, letting me rest on his shoulder.

"Its okay to not know how you feel after that, it's a lot to take in." I nodded a little and swallowed the lump in my throat. "Aside from that, anything else happen?"

"They're all.. very persistent on me being around more, they even invited me to Sota's birthday party to meet more of my bio family and when I said I wasn't sure, Fumikoto kept pushing and asked if maybe we could do a small conjoined party for me and Sota. Keiko and Ren were nice, Yuto didn't really say much to me. It was all just, a lot. And Shikadai saw my scars, so that didn't help anything." Everyone shot me a confused glance. "Uh, I had to change my shirt cause Sota spit up a little bit on me and I didn't hear him knocking so he walked in to make sure I was okay." I briefly summed up. "I don't know what I want to do, it's a lot to take in and a lot of change and I'm happy with our family already. It's weird, seeing how differently they live from us. It feels like some of them just made excuses for why I grew up in the system, like they didn't care enough to try. Like I wasn't important enough to put in the effort. I'd go through foster care again if it meant we stayed family, I just wanna know why I wasn't worth the effort for them." I said in a shaky voice, another wave of tears making a path down my face.

"Onryo, you are more than worth it. It's not your fault that it took them fifteen years to want to try at all." Pops told me, reaching an arm to the back seat to hold my hand in his. "We would go through dealing with Kasumi again and again if it meant getting to be both of your dads." I coughed out a small laugh and tried to dry my eyes.

"Pops, I don't know what to do." My voice wobbled and my lip trembled at the confession. His features softened drastically and I could tell that caught off guard. I had always to be as independent as possible so I wouldn't be a burden, and here I was silently asking for help.

"It's okay. You aren't expected to know right now, it's a big decision with a lot going into it. Whatever you choose, we'll have your back and we won't be upset. Promise." I nodded my head, sniffling from crying so much today. I shut my eyes tight, hoping if I did, all the problems would go away for a moment. I stayed like that for the rest of the car ride, despite it not actually working.

"Do you want to come back to Pops and I's or go to the dorms?" Dad asked as we drove through the entrance to the dorms.

"I think I just wanna spend some time by myself right now." I mumbled out, trying my hardest to ignore the itch creeping across my skin. Everyone simply nodded and we said our goodbyes. My brother and I walked in the front door and were quickly bombarded by our friends.

"Tsukababes! What was it like! Were they nice? Mean? Weird?" She was practically bouncing where she stood and while I normally adored how much energy she had, today I was completely drained.

"They were okay." I stated plainly.

"Hey, ¿estás bien?" Hanta asked lightly, I gave him a small nod and stuck my hands in my pockets, my head tilting down towards the floor. I could feel Denki staring at me quizzically, my brother doing the same. "Y'know what I think would be great tonight? We should watch a movie! Either down here or in my room cause I brought a TV. What do you guys think?" He could barely finish his words before Mina and Kirishima cheered in excitement. Denki following suit before everyone turned to my brother and I. "Lo siento, pero no tienes voz en esto, amigo." (Sorry, but you don't have a say in this, dude.) I sighed but nodded my head, knowing he was more looking out for me then anything.

"If I'm going then you are too." I told my brother and watched him shrug.

[breadvidence]

DAMMIT I.V

On AO3

SUMMARY: Two suicidal old men with moral scrupulosity in a three-legged potato sack race towards domesticity. Dallas 2014/Brick crossover, all adaptation decisions arbitrary.

Note: Happy holidays, readers! The Santa reference is coincidental. At risk of admitting the work doesn't stand on its own by apostrophizing too much in the note, I will continue to have Valjean miss the waving rainbow flag of Javert's homosexuality until it ceases to amuse me, despite the fact that this is cockblocking us all. There is so much filth-nasty porn written for this piece that keeps getting pushed off to later chapters b/c of my whirlwind romance w/ this dumb trope. Warnings, warnings, uh: suicidal ideation, homophobia, transphobia, ableism (psychiatric), this Javert's idiosyncratic and scrupulous Catholicism, a date with no kisses, Amis deprived of their bloody revolution.

⁂

He calls the day after, from the grocery store. The late nineties pop over the sound system makes him think of drives from the SNF to restaurants they’re unlikely to visit again. “You been shopping yet?” He asks, unable to keep the accusation from his voice: did you plan to? “I’m by the eggs right now, and I could grab you a loaf of bread that isn’t stale and shitty.” 

“I’m sorry my hospitality was lacking,” Valjean replies.

He snorts, tapping his fingers against the scooter’s handle. He is past ready to be off the crutches and able to carry a basket. Soon. “Sure, take it that way. To think, I’ve fed you so many nice meals, too. And I’ll have you know I was saving that bottle of merlot from last Friday for an occasion. Come on, yes or no?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Without rancor, Javert asks, “What’re you distracted so by right now that you misdirected poorly? Lie outright next time, you’re better at it. I’m bringing you some.”

A woman looking at expiration dates on cartons of egg whites side-eyes him.

“You don’t have to come all the way to Southlake.” The concession is surprising, if pleasing. “I can pick them up from your place. Tomorrow all right? I’d planned to go to the gym this afternoon.” 

“You work out?” He flounders between the cognitive dissonance of Jean Valjean in a gym and the mental image of Jean Valjean in gym wear. Sweatpants? Bad enough. Dare he consider compression shorts? 

“How else would I be…” He hesitates, as if unsure how to phrase unnaturally strong without boasting. “It’s been a habit since I was a young man.” 

Yes, it showed then, too. There’s strain in his voice as he says, “Tomorrow. Right.” 

“Are you all right?” Valjean asks, audibly puzzled. 

This man makes him lose himself. When has his lustfulness ever shown in his voice? “As ever. What else do you need?”

He fails to win further concessions, and he doesn’t have enough information to shop for Valjean without direct instruction. His response to Javert’s cooking has been blandly complimentary towards all dishes (he tries not to be sore, on this point; while most of what he’s offered has been his usual, by the time he fed Valjean paella he was sick of it, two failed and one successful attempts at the thing later, and doubtful by the end he’d even remembered correctly an offhand comment from fifteen years ago about the dish). Nothing he has ordered at a restaurant would be intuitive to get him the ingredients for or purchase pre-made. The empty refrigerator and cupboards he glimpsed troubles him three times over: that Valjean tried to hide them, half-opening doors and standing just-so to block his line of sight; that they have made him aware, as he was not before, of the difference between Valjean’s body condition now and when he cut him free of his ropes at the riot; self-centered, that in his focus on his own pathetic suffering he did not perceive an acute problem, seeing the temper of the man in front of him as being no different from Madeleine’s melancholy. It was badly done of him as a professional observer and—as a friend.

In fact the whole damn apartment troubles him: he angled the answer out of Valjean that Cosette hadn’t cohabited with him in near four years, but the second bedroom remained in exactly the condition she left it, and there was a first year chemistry book on the side table in the study, a couple woman’s toiletries in the bathroom, her knicknacks decorating it throughout. Javert can acknowledge his own cleanliness is a bit above average, but he thinks he’s in his right to find it concerning that most of the cups and utensils were shoved into the dishwasher, that the trashcan was overstuffed, the counter in sore need of a wipe-down. The dustiness of low-touch surfaces cannot be acknowledged without secondhand embarrassment.

He buys Valjean a rotisserie chicken.

Though he has not been truly poor since he was a child, he has the habits of it, and trash bags are fifty cents cheaper at Fiesta Mart, which is only five minutes out of his way. There’s a good sale on shrimp besides, if he doesn’t mind shelling them. He’s savvy enough with the crutches that even somewhere not offering scooters he can manage a couple items.

An unfortunate aspect of this moral awakening is that the skill and instinct of his former profession remains. The sort of petty crime witnessed in the everyday hasn’t been his business for decades, but he was not above making it his business, before. Now he observes a shoplifter enter the mercado and proceed down the aisles; he follows, the crutches making him first notable, then dismissable. He angles his body towards a display of Suero Oral, head tilted so that the woman remains in his peripheries. She checks for cameras, believes his mime of looking between his phone and the content list on a bottle, and shifts a container of baby formula into her oversized bag. It is smoothly done; he didn’t recognize her because of first-timer nerves. There is a good chance, he knows, that she is not a mother, but intends to re-sell. 

With a last blank look at the Suero Oral, he makes his way to the meat counter.

Valjean spoke of his profound guilt over a theft. Somehow not the fucking kidnapping or assault, but—fine; a theft. Therefore he doesn’t see as morally excusable all stealing. Therefore he might not look on Javert’s deliberate blindness to this as morally correct. Except to make a hue and cry and et cetera is one step towards making this woman a prisoner, and that, that! That is a greater crime, isn’t it, than anything she can do with a quick hand and a purse? This conclusion, Javert admits, is entirely personal, and nothing to do with Valjean. Nothing to do with her, either. He is a God damned egoist.

He cannot make another prisoner.

Valjean visibly detests when Javert looks to him for ethical instruction, and as such would doubtless be pleased to see him making his own decisions. That he would then be displeased that his theoretical approval of this soothed Javert’s spirits is—is it comedic? It might be funny. Fuck. God help him. It would’ve been so much easier to be a bloated corpse caught beneath a pier. He put serious thought into that, again, before he decided instead to drive to Southlake, insofar as any part of his exhausted and hysterical thought processes could be called decision making.

Underneath his turmoil and rigidity there is a simple animal, a beast that wants not to die, and not to contemplate its place in the social order, a panting hairy thing that diverts his mind: as he waits in line for the butcher, a memory rises as if in repudiation of the river, the smell of Jean Valjean’s pillow, unfamiliar detergent charged by the awareness of who had used it. 

He’s doing fine.

After a stop at home to put away the groceries, there’s therapy, which perhaps would’ve been better timed three days prior; he never considered that the explicit invitation to reach out at need is serious, and from his experience with the medical world, it isn’t. It’s an afternoon appointment, which means he’ll be called back at least forty-five minutes later than scheduled; he shows up punctually, parks in the adjacent lot in case his vehicle is recognized, and proceeds to have a staring match in the waiting area with another patient who he suspects is too stoned to actually register him. 

When he is called back, he wastes the first thirty minutes, knowingly. The therapist is aware she doesn’t have his willingness today, and tries to engage him.

Javert sits with his elbows on his knees, mouth pressed against his laced fingers, though the position makes his back ache. There is satisfaction in the fact that Miss Methuselah looks wrong-footed by his long silence. She has handed him a riddle: an honest answer to the comment you haven’t spoken about your friend this session requires he do a number of things he does not want to, among them uttering the word faggot in the presence of someone who reminds him of the woman he called abuela as a little child. He does not observe many social niceties, but the threat of the chancla casts a long shadow. Would homosexual be less offensive? He faintly remembers sensitivity training indicating this term is also out-of-date and suspect. He is certainly not calling himself gay, which has always carried an implication of rainbows and limp wrists that he finds distasteful, though if he’s going to be such a little fucking girl about being in bed with another man, it might be accurate after all.

He fell asleep alone, unconscious before Valjean joined him, and he woke alone, the sheets under his hand still warm with another’s body heat. There’s no memory to go with the certainty he—did what? All his contexts are crude, and Valjean is pure, and he put his hands on that man. Also, the correct term might be cuddled, to his horror. When he has slept with people he’s fucked, holding them always seemed an extension of lust. Possessiveness, in that brief span of time they passed through his hands. This—this he wants to put in a cave with a stone rolled across the entrance in hopes it will rise again.

“I thought he made a pass at me,” he says, because it is easier, “and at a hell of an inopportune moment, too. I clarified, asked if he meant what he said in a queer way.” Ah, shit, that’s a slur, too. “He didn’t. It’s fine.” Had it been a pass the answer would have been sure, as it has been to nearly every pass, but he thinks wryly that he was a little too wrung-out to have made a good showing of it. He doesn’t know why he feels the need to add, “It wasn’t a confrontation—not violent. I’m not like that about gay guys. Not that he is one, of course.” 

She makes a note. Fuck, but he hates when therapists do that.

He can distract her. “I am not currently a threat to myself,” he is careful to preface, because an in-patient stay wouldn’t be the solution to his boredom, “but I spent some time on the Margaret McDermott the other night.” Sleep and that singular incident of intimacy might have seen him through the crisis, but he probably ought to admit the faultlines are present, and vulnerable to quakes. 

⁂

You know those programs where they lend clothes to junkies for interviews and such

Jean Valjean contemplates this text in perplexity. Yes. 

Ok which one is nice.

Any of them, he replies, then taps the icon to call. “Hello, Javert.”

“Hey,” he replies, then, “I’m not getting all the lost muscle mass back. Seems a waste to have these slacks that my ass won’t fill. So.”

So, indeed. Jean Valjean has distinct memories from Montreuil of being offended by this man’s opinions towards those afflicted with addiction. “I have some business at a church, this Sunday, which has a sister congregation that runs a program of that sort. I could take them.” He hesitates; if Javert has returned to Mass since their conversation at the SNF, he’s not mentioned it, and he was so oddly taken aback by Jean Valjean’s leaving the Catholic faith that the topic has seemed best to avoid entirely. He sets aside his caution to offer, “You’re welcome to join me, if you don’t mind attending a Protestant service.” 

“I seem to recall the Catechism of St. Pius says even to burn a Bible if it comes from the hands of a Protestant.” His tone is solemn—it’s a joke. “But I’m sure my soul can’t be harmed worse by a few heretics. What’s the dress code? Is it one of those blue jean services?” 

“Some Baptists do better Sunday best than Catholics,” Jean Valjean says, answering the playfulness.  

He snorts. “Is it a Baptist church? My foster mom will smile on high.” 

Jean Valjean allows that it isn’t, answers the question at hand, and stifles his curiosity, a novel sensation that he is uncertain what to do with. Why should he want to know more about Javert’s attachment issues? 

The night after he shared a bed with Javert he looked at his neatened sheets and pillows, remembered oppressive on his back the heat of another body, and—wanted. This shocked him, and he went to his knees over it; he whose prayers to God were usually formulaic, careful, never presumptuous, looked sidelong at his Father and asked of him, Is it sin? He could not find its name if it was one, and only because it occurred between the sheets did lust even arise as a possibility. On his horizon is the loss of his life, his joy, his soul—and here comes into his home, from the bud of suffering, a little blossom of comfort. It recalls to mind the winter of ’11, when in the bitterest night and with the power out he broke from his long cold repentance and joined Cosette in the main house by the woodfire. He has never been more than human, though he has sometimes been less than one, and  he allows that—though this is misdirected—a little want of contact is not abnormal: a chaste bed-partner is a lure never set in his path before, and one he therefore did not know came with this feeling, and which now seems singular and greater than it is; no matter; the opportunity will not come again. 

It helps that Javert behaves in an unusually sensible manner and does not allude to their night together. If he is less sensible on the topic of groceries, with a yappy persistence of concern that does not test Jean Valjean’s patience—he will swear it does not—one cannot get too overwrought about a chicken. Well, he is perhaps a little wrought about it. Only, he realizes with it that the meals and company have been more than an excuse to gain access—it is obvious that Javert wants something from him, but it is increasingly clear he also wants things for him. Yes, the mutuality is normal for friendship. Yes, he admits that he has not been suffering. Yes, it troubles him. 

But is a very cold night, and perhaps he can be forgiven for sitting awhile by the fire.

Sunday, he drives to Javert’s to carpool to the church and brunch after, where he anticipates they will scuffle over the bill. He looks forward to winning; his attempts to help pay for dinner ingredients have thus far been rebuffed with prejudice, and a thoughtless question about Javert’s finances more broadly led to the closest thing to a fight they’ve had since their discussion of Cosette. He plans to drop his card off with the staff on a faked bathroom trip—see Javert fight that. 

On his arrival, he finds the man leaned against the front of the apartment building, a cigarette in one hand and a cane in the other. A shopping bag sits a few paces away, out of range from any stray ash. He nods a greeting, his posture loose, his expression mellow. It is a strange contrast, to see him in slacks and a button-up, his jacket over his free arm, with nothing unpleasant in his eyes, not the suspicion of Montreuil or the madness of more recent times. “You’re early. Mind if I finish this?”

“Of course not. I didn’t know you smoked.” He stays upwind, pushing aside memories of being a younger man with the flavor of nicotine in his mouth.

“Only when satisfied, so no, I don’t imagine I’ve ever lit up around you.” When he wraps his lips around the cigarette, the wrinkles that chain from them are shallow; he must not have been satisfied often. He breathes out smoke, taps the cane against his foot.

He obviously wants a comment on it. “Glad to be off the crutches?” This earns raised eyebrows, the obviously unspoken. “How long will you need to use the cane, then?”

This occasions a wince, the cigarette dropping away from his mouth before he raises it again to take a drag with an air of determination. “Well,” he says, “this, I’m keeping.” He sharply searches Jean Valjean’s expression, eases—the lack of pity, perhaps. “Both legs are cleared for full weight-bearing, now, but the nerve damage—the impact on balance, mainly…” He shrugs. “Be a waste after all this to fall and break something else. I’m assured it’s not the worst outcome.” 

Yes, he doesn’t say, you could be dead. He offers a smile, feels it is inadequate, and presses the man’s arm. He withdraws sooner than he might’ve, rubbing his palm against his own thigh.

Javert stubs out the cigarette and tucks the butt into the pack, turning away to pick up the bag. He does not bend with ease, and he moves with a care that speaks to the loss of the extra stability granted by the crutches. It would have been a neutral fact, had he needed them indefinitely, to Jean Valjean’s mind; but he can imagine the sense of progress for Javert, and is glad of it for him. He shuffles in the bag, holds out—a book. “Here. Belated, I know, but I didn’t know what to get you until after I  investigated your apartment.”

He had snooped, at first, then when caught defended himself with a snide, You shamelessly went through mine while I was in the hospital. “Thank you,” he says, at a loss, and peruses the back—Last Chance to See, by Adams. 

“Nature, travel, sadness—hits a couple repeating themes on your bookshelf.” He’s pretending indifference, badly. 

“Yes, I appreciate it. It looks good.” He could simply accept it and move on. “But I don’t see why you would get me a present.”

For a man whose confidence molders in the dirt when confronted with the least moral question, he’s certainly bold where the topic of Jean Valjean’s wellness is concerned, and the quelling look he levels now is the same as during the attempted rejection of the rotisserie chicken. “Don’t be cute. You have until January to worry about reciprocating.” 

Jean Valjean assays a bland smile as understanding comes. He has not celebrated his birthday in August since ’79, his second year at Memorial, when Jeanne sent him a dollar and he bought he knows not what from the commissary. In Montreuil he chose a date in late December, so that any attempted fuss would be lost in Christmas, and Ultime Fauchelevent was born in February. It occurs to him that he never wants Javert to learn the birth year of his cover—it wasn’t intentional, of course, that the younger Fauchelevent was born a decade after him, but that won’t change the mockery he expects it will catch him. This acknowledgment of Jean Valjean’s birthdate makes him feels caught, forced to be himself.

Javert has come to know him too well. Eyes narrowing, he asks, “What’s that expression?”

“It’s nothing. Thank you, again. We should get going. Would you like me to drive?” Any lingering smell of cigarette smoke will be gone long before Cosette might be in the SUV. 

Javert looks oddly caught-out. “I assumed you would.” 

With a questioning glance, Jean Valjean leads them back to the vehicle; he cranks the passenger seat further back and tucks the book into the glove box before taking his place in the driver’s seat. As Javert settles beside him, he glances into the bag, sees he’s purchased a new package of hemming tape as part of the donation. Difficult to determine whether that ought to be called thoughtful or merely thorough. Willing to be direct for the sake of leading them off their former topic, as he backs from the parking space he observes, “I didn’t know you had developed an interest in charitable programs.”

“You know I haven’t.” He turns the shaft of the cane between his palms. It looks delicate, in his big hands. “I don’t want you to get nervous while you’re operating a vehicle, so let’s not look too closely at my motivation. I would have to reference your previous good works and acknowledge your impact—yes, see, look, you’re white-knuckled already.” There’s the sound of his fingers running through his beard. “Listen, about your birthday. I’m sorry that I know so much about you when you’ve never offered to share anything personal, but I’m not going to pretend I haven’t read your file a few dozen times.”

“That didn’t even occur to me,” he says, honest, then ventures to extend himself a little more, adding, “I feel I should apologize for my—ah, poorer—memory of the time we’ve known each other.” 

“I’m certain that it benefits me, however else I may feel about it.” His tone is wry; this one’s no joke. But he’s trying, today—he says, lighter, “It’s definitely better for my pride that you don’t remember the mullet I had at eighteen.”

“Oh, no,” Jean Valjean replies, who always assumed they’d crossed paths nearer the middle of his sentence.

“Mm. Memorial had too loose of personal grooming regs in the eighties. I wasn’t the only one.”

It had still been strange to him, that early, watching the fashions change through the little bits of personal choice that the guards’ uniforms allowed, and by the glimpses of other prisoners’ visitors. There had been television and magazines, of course, but those things were not real. He thinks it is desperation to escape the mire of prison memories that makes him say, “I can imagine you were awkward. Tall boys always are.” 

“Terrible,” Javert agrees. “All feet, elbows, and jawline, with the patchiest sideburns known to creation.”

He thinks, You should ask Cosette about the mustache I attempted, but—no. If it strikes him as unexpectedly sweet, this mental image of the two people who know him so differently finding common humor, it is not more than the fear like fingers clawed around his lungs at the thought of what Javert might find more worthwhile to say to Cosette than comparing notes on his facial hair choices. He imagines, horribly, the name Fantine being spoken to her daughter for the first time in a decade, and beside it the word whore. A coldness has come down on him that doesn’t match this late summer day that looks fit to kiss a hundred degrees, nor the friendliness of the man beside him.

The coldness must not show; Javert’s tone remains casual as he says, “I suppose you must have had some luck in life. You can turn that compassionate mockery on us men who broke mirrors as teens because you were as cute at sixteen as handsome at thirty, is that it?”

They are at a stoplight; Jean Valjean turns a confused look on him. “I wasn’t handsome.” He was a brute; even at the time, he’d been unable to look himself in the eyes, afraid of the hideous precipices within the shadows there.

With the air of a man whose mouth has run away from him, Javert says, “I don’t know, even now you have a sort of ethnic ‘Santa, Baby’ air.”

“Does that song even imply that Santa is good-looking?” he replies, only more bewildered. 

“It—she does want to marry him, but I suppose that could be for the money.” He pauses. “Still works, then.”

Because he believes in returning kindness for all slights, and this is less a slight anyway more than it is odd, he declines to continue the conversation and comments instead on the church and its congregation. He turns the interaction over in his mind even as he talks about roof repair last summer and warns about Margaret Holf’s prying. Where Javert’s self-control slips it is dramatic, not an idle comment. As they pull into the parking lot, which is yet half-empty—they’re neither of them given to late arrival—he considers asking, Are you stoned? But perhaps the terminology is different, when the drugs are prescribed. In any case, he knows the answer, having struck on the question, and needn’t embarrass Javert by addressing the matter directly. It is not his place to doubt what is between the man, his doctor, and his soul. If he who is so critical of vices has developed one, well, here’s a lifetime of hypocrisy; and what’s Jean Valjean’s place in the matter? No place at all, but to hold compassion for it. Besides, there’s the matter of medical necessity, which he cannot speak to. 

He thinks of an old man, a veteran he knew through one of his charitable efforts, who chased benzos with whiskey and stopped his lungs by the combination, and he wants to reach over the center console and seize Javert’s hand.

Who peers critically through the windshield at the church grounds and says, “I’m used to you skulking in slums. It doesn’t look like these people need your alms.”

Jean Valjean looks at the wide green lawn, the stately oak and pruned crepe myrtle, the freestanding belltower, the church’s gleaming glass bow-front. He does not explain it is easier to move larger sums of money through an organization that already has its own. “Those who they serve do.” 

“If you say so.” He adds, in a mutter, “Still don’t see the point of being outside the salvation of the Church if you’re not going to do something dramatically different. Snake-handling. Speaking in tongues. Faked miracles. If sinning, you might as well sin thoroughly.” 

“If you want to stay in the car after all, I can leave the windows cracked,” Jean Valjean replies.

“I already promised to call them separated brethren instead of material heretics. Don’t expect more.” 

It’s more than he would have expected two months ago, and not something he asked for, though he got the promise all the same. Javert might even progress to other Christians, he thinks—which would be as forward-thinking as the contemporary Papal standpoint, rather than the fifty-year vintage that is heretic. He catches himself casting a look at the other man, as they exit the car and proceed towards the church doors, which he must admit is—fond.

They are not the earliest to enter the nave, but nearly so. Javert genuflects towards the altar in what seems to be pure reflex and does not question him as he chooses a pew at the back. There’s a comedic level of suspicion and grudging respect in his expression as he takes in the stained glass windows, the organ with its embossed angels, the gold and gaud on evidence in the decoration of the apse. 

Jean Valjean does not expect him to bend down close enough that his breath whispers over the shell of his ear. Javert murmurs, “I called my priest about this. Took him a minute to place my name and voice, then he asked if I’d been away on a trip. Got pretty distracted by my answer. I said, Respectfully, if you’re going to preach, father, can the topic be on attending the service of another faith?”

Jean Valjean straightens his shirt, thinks, how unutterably rude to interrupt the prayerful thoughts of others with chatting, then asks under his breath, “Well, did you get your answers?”

“I’m to refrain from being misled, but he seems to think any degree of God will benefit me.”

Their faces will be too close, if he turns to see the expression which accompanies that matter-of-fact statement. He settles back against the pew, and by the time he glances to the side, Javert has straightened, attention drawn by new arrivals. 

He was uncertain whether Javert would participate in the service in any manner, but he stands for the procession, and—startling—joins on the second line of the hymn, Where there is hate, may we sow love—the low baritone is not a surprise, but the pleasantness is. Where there is hurt, may we forgive. Though without the passion that elevates the music of faith—where there is strife, may we make one—the control and tunefulness speak to training layered over a little natural talent. Where all is doubt, may we sow faith. It occurs to Jean Valjean—where all is gloom, may we sow hope—who has never been able to bring himself to raise his voice above the softest register—where all is night, may we sow joy—that in Montreuil he would have sung many hymns with this man. Where all is tears, may we sow joy.

His attention strays from the procession, and he finds Javert’s face is angled slightly towards him, so that he meets stark blue eyes over the line, Jesus, our Lord, may we not seek to be consoled, but to console. 

He jerks his attention back to the apse, is not sure he gets the following lines right—hearts, love. He stutters over them, picks up again in our giving we receive, and in forgiving are forgiven. The last verse is easiest, Dying, we live, and are reborn through death’s dark night to endless day; Lord, make us servants of your peace, to wake at last in heaven’s light.

It is a pleasant service. As evocation of freedom ever does, the Psalm touches a bruise on his heart, yearning where there should be belief as he and dozens of others speak the words, “We have escaped like a bird from the snare of the fowler; the snare is broken, and we have escaped.” He hopes the good Lord is patient with him, who even in His omnipotence surely must puzzle on how to break the snare without breaking the man when the fowler is himself. If the sermon contains no profound insight on Matthew 16:13-20, well, the laughter the priest gets for her tame joke speaks to their fondness of her, and she is perhaps more inspired on other passages of the Word. 

Either through direct instruction of his priest or by his own conclusions Javert finds it appropriate to follow the motion of ritual, but remains silent, save for the Psalm; for all his snideness beforehand, he maintains throughout an expression of attentive blankness which is not uncommon to the the habitually faithful in the house of God. Inevitably the congregation uses the Peace as a reason to investigate the newcomer, which he weathers with little social grace, but Jean Valjean can imagine him acting quite the same were it Catholics nosing about him. He reaches for his wallet on reflex then looks pinched as he passes the collection basket on without contributing. 

After, the priest approaches Jean Valjean with eagerness, which he observes sadly; their partnership is not one that has feet of its own, that he can let it walk without his oversight, and he intends to make a final donation and withdraw. He glances at Javert, who kicks one long leg out into the aisle and waves him away, picking up a hymnal to peruse. In the privacy of her office, the priest, as predicted, is little soothed by a single check and a bag of pants, in the balance of what is ongoing support has looked like. He politely does not notice her lack of grace and she gathers herself enough to invite him to visit any time, donor or no. How odd, he thinks, to flee to Javert. 

As soon as the SUV door is closed, Javert says, “It was such a boilerplate reading of the Gospel that you could almost miss the irony of a woman sermonizing on verses related to apostolic succession.”

“Jesus did not exclude women from his ministry,” Jean Valjean replies.

Javert goes still, halfway to buckling in. “Is that the sort of thing that made you leave the Church?”

In fact that did figure in Cosette’s change in faith, a change which Jean Valjean followed. They have not spoken of why she, as an adult, no longer attends a service every Sunday, which is deeper into irreligion than he will venture, or indeed addressed how often she does attend church when not accompanying him. If ever. “In a way. If I may hazard a guess, were you in choir as a boy?”

“Yeah, it was free childcare,” he says, offhand, then breaks into a terrible smile. “I cook, I clean, I sing a little song. Given that plus the opiates and benzos, I could be a fifties housewife.”

Jean Valjean surprises himself with his own choked laugh. Some if it’s mirroring—it would be rude not to. And he thinks he ought not; there’s an undercurrent of cruelty to the joke, anxiety about the pills, the harsh edge of misogyny. But, ah, hell. If Javert wants to evoke the image of himself in an apron and pearls, far be it from Jean Valjean to deny him a fair response. To tease the joke further rather than from real ignorance, he thinks to ask, Do they make pumps your size?, contemplates the risk that Javert will say something terrible about crossdressers, then—he remembers, sudden and vivid, that Javert was part of the arrest of Jodie Hinkle in Montreuil, for pandering, and as a ranking officer may have been involved in her being jailed with men. At the time Jean Valjean had not understood—he’s still not sure he does—but it left an impression, regardless. Goddamnit, he thinks, then, Forgive me, Lord. 

Javert jostles his shoulder with his elbow and asks with mock sympathy, “Did you scare yourself by chuckling?” 

“It was a laugh,” Jean Valjean says, with dignity, and turns his attention to wrangling the traffic of a church parking lot after service has let out.

They fall into a comfortable back-and-forth about Don Pardo’s passing, with an aside on Sinéad O’Connor SNL protest, which Javert watched live and took exception to, though he concedes Jean Valjean’s point that the Church had since ’01 been making an effort to answer her accusations without ever satisfying either its detractors or supporters. 

They are most of the way to the restaurant when Javert cocks his head towards the speaker—Jean Valjean suspects one of his ears is better than the other—and squints over the earnest young thing requesting “Born This Way” because I never thought before about capital H-I-M being ok with me kissing boys, and now I’m trying to start a GSA at school, but some of the teachers say it’s against the law. The grunt of distaste is predictable, but even as he accelerates into the intersection he finds himself cutting his eyes back to the other man in surprise as Javert says, “They’re probably misciting the Health and Safety Code.”

“Ah?” Jean Valjean inquires. 

“Yeah, per law the school curriculum has to emphasize that homosexuality is not an acceptable lifestyle, but the students can say whatever the hell they want about it. I remember when those statutes came into play in the nineties. Some queers kicked up a fuss about it even then, but AIDS was a bigger topic than teen suicide statistics.” He gives an odd, weary sigh. “It’s been so much dead wood since ’03, but hell, we’ve still got section twenty-one six on the books, so we’re clearly not rushing to comply with federal law.”

Javert’s familiarity with the legal code never struck him as actually encyclopedic. He puzzles over this and ventures, to clarify the point, “It sounds as if you agree with the conclusion of Lawrence v. Texas?”

“Well, if you’re asking, yes,” he replies, though not without a pause beforehand. 

“Only I expected—but I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“That—I’d be homophobic?” 

This really ought not prompt such confusion. “I wouldn’t put it so bluntly.”

“You’re not wrong,” he mutters, still more strained than the topic seems to warrant. “I see that it’s hypocritical of me.” 

Jean Valjean chances a glance. “Well, you are a conservative. And Catholic.”

He looks bemused, with what could almost be called a blush on his cheeks. “The latter has no place in government.”

“Of course. Church and state.” That makes more sense.

He mutters, “Yes. Besides which, the current sodomy ban is younger than I am. No reason to pretend it’s some hallowed moral tradition of the state that the feds are violating.” 

This has become confusing again, and the tone with which Javert says sodomy holds derision that jangles warnings in Jean Valjean’s mind. He tries for a dryer topic than gay sex, venturing, “I imagine keeping track of changes in law must have presented a headache.” 

“Eh, sure,  shit changes every legislative session, but the code of law is meant to be a living system,” he says, with a flap of his hand. “You get used to it.” 

Jean Valjean tries to fit this sensible statement into his view of the man. He darts another glance and meets a frank stare; blushes, himself. He’s shown too much.

Javert’s voice is dry enough to be brittle as he says, “This isn’t some kind of radical jurisprudence on my part. I believe—believed—in the human element, not the book. You would break yourself within ten years of enforcing it thinking the word of the law is immutable.” 

“You weren’t very impressed when I cited it at you,” Jean Valjean recalls, speaking as much for surprise that he’s remembered the detail as ought else; he regrets it immediately.

The noise Javert makes is ambivalent, but it is at least not the degree of anger that mention of Fantine’s arrest aroused before. “No.” The snort that follows is a shock—it’s amused. “Added another layer of confusion to the situation, though.” There is a silence, then he says, “You’ve passed the restaurant.” 

Jean Valjean is not above cussing about this. He loops the block, and ventures, “They make a very good lobster omelet, I hear.” 

“That sounds over-indulgent,” Javert replies. “You should order it.” 

They argue about the lobster omelet instead of their shared history to the parking lot, out of the car, into the restaurant, and to the table. Javert is forced to admit he does favor seafood, because Jean Valjean does not flinch from pressing on his compulsive honesty. Jean Valjean is conversely cornered into admitting the eggs cochon is intriguing, at risk of undercutting his argument that ordering simply at a place known for it nicer items is its own kind of waste. He suggests mimosas to see if Javert will combine benzos with alcohol and is comforted to be soundly rejected. The waitress looks resigned. If he fails at his play to pay the bill he will feel guilty about pushing Javert to order a more expensive item, but he has faith in his tactics. 

In light of the fact that he has won in the matter of brunch, he allows Javert the satisfaction of prompting him to speak his opinion frankly. Over coffee, they have come sideways at the topic of the men who will be wearing the donated pants. Javert has been predictably unkind. Jean Valjean says, quiet, “I have found spending time among the unfortunate—as one of the unfortunate—makes such judgment difficult.” 

“It was an observation, not a judgment,” he says, uncommonly scrappy, then cocks an eyebrow. “Besides, I’ve been around plenty. Current company included.”

Jean Valjean ignores this. “As an authority.” 

“I was born to an incarcerated mother.” He’s matter-of-fact, though his hand tenses on his coffee cup. “Four years inside didn’t make her any smarter about the company she kept. I’ve been around it, Fauchelevent.”

Jean Valjean contemplates the age and depth of the failures of empathy before him. “I see.” 

“From your tone, not what I thought I was showing,” he replies. “How did I not win that point?”

Jean Valjean looks inquiring, as if he doesn’t understand.

Javert huffs, displeased, then gives him an odd look from the corner of his eye. “My mother was a psychic. A professional scam artist, I mean.”

“Is that illegal?” Jean Valjean asks, curious, but unsure of the purpose of the statement.

“Ah, no, the meth was. Not the point. Just—not something I think about often, but I suppose it was… interesting. She worked out of the living room, so I’d listen to her play her marks. There was one woman came in about this missing cat, right? Well, my mom went through the whole rigmarole, cards, lights, shaking table, voices from beyond. And she says: a boy will give him back to you down by Sunflower Creek tomorrow in the late afternoon. Well, the mark leaves, and mom goes, too. Came back with a cat from the humane society. Next day, she set me up down by the creek with that thing—it was a fuckin’ task, let me tell you, keeping hold of that animal. Hour passes, two hours, where’s the mark? I spent the whole time in a fit, too, knowing even when I told her she was being tricked she might ignore me—people who came to mama were like that, didn’t want to see they were wrong to believe in her. Well, where was she? Turns out her own cat had come home the previous evening.” He looks expectant. 

He can’t tell if this is meant to be a comedic story or an illustration of maternal villainy. “Ah. What happened to the cat from the humane society?” 

“We kept him. He was a pretty good mouser.” He props his chin on his fist and levels him with a thoughtful look, lowered eyelids and the creases around his mouth less deep than usual. “The usual thing, I believe, would be to reciprocate with a personal story of your own.” 

Jean Valjean allows this is true, but—he wants, he realizes, to put something between them that’s light, not in the sense of empty, but happy. He has innumerable such stories from Cosette’s childhood, of course, but—he reaches back, he brightens. “My sister did most of raising me,” he says, because he doesn’t know if that is the sort of thing that goes into police files. “She was a tough woman, but not a hard one. One of my earlier memories is of her yelling at me in Creole, but she kept breaking down into laughter. I’d gotten into something absurd—trying to climb a tree, made a mess with glue. Maybe she ought to have been firmer; later she always complained about me letting her children run wild, whenever she wasn’t there to keep an eye on the lot of us.” Venturing to gently tease, he adds, “I’m sure you’d have been scandalized. The kids would go down to the corner store and tell the cashier: our uncle will pay for the candy after he gets home from work. Well, I didn’t know anything about it the first time, but after I always came in with a few extra quarters to settle up their debts.”

Javert listens attentively, and the corners of his mouth even crook up. “Cute. Even I give kids a pass—up to the age of twelve or so.”

Given who’s speaking, it’s not entirely a joke, but it’s self-mockery at least. He graces this with a smile of his own.

Then Javert, all abrupt, asks, “Are you estranged from your daughter?”

It’s such an absurd concept that Jean Valjean doesn’t, at first, comprehend. “No.” 

Javert leans back, blinks at him, startled. “All right, fine. It’s just that you don’t talk about her.” 

Not, he thinks, with you. The arrival of their food saves him the need to construct a reply that is both kind and believable. The realization is quite belated—after, in fact, he has successfully carried off paying the bill, and is being bitched at for it—that he realizes there is significance in Javert’s saying, simply, your daughter. 

⁂

He would think there were only ten fucking people in the entire city of Dallas, from how often he finds himself faced with the ones he’d most like to avoid. Unless Enjolras’ murder case comes to trial or the state investigation into the shot protestor results in charges against the officers involved, there’s no real reason why the men who made a fool of him, these little street politicians, ought to be in this courthouse at the same time as himself. Javert isn’t even here in connection to the riot—there was a paperwork issue with one of the cases that had been outstanding at the time of his suicide attempt, and a week of email exchanges made it clear handling it in person would be more convenient than trying to make Adobe let him make a custom signature. 

Yet here he is, looking down into Combeferre’s eyes, the man having crossed the front hall to detain him. In a reversal of what seemed their relative intelligence at the riot, the drunk fairy—Grantaire—has balked to follow.

“Your lawyer would advise you not talk to me,” he says, dryly. 

“She would, if I were still retaining her. Seeing as my case is settled, I’m no longer her problem. But I imagine your lawyer has notified you of that fact.” 

Yes; in fact, the man had called in high dudgeon about what he called slaps on the wrist—the plea deals offered to the protestors had been influenced heavily, to his assessment, by the politics surrounding the two dead men, and the desire of the police and the court to move as quickly and quietly as possible past the question of state violence. They already have a martyr, he’d said, put a few of them in prison, and you’ve given them too much ammunition. Javert still does not know his own mind on the matter, other than relief that settlement out of court means he’s quit of the bastards. Or should be. 

His glower has been inadequate to dissuade Combeferre, who says, “I won’t go so far as to thank you, when I don’t know your motivation, but I appreciate the impact of your being an uncooperative witness.” 

“Uncooperative?” Javert repeats, offended. 

“I believe that’s the most applicable term, yes,” he says, with a raised eyebrow. “But that’s not why I approached you.” He takes a deep breath, says, “The stranger—the old man.” 

Javert remains silent, hoping a glare will be adequate to free him from this conversation. 

“You seemed to know him—you didn’t protest going with him,” Combeferre says, not dissuaded at all, voice low—it’s bad op-sec; anyone would know he was talking about something he wanted to keep out of other ears, and if he wanted to discuss a topic not appropriate for public, he ought to have taken it somewhere that wasn’t. Though, in his defense, Javert would hardly have gone along with a private meeting, as he must’ve known. “He said what we wanted to hear—he’d already de-escalated the situation once—I don’t mean to excuse us, only to explain the reasoning. I would like to offer my apology.” 

Javert stares at him blankly, which he hopes is taken as a hostile refusal to engage, rather than the wheels coming off the God damned wagon for the third or fourth time in fewer months. Yes, it’s all very awful, the confirmation that his perception of his life being at risk was incorrect, but what vexes him most are the implications about Valjean’s concealment of himself. He has to know it isn’t a sustainable deception, hiding himself from these friends of his daughter’s boyfriend. The fact that Marius must be playing along is a secondary and less interesting puzzle—it could be knuckling-under to the man he hopes will be his future daddy-in-law, or a doltish conclusion to a numbskull thought process beyond Javert’s reckoning. Thinking too much about that kid troubles him, and he avoids doing so. Distracted and sounding it, he says, “I seem to remember it was Enjolras’ decision.” 

“Which any one of us might have contradicted,” Combeferre replies. “He didn’t do anything we don’t share in.” 

Their lawyers must hate them. With that kind of talk, they’ll get their asses handed the accessory to murder charges they’ve avoided so far. The degree of solemnity over pawning him off on the first-comer worries at the back of his mind. “Okay, man. Move it along.” 

“One question,” Combeferre persists, still quiet. “Do you know him?”

“Don’t you think he would be on the list of defendants if I did?” Javert replies, gone tense. 

“Yes, I would think that, and he’s not.” He cocks his head. A group of people disgorge from a nearby room and he falls silent, glancing their way; disagreeably, this conversation has taken a turn that can’t be disengaged from. Combeferre recognizes that. “Courfeyrac thinks he knew him, but didn’t see him until after the power got cut—nothing clear. That hair, mostly. Marius disagrees. Says he’s talked to the suspect, if you will.”

“If you—” He throttles down the words, the reflex to say, If you think there’s been a crime committed quit playing cops and take it to the professionals. Absolutely he does not want to encourage that. While on principle he neither approves of nor comprehends this particular choice of Valjean’s, he’s also helpless to do other than follow the man’s lead. He asks instead, not needing to manufacture distaste for the idea, “Shouldn’t you be content to leave a man alone who was hiding his face at a riot?”

Grantaire loses his patience with waiting, then, and comes to loop his arm over Combeferre’s shoulders. Javert’s knowledge of the man’s presence at the riot is indirect: Grantaire was already dead-ass drunk and unconscious in a corner by the time the group of them got pushed back into the Corinthe, and Javert was gone before Grantaire woke up and tried to get himself implicated in criminal behavior by holding another guy’s hand, or whatever the hell. This does not mean they do not know each other; as marginal and sexual as his involvement in the local queer scene may be, there’s only so many bars to pick up other guys at. They’ve never fucked, but they’ve talked, which is why they hadn’t fucked, because even Javert has some standards, and the words eh, you’re blond under the gray did not inspire, and hey, I’ve got weed at my place had been too much of a headache for an off-duty Saturday. This won’t be the first time he’s been outed, of course—if you want to stay entirely in the closet you can’t open the door every time the opportunity to suck a cock knocks—but those have always been minor problems, out of town, outside his usual social circle, squashed by professional geniality—he’s been careful. There’s never been even a rumor in the precinct about him, though it had been difficult, walking that line between implying there were women without ever lying outright about their existence. He guesses he doesn’t give a shit, now; it wasn’t being fucked by men that hurt his career and reputation, was it?

Grantaire squints hazily at him—is he drunk right now?—visibly places him, blinks—appears expectant, as if he thinks Javert will acknowledge their connection—remains silent, himself, when none is offered. Well, he’ll tell the tale later, then. He asks, “Have you put signatures to the treaty yet? I didn’t see any hands shake. Maybe the location isn’t fine enough. We need a Vienna or a Versailles. Or—ah, have we solved the mystery of our snowy-haired Houdini?” His eyes are bruised, his beard uneven and unkempt, he’s a man with troubles. 

Javert wrinkles his nose. “Aren’t you a laugh.” 

“A man can have his jokes. I hear you had your own sallies at the riot.” 

Fair. Regardless, talking more about Valjean with these men only seems like a way to get mired. He shifts, ready to leave. “Well, that’s enough of all this.”

“One more moment. Let me be direct.” Combeferre adjusts his glasses, the earpiece having been bumped by Grantaire’s careless hand. “Mr. Javert,” he says, “if you’re being threatened into silence—”

“Or blackmailed,” Grantaire says.

It’s really more of a hostage situation, and he’s a thorough-going Kristin Enmark. “You think I’d talk to you about it?” he asks, baffled. Belated, and meaning it as an answer to the main question, he adds, “No. I’m not.”

He’s been unconvincing, Combeferre’s glance says. “I would like to give you my number.”

Javert raises his eyebrows and makes no move to his phone.

His wry expression indicates this is expected. He gives the number verbally instead, slowly, three times. “You can also find me on Facebook. I’ll accept your friend request.”

Javert scoffs, deeply irritated to know he will be putting that number in his phone once these boys aren’t here to see him do it. The need to preserve potentially useful information is deeply dug-in; hell, he probably still has numbers for contacts from the nineties. 

“If you do need—”

“At some point this becomes embarrassing for both of us,” Javert cuts him off, flatly. 

Combeferre accepts this with a shrug, dislodging Grantaire. “All right, then. Thank you for your time.”

With grimacing jollity, Grantaire says, “See you in court.” 

“If it goes to trial,” he mutters, but it’s to the young men’s backs. His route is different—he can manage the courthouse steps, but the ramp is easier, and it’s out a side door. It consumes him, the question of what Valjean thinks he’s doing; why would he perceive these kids as a threat? If anything, they have him to thank—Marius certainly does, and the group seem close-knit, like that would be enough to purchase their silence, their perjury-by-omission. Besides which the insistence that Valjean is a threat to him is a puzzle, when it’s obvious that he hasn’t been stabbed to death despite his own efforts to the contrary. 

Javert calls Valjean from the car. “Can I come over?”

There’s hesitation on the line.

It stings. “Fine, you come over to mine. I’m out, I’ll be back home in twenty. I need to talk to you in person.”

“Javert—”

“Whatever you’re worried about, it’s not that. And I’m not having a breakdown. But I’m not talking about this over the phone.” 

“Javert.”

He waits, tapping impatiently at the wheel. “If that’s not no, I’m hanging up so I can drive.”

“It’s a no,” Valjean says, shocking him. “Cosette is coming over shortly. I can’t see you, right now.”

Ah. In a way, this is a success, that he’s spoken her name; though Javert cannot grasp them in full, he senses the wounds around the girl, and knows he’s at partial fault for Valjean’s chariness on the topic. He settles back in the seat, makes himself breathe through the anxious energy, the intensity of a question without an answer, the fear for Valjean, for all he’s unclear on the specifics of the threat. He finally mutters, “Well, that was a little presumptuous of me.”

Valjean makes an ambiguous noise.

“You were going to come by tomorrow anyway,” he says after another moment. “It can wait.” 

“If you’re sure—”

“Yeah, yeah.” No? Yes. He clears his throat. “Sorry. I realize I get…” He gestures, a flap of the hand, realizes this is stupid. Valjean does not come to his rescue, and he flounders. “Don’t worry about it. If it’s not been a catastrophe yet another twenty-four hours won’t hurt.” Though it feels no less strange to grant the relationship legitimacy than it did before, he adds, “Have a nice time with your kid.”“Oh.” Surprise? Difficult to tell without seeing him. But the tone is unmistakeably—not gentle, which is his usual, but something kin to it, which makes Javert’s breath stutter to hear—as Valjean says, “Thank you, Javert.”