#he lives here rent free but usually i wrangle him

[tidaltow]

“Wait, wait, wait— Shh. Did you hear that?” And just in case simply interrupting them isn’t enough, Percy waves a hand like he can physically cut them off. He pauses for dramatic effect. “That’s the sound of me not asking. Now, c’mon.” Percy steps past them, angling his torso to only just barely avoid contact. “Or do you just”—his gaze slides over his shoulder, challenging—“plan on standing there?”

[vivifrage]

(This one is a Siriks Lives He Just Got Captured AU because @shadowtriad endeared me to him and now this catboy lives rent-free in my brain. I hope I got him right.)

4: Taken Hostage

The days stretched on, indiscriminate, in the cell.

They were interrupted sometimes, but he couldn’t say when in the day it was, or whether it was in the same day, another day after, a week after, what. The Exo had tried to bring a clock, show him the time once or twice at least, but the clock had been whisked away shortly after she left, and Earth timekeeping without the sun to double-check was a headache on top of his current, overarching, already massive headache.

How Eramis had withstood decades of this, he didn’t know. Whether she had recognized all the years passing, how much she missed, until she stepped outside into a changed world, he didn’t want to think about.

In comparison, he’d barely been in here (he knew that, at least), and he was already considering sneaking another one of the snacks the Exo had left him. The first had been good, but they’d been brought as some sort of… pity offering by the being who by all rights should have killed him, instead humiliating and dishonoring him like this. But his stomach was starting to ache, and he didn’t know when food would come next.

Maybe he would simply bite the next person to enter the cell.

The Exo was a relatively frequent visitor, so calm even when he growled and bared his teeth. (She’d laughed at that, once. Just a short burble of a noise. It was the first time he bit her, teeth scraping against her armored forearm. He hadn’t been able to open his left front eye for a while after she punched him for it.) She was likely, but biting her wasn’t even worth the revenge for capturing him.

Other Lightbearers stopped by sometimes. Usually they just hovered around the edges while someone else - staff, interrogators, what have you - worked, and put on their most threatening face. If he didn’t know what they were, he would have laughed at the little dolls trying to look scary. As it was, he kept his face hidden behind an arm when he snarled back.

Then, perhaps worst of all, was the House of Light. Usually one of their Splicers, gauntlet snap-snap-snapping over their arms, asking question after question. Or, at times, a Captain, much more blunt and to the point. Always accompanied by their Scribe. She rarely spoke, asking whoever she was with to clarify something or another, and listening to just that had made it plenty clear that she was young, hardly finished growing. But she scribbled note after note, hadn’t backed down at all after the first time he lunged for her, and when he’d looked her in the eyes, something uncomfortable settled in his stomach. He couldn’t place it, but it left him on edge until the Exo visited again.

...That would work. Bring the House’s meager nobility down a bit. Busy the Sacred Splicer, so-called Kell of Light, with worrying over his baby rather than getting in anyone’s way.

Said Kell hadn’t even bothered visiting his prisoner in person. Maybe he did have a more sadistic side, and was waiting for him to be thoroughly infuriated and ashamed with himself before coming in to dock him.

He didn’t know how much longer he sat there, seated on a bed sized for Humans, the couple of scruffy blankets he had piled in a poor excuse for a nest at his feet. He toyed with one of the snacks, listening to the wrapper crinkle, and ignored the hunger building in his gut.

But eventually, the door clicked and his head snapped up, fixated on it. He shoved the snack back into its hiding spot, crossing his hands over his lap. Watching, waiting, to see who came in the door this time.

It opened a crack, enough for him to hear Eliksni voices. So the House of Light again. Bringing question after question, no doubt, or maybe some new trick to dig into his memories and see what he knew. He growled, low in his throat.

He was definitely biting the Scribe. At this point, just for the grim glee of seeing her and whoever she came with squeal.

It opened more, just enough to admit, yep, the Scribe, as bundled up as she always was, like she’d spent so much time among Humans and their ilk that she was trying to hide what she was. Poorly, considering her secondary arms and the glow of her eyes, but still.

“It’s fine. It’s just to talk-” She turned to him and dipped her head. “Hello, Siriks- We’ll see how things go.”

A much deeper voice rumbled behind her, and a new hand replaced hers on the door, pushing it wide open. In the doorway stood a taller Eliksni wearing a purple mask, glowing lines tracing around his form. He kept two hands on the Scribe’s shoulders, kneading away. “If you need me for anything, I am right here.”

“Yes, I know. I’ll see you.” The Scribe gently pried his hands off her, turning so her back was to him, and stepped into the room. Nervous confidence filled her short form, keeping her head high and chest puffed but her limbs close to her chest, clutching her tablet like a weapon.

With a hand wielding a Splicer’s gauntlet, the other Eliksni tapped under his eyes, shooting Siriks a sharp glare.

The door closed, leaving him alone with the Scribe and a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Shit. Shit. Fuck him.

That was her father, wasn’t it? Standing right outside the door, ready to rush in if anything went awry.

And he knew, he had been told, the Scribe of House Light’s father was its Kell.

Oh, he was fucked every which way.

If he did so much as make her shout a little too loud, sound a little too angry or afraid, he was dead. No chance to appeal, no chance to argue that he still knew things they didn’t (not that he would give them up, but it would buy him time to try and escape), no chance to even apologize for upsetting her. The Kell didn’t have to answer to any authority save perhaps the Vanguard, and he could lie to them. Whatever he wanted to justify killing him on the spot.

“I don’t think I ever introduced myself.” The Scribe startled him, suddenly just out of arm’s reach. Close enough to be caught if he lunged, but her father was right there. She didn’t even seem to care, instead picking around at her thick, woolly cowl. “I am Eido. I’m sure you gathered that I am the Scribe of the House of Light.”

Perhaps it was for the best she already knew his name. It was like someone had tied a knot in his throat, and the only thing that could escape would be a growl.

She sighed; she wasn't even looking at him any more, too busy fiddling with the tie keeping her cowl and hood in shape. "I hope you don't mind if I take this off. It's warm, but if I didn't know better I'd swear someone wove prickles into it."

She met his eye, and said, deadpan, "To be honest, if you do have an opinion on it, that's your problem, not mine."

He managed to chuff. Oh, the Scribe thought she had some backbone to her, didn't she? Speaking like that to a Devils Baron. No wonder. She looked like she might be getting a Captain's Ether rations, when by all rights, at her age she would just be getting promoted to a Vandal. Provided she had the skill and tenacity to back up that overinflated ego.

"Anyways," she said, finally undoing the tie. The cowl slackened, the hood slipping back enough to reveal a lock of coarse, dark brown hair. She continued to unwind the length of fabric, folding it over her arm as she worked. "I do not plan to interrogate you as the others did. I'm here in my duty as House Scribe, not a notetaker. Which means understanding all involved points of view. Yours included."

The fabric fell away, and she stared back at him, barefaced. "If you will work with me, that is."

He couldn't answer. He couldn't breathe.

There was no mistaking it. The eyes alone were easy enough to dismiss; a greyish blue was nothing spectacular. But the shape of her brow, her nose, jawline, mandibles, it all flowed together into a face he swore he saw in old pictures. The color of her skin and shell were almost an exact match, too. And her hair, wrangled into a thick braid - he could almost feel the coarse, ridiculously voluminous texture under his hands, hear ghosts of conversations marked with banter and dramatic stories. Not to mention her stature, the sound of her voice - now that he saw, it all added up.

He had seen one of her siblings, when he'd been able to search the wreckage. Trapped under dented metal, lower body crushed.

Late one night, decades later, Eramis had whispered to him about the other two, the ones they had never found and who must have died long ago. Including a little girl who looked just like her, and had a patch of thick, dark hair, trying to be fluffy even while egg-damp.

And she was standing right there, alive and well. Still the spitting image of her mother.

He had grieved for her and her siblings. He knew all too well the ways of war, he knew they were at risk. But that didn't change how his heart had sung seeing the eggs in their nest on the Sepiks-Fel. It didn't change how he had cradled them while he sat in the dark, shining a light through their shells to illuminate the dark, growing forms within. It didn't change how he had cheered them on when they wriggled and kicked while he watched, and traced a knuckle along the eggshell to see when they started responding. One had reached out once, when he did that. Had it been her? Was she the one who had pawed at the inside of her shell with a scrawny, underdeveloped hand, her egg the only thing between her and his palm cupped around where she patted?

Maybe it was. It was a one in three chance, after all, that it was her. Two in three that it had been one of her siblings, killed in the crash.

And she stared at him, unknowing. Stepped closer, close enough he could catch her scent and erase any lingering doubts in his mind.

It was her.

He was supposed to be her father.

He choked back a raging storm of conflicting feelings. Deep, white-hot rage that she had been taken from him, that he had gone all these years with her, her siblings, and her mother ripped away all at once. She should have grown up cradled in his arms, raised to be a proud Devil. He should have sung her to sleep, taught her everything he knew, taken her onto his crew.

But at the same time, she was alive and well. Cared for, educated, given such a notable rank. If she had ever suffered for anything, he didn't see any sign of it. And, all right, he doubted Misraaks would have taught her any sort of unpleasant biting tricks.

She was still the Scribe of House Light. She had still stood there, watched, and taken her notes through interrogation after interrogation.

But now she stood within arms reach, painfully familiar, the father who raised her waiting just outside while the father-who-could-have-been, the father-who-should-have-been, sat before her, imprisoned.

He swallowed down the keen rising in his throat. He couldn't even tell her.

[fowlblue]

Here’s some Internship AU/‘reluctant ally’ Spiro headcanons because that idea lives in my brain rent-free:

(do note, as per usual, credit is due where credit is due- the Internship AU is @orangerosebush ‘s idea, though not all of these headcanons are necessarily for that AU- merely inspired by it!)

While originally refusing to wear anything but his usual suit, Artemis is eventually forced to concede and wear a uniform. It is then that he discovers something far more horrible than a simple pair of jeans- khakis.

His father insisted he work as an unpaid intern, in order to learn the value of working for ‘experience’ rather than money- despite that being the exact opposite of the entire Fowl Family ideology. Yes, Timmy told him that ‘it builds character’. Yes, Artemis’s urge to resume stealing from Spiro is growing by the day.

Artemis has come very far from the bitter, cruel child he was at the beginning of the series- seeing some of the things that people search for online, however, makes him briefly consider the appeal of nihilism once more.

Holly has to stay aboveground for a few days while they plot to break into Phonetix- it turns out impersonating a human isn’t too bad, but the overwhelming number of short jokes just about kills her patience entirely.

Spiro does at some point ask Holly about the whole ‘fairies kidnapping children’ aspect of their mythology, which leads to a very heated discussion (more of an argument, really) about modern day interpretations of the People. The fairy folk most certainly do not like their earlier, more violent reputation, but there’s something about being reduced to a mythical, rainbow-clad and ‘power of friendship’ kind of ‘myth’ that greatly irritates most of the People.

Spiro makes several ‘Ocean’s Eleven’ references throughout the adventure, only to be visibly disappointed when none of them seem to be recognized.

Not quite a headcanon here but I tried to think of a ‘theme song’ for the Phonetix heist that would occur here and all I can think of is ABBA’s ‘Voulez-Vous’ (aka one of the greatest songs of all time, imo)

(And here’s those general ‘reluctant ally/just generally hanging with the Fowls’ Spiro thoughts)

He’s a poor influence in a lot of ways but by far one of the worst, in Artemis’s opinion, is that he introduces Timmy to the tried-and-true parenting hack of ‘just give them an iPad and let them sit and play on it’- obviously this doesn’t hold the attention of the twins for long, though.

He gets them a painting just like the ‘Snow Ghost’ that he has back at the Needle, and Angeline loves it. Artemis and Timmy, however, do not.

Spiro not understand the hall of portraits at all. He doesn’t like it and he thinks it’s creepy and he won’t go there if he can help it. Way too many eyes (it feels like the paintings are watching him).

Honestly, I’ve always liked the idea of more of the human characters in AF getting magic (including the villains) so if Spiro was to get a strange ability, it’d probably be inducing confusion, disorientation, and even ‘madness’ in others- similar to that which was said to come over followers (and enemies) of Dionysus. (Or maybe technopathy- I like that idea too)

Artemis and Spiro work poorly together on principle but so help whoever is leading whatever mission they’re on, because they are both chronic workaholics and get twice as mean and petty when they’re exhausted. To make it worse, trying to wrangle them both into sleeping so they can actually be useful is near impossible.

[ohsnapcracklepopfriends]

To be named GGMU fic: Part three - Drunk Mancs and Karaoke Don't Mix

After way too long, I'm back with another instalment of my GGMU fic (three parts down, four to go). Sorry, it took so long, life has been insanely hectic. I just wrote this in an hour of power writing, I hope you like it. Part one and part two if you haven't read them <3

Christmas parties at Sky were generally a disaster. Not only did they usually involve a room full of people all too competitive for their own good, there was usually the presence of both alcohol and cell phones which were a dangerous combination. All of this was worse to witness sober. Jamie had made the terrible decision of being the designated driver. Gary had one rule that he’d made clear to Jamie when they first started going out together: do not put drunk Gary in a cab. Gary’s a handsy drunk with zero self-control. They both know sitting in the back of a cab with drunk Gary was a recipe for a traumatized cabbie and a couple of disastrous news articles in the morning. So Jamie had agreed to drive, and that was fine. He was fine with it, truly. Jamie watched as Gary danced around in the bar they had rented out, jumping around freely while Graeme looked on with his disapproving grimace. Jamie wished he could be dancing with him, blaming it on the alcohol.

Jamie took a sip of his apple juice--which was fucking good, okay? Back off. He swished it around in his mouth, pretending it was something stronger. He swallowed and looked up. Gary was still jumping around without a care in the world. Jamie could tell he was really drunk. Gary was a total lightweight and he’d probably had about four beers to get to this point. Jamie chuckled to himself, thinking back to the nights they’d shared together when they first started dating. They’d spent quite a few nights on the floor of Gary’s living room with a bottle of wine and a bag of crisps. Jamie treasured those nights. He treasured the moments where Gary was buzzing and less scared of his emotions, letting them just enjoy their time together without Gary’s mind spinning.

Gary looked in Jamie’s direction. His face lit up when he saw Jamie leaning against the counter. He scrambled over until he stood right up against Jamie’s shoes.

“Did you see Redders?” Gary asked in a rush. Jamie laughed at the big goofy smile on his lips. He did, in fact, see Redders. Redders had taken to the small stage in the corner after his third pint. He’d been singing away at the top of his lungs--very poorly, Jamie might add--for the past hour or so.

“I want to sing, James. Come sing with me.” He tugged at Jamie’s arm. Jamie had fallen for this trap before. Last year he’d made the mistake of joining Gary for some drunk karaoke and ended up trending on Twitter. Jamie was not a singer for a reason.

“I’m sure Redders will sing with you” Jamie offered. Gary pouted. Gary was one of those people who were easy to imagine as a child. He could see a younger Gary in the way he acted when he was tired, grumpy, stubborn, and bleary-eyed. He could see a younger Gary in the way he giggled at Jamie’s jokes. He could see a younger Gary in the way he pouted during times like this, trying to sway Jamie to agree with him. It worked more than Jamie liked to admit.

“I’ll come and watch you?” Jamie tried to bargain again. Gary nodded this time and dragged Jamie towards the stage. Jamie happily let himself be pulled along. Gary’s hand was warm and sweaty where it was clutching at Jamie’s, but Jamie didn’t mind. After playing football for that long, he couldn’t be bothered by sweat anymore. After one testimonial match, Jamie found he actually liked Gary sweaty: he liked to lick beads of sweat off of Gary’s furrowed brows and watch him shutter--but that’s a story for another time.

Jamie wished they could stay like this, Gary holding his hand tightly, tugging insistently on it every few seconds, but all too soon, they found themselves at the stage. Gary dropped his hand and hopped up onto the small, wooden platform. Redders was still on the stage, red-faced and (poorly) belting the ending to Tainted Love. The stage was so small that the two men took up most of the space. Gary reached behind Redders to grab the second microphone. He grabbed Redders by the shoulder and whispered in his ear. Redders’ amused smile made Jamie nervous: what the hell did this drunk idiot have in mind?

Redders jumped off the stage with far too much grace for someone as injury prone and drunk as Jamie knew he was. He ran over to the karaoke machine and picked their song before scurrying back onto the stage to join Gary. Jamie was confused when the guitar started and he couldn’t place it.

“I got chills--” Redders started to sing and realization set into Jamie’s mind. Oh dear god, he thought, they’re doing Grease. “--It’s electrifying!” Jamie groaned. He couldn’t help himself. There was no way this wouldn’t somehow end up on Twitter. He knew sober Gary would not find this nearly as funny if it made headlines. Jamie started scanning the crowd for people with their phones out. Thankfully, most people had either gone home or were drowning themselves at the bar, after all, what was free booze for? Jamie noticed Geoff filming out of the corner of his eye. He practically ran over to him.

“You better shape up!” Gary starting singing now. He was by no means an angel, if Jamie was honest he was pretty fucking terrible. But like everything Gary did, he sang with a fiery passion and excitement that just made it utterly endearing. Jamie loved it when Gary sang.

“Give me that,” Jamie grabbed Geoff’s phone from his hands, which was pretty easy considering how sloshed he was. He barely even protested as Jamie deleted the videos and shut off his phone because Jamie was smart and knew Geoff was too far gone to figure out how to turn it back on.

“--tooooooo my heart I must be trueeeeeeee,” Gary was dancing around on the stage and Jamie couldn’t help but take a moment to stop worrying and just admire the carefree smile of his boyfriend, so blissfully happy as he made a fool out of himself in front of all of their colleagues. Jamie noticed that Gary was staring at him. Gary then brought his hand up to point directly at him.

“You’re the one that I want! Oh! Oh! Oh! Jamie!” Oh no. Oh no. This was a complete disaster. Jamie couldn’t stop himself, he jumped up on the stage. The limited space meant he had to stand pressed against Gary. Gary just smiled up at him and shoved his microphone up to Jamie’s lips. And as much as he hated it, Jamie could never deny him anything.

“Oh yes indeed,” Jamie half-sang, half spoke. It was awkward and hard to listen to even to his own ears, but Gary beamed at him and Jamie felt a smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

And then he remembered why he got up here in the first place: not to sing, not to smile at Gary like a big, lovesick dork--no, he was here to put an end to this. He was here to take Gary home safely before any further disaster could strike just like he’d promised.

“If you’re filled with affection--” Redders started to sing again. Jamie used this opportunity to make their escape. He pried the microphone from Gary’s hands before placing it gently on the stage. He put his arm around Gary’s middle and firmly led him off the stage.

“Where are we going?” Gary asked. He was looking up at Jamie from where he was tucked against Jamie’s side. Jamie knew it was probably too intimate a position for them to hold in public but he found he was too exhausted to care.

“We’re going home, love,” Jamie said softly against Gary’s ear. Gary gave him a wicked grin and started to worm his fingers under Jamie’s jacket. Jamie pushed his arm away holding it against Gary’s side. This was not the time or place.

“You’re going to make me wait for it?” Gary asked. “That’s okay. It’ll be better when you fuck me later. I’ll be so ready. I’ll be begging for you.” Jamie let out a long breath. Fuck. Luckily, or unluckily depending on how you looked at it, they were out of the bar, walking down the street towards Jamie’s car. On the bright side, no one was close enough to hear Gary being far too drunk to care that he’s being far too loud. However, anyone could be on the street: reporters, idiots with cameras, though now Jamie is realizing that those are kind of the same thing. Jamie’s kidding, of course. He guessed he was kind of a journalist himself now. He generally thought of journalists as no-life drama vultures for the Daily Mail or worse The S*n.

Jamie was pretty used to wrangling drunk Gary into vehicles against his will, but this time was different. Gary was usually uncooperative just for the sake of being uncooperative. This trait just worsened after a few pints. That night Gary was shockingly content, though. He wasn’t argumentative or difficult, he was sweet and happy. He leaned into Jamie’s side on their walk and looked up at him like he just signed Messi for Man United (which Jamie couldn’t do obviously, and even if he could, he wouldn’t). When it came time to get into Jamie’s car, Gary went without complaint, let alone their usual wrestling match. Jamie was honestly getting kind of worried.

“Are you high?” He asked as he put the car in reverse. Jamie had never known Gary to smoke but he figured it was a possible explanation for his strange behaviour. Gary hummed in confusion.

“What?” He asked. Gary’s face was smushed against the passenger window, fogging up the glass with every breath.

“Are you okay?” Jamie rephrased his question for Gary’s scrambled brain, “you seem weird.”

“I’m not weird, James,” he said, his words even more drawn out than usual, “I’m happy.” He started humming something under his breath but it was so quiet that Jamie could not make it out over the engine. “Singing makes me happy, Jamie,” Gary said and Jamie knew. Gary was generally not as public of a singer as he had been that night, but he always loved singing. He sang in the shower, something that Jamie found entirely endearing. Jamie loved waking up in the morning to the sound of water and Gary’s slow voice. Jamie remembered Gary doing karaoke all the way back in their England days. He and Crouchy were always the most enthusiastic, though Jamie would never have guessed that until he saw it with his own eyes.

“I know,” Jamie said, “it makes me happy, too.” It was probably a little too honest but Jamie knew Gary wouldn’t notice. Even if he did notice, he wouldn’t remember it in the morning.

“Do you want me to sing to you?” And yet again, Jamie just couldn’t say no to Gary. Jamie expected more of what he’d heard at the pub: some eighties songs, maybe an NSYNC song or two (Redders loved NSYNC). He didn’t expect Gary to start happily singing Glory Glory Man United in his fucking car.

“Gary, what the hell?” Jamie protested but Gary just shushed him and kept singing. Jamie could hear his feet tapping against the mat of the car. And right when Jamie was about to smack Gary in the head, he realized something: Gary was drunk. Now obviously it didn’t take a genius to figure that out: he’d been steadily drinking since the party began and you could see the drunkenness in his red, flushed ears. But Jamie realized that Gary’s drunk brain was prone to forgetting basic, fundamental information. Like, for example, that Jamie was a Scouser.

Jamie figured that in Gary’s drunk brain, he wanted to sing a song to make Jamie happy. But like he’d forgotten that Tracey played netball on New Year the year before or that he was a right-back on one especially wild Wednesday night, he had forgotten that the song that brought his manc heart so much joy, did not spark the same happy memories for his boyfriend. He wasn’t trying to get on Jamie’s nerves and that knowledge comforted Jamie enough not to reach over and strangle him. So Jamie just let him sing and quietly suffered as he drove along. He tried to tamp down the simmering irritation the song automatically sparked in the pit of his stomach.

Mercifully for Jamie, Gary drifted off in the passenger’s seat less than ten minutes into their drive. Jamie instead drove the rest of the way to the sound of Gary’s loud snores.

[lycorogue]

Latest Story: “I Don’t Care”

I had posted this via an AO3 share on Friday, but it hasn’t had any notes, and I usually get at least one like on my ML stuff. Maybe it’s because it’s a Gabriel and Emilie Agreste love story instead of following one of the teens. Or, maybe because people can’t find the AO3 shares? I thought they were specifically designed to hit the Tumblr algorithm, but maybe I got that backwards?

So, in case it’s because I used the AO3 share button, instead of sharing as I normally would, I’m trying again my traditional way.

Summary: Gabriel Agreste's life was safe, stable, predictable, and boring. That is, until he literally ran into a strange woman at a club; a club he didn't even want to go to. He felt instantly that this Emiile woman would forever change his life. He didn't realize how true that feeling was.

Word Count: 5406; In-Progress

Chapters: 2 out of ?

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences  (mostly because I don’t know where I’ll be going with this.)

Ship: Emilie and Gabriel Agreste

Characters: Gabriel Agreste, Emilie Agreste (before she was an Agreste), and a bunch of OCs. Perhaps Nathalie and/or The Gorilla will make appearances at some point.

You can find the story at my normal 3 spots: on AO3, on FFN, and on DA

In this story, Gabriel is probably about 21 or 22, and Emilie is roughly 20 or 21. Also, since Adrien is 14 in the late 2010s, then he must have been born around the turn of the century. Assuming Emilie and Gabe were together for a little bit before having him, this story is taking place mid- to late-1990s. I’m picturing some time between 1997 and 99.

**Disclaimer: I never intended this story to be more than a one-shot, so I have no clue how frequently I’ll work on it; nor do I know how long it will be once done. This will be a nice palate cleansing side-project whenever I’m stuck in my main writing. So, enjoy this casual ride through Gabriel and Emilie’s romance, and see how Gabriel once was: an actually loving man.

This story actually originated as my Tumblr Exclusive one-off: Stranger in a White Dress. However, I was inspired by Ed Sheeran’s acoustic of “I Don’t Care” and decided to come back to this universe.

For those who wish to read the full story here on Tumblr

Again, “chapter 1″ can be found here

Chapter 2: Alone at a Party

Of course she wasn't there. Why would she be?

Gabriel nodded his thanks to the rented bartender, and walked his glass of whiskey to the far side of the apartment great room. The party was in full swing. A party for someone Gabriel didn't even know. He hated that he let his flatmate Sylvain talk him into coming along. He didn't belong there. He belonged at home.

Or, perhaps with her.

The memory of a slinky white dress and golden Hollywood loose curls flashed in his mind. His phone number on a bare arm. The mysterious fleeing of an astonishing woman. She was his Cinderella, but she hadn't bothered to leave him a glass slipper.

Gabriel settled onto one of the few collapsible chairs scattered about the perimeter of the room. Around him, people were dancing, and laughing, and joking with each other, and catching up on wild tales, and even making out. He didn't want any part of it. In a room stuffed with people, he was alone.

The majority of the party loomed before him. The small rented bar and accompanying bartender were in the opposite corner, past the picture windows and French doors to the balcony. Off to Gabriel's right was the main entrance, constantly flowing with party-goers. There was a chance he'd be able to sneak out unnoticed via the crowd, but if he got bogged down at all Sylvain could spot him and wrangle him back into the party. The hallway behind his left shoulder lead to the bathroom and bedrooms. Gabriel could sneak back to one of them. There had to be an emergency exit; a fire escape or something. He could use that.

Except it was probably off one of the bedrooms, which were all most likely preoccupied already by some promiscuous twenty-somethings enjoying their youth. Something Sylvain swore Gabriel should also be doing.

Gabriel took a sip of his drink. It wasn't top-shelf whiskey, but it was at least smooth with a nice flavor to it. Also, it was free; thank god for hosts who had the decency to set up open bars. Eyeing up the crowd once more, Gabriel plotted his excuse for Sylvain. Would he even notice Gabriel's retreat? He'd most likely go home with at least one person at the party, and wouldn't be bothered to check for when Gabriel made it to the flat. He could just tell Sylvain that he made it home around two. That seemed customary for one to enjoy a "night out."

Maybe he'd go to that club again instead of going home. Could he meet her there a second time? What would the odds be of that? What if she were a university student? Should he walk the campus and hope she's on one of the great lawns? Would he seem like a creep if he did?

First, he had to get out of this blasted apartment.

"Don't have much diversity in your wardrobe, huh?"

Gabriel startled. Something about the voice rang familiar; a tone that he couldn't quite shake out of his head for the past week. He turned, and standing by his right shoulder was the blonde woman he met at the club; the woman he was just thinking of, the woman he couldn't stop thinking about: Emilie.

She had her hair in a ponytail this time, and she wore a simple, Merlot-colored, off-shoulder, long-sleeve t-shirt covered by a deep-dyed, fitted jean vest. Her matching skinny jeans were tucked into black knee-high stiletto boots. A thick, black choker with a silver heart charm dangling from it wrapped around her neck. She looked casual and dressed up at the same time, the gorgeousness of someone who just "threw something on."

She held her warm smile for a few more seconds, but when Gabriel didn't respond, her face fell.

"Oh. Right. The whiskey. You probably don't remem-"

"I definitely remember you." With Gabriel's hand on his lap, he was actually about even with Emilie's hand, which was dangling temptingly by her side. His hand inched across his thigh as he debated wrapping his pinkie around her index finger. Would it be too forward for him to reach out and take her hand? She did kiss him within five minutes of them meeting. Gabriel had no clue what the protocol was for their relationship, if one could even call it that.

Emilie's smile returned, and she sat in the chair to Gabriel's left, forcing him to pivot again to keep eye contact.

"You look like you're having a good time," she teased.

Gabriel huffed. "Flatmate's idea. He's under some impression that he's in charge of my social life, and that I don't have enough of one."

"I have no clue where he could get that idea when you clearly give off such party-animal vibes." Emilie gestured at Gabriel's khakis and rust-colored cable-knit sweater over a white button-down.

"That's true." A smile started tugging at the corners of Gabriel's mouth. "Did you know, a sweater fairly similar to this very one got me ambushed by a complete stranger last Saturday?"

Emilie laughed as a pleasant blush pinked her cheeks. "What can I say? Thick sweaters are like catnip to me."

They shared a short laugh. Emilie inched closer, and crossed her left leg over her right knee. As she settled, her left toes brushed against Gabriel's shin.

"So, tell me about this flatmate of yours. He just kick you out the door like at cat at night?"

"No. He's here. Dragged me with him to this party."

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" Emilie popped upright, planting both feet to the floor. Gabriel instantly missed the feel of her boot against his leg. "I didn't realize he could go invisible!" She leaned around Gabriel, to where she was standing when she greeted him. "How do you do, Mr. Flatmate." She smiled at the air.

"What on earth are you doing?" Gabriel glanced past his shoulder – half expecting to actually see his flatmate standing there – before staring back at Emilie. "Of course he's not invisible, what kind of nonsense is that?"

"Well." Emilie squared her shoulders and puffed out her chest. "I thought to myself 'Gabe's flatmate brought him here, and yet I don't see him. So either he abandoned his flatmate while at this party, or he's invisible and I was rude to have ignored him this long.' I simply went with the more pleasant answer." The right side of her mouth curled up in a playful smile.

Gabriel laughed and shook his head. He took another sip of his drink before using the rocks glass to gesture towards the cleared out living room floor. A small mob of party goers were dancing, but they were too tightly packed for Gabriel to find Sylvain within the pack.

"He's in there. Somewhere."

"Did he even last ten minutes before lassoing some cutie to grind against?"

Gabriel choked on his sip of whiskey, coughing it back into his glass. He let out a few more chuckles.

"It's fine," Gabriel told her lightly. "It just means I can sneak away without him realizing I cut out early."

"Oh? You're leaving so soon? But I just re-found you."

"Well, I-"

"We can't have that." Emilie stood up and grabbed Gabriel's drink from his hand. "Whiskey again?"

Gaping, Gabriel slowly nodded. Emilie shrugged, and then downed the rest of his drink.

"What are you-?"

Emilie placed Gabriel's now-empty glass down, grabbed his hand, and tugged him out to the dance floor.

"Come on, you have to at least have some fun before you run away."

"Who said I wasn't having some fun just now?" Just like the first night they met, Emilie easily flowed through the crowd, whereas Gabriel, dragged behind her, bounced off nearly every person they passed.

"We didn't dance at the club. We should dance here." She halted to the right of the crowd. Her chest rose and fell like she was panting, even though they didn't do anything terribly strenuous.

"First of all, we didn't dance because you mysteriously disappeared back onto the dance floor without me, and without so much as a proper goodbye. Secondly, I don't dance."

"Alright. I accept your first point, but I refuse to believe the second one. Everyone dances, even if it's goofily while alone in their bedrooms."

"I do structured dances; ballroom dances."

"Ballroom?" Emilie nearly screamed with surprise. "Alright, that I definitely have to see. I doubt they'll let us put on Chopin, however. Either way, it still means that you do indeed have a sense of rhythm. So, come on, don't be shy."

She started bobbing her head and shuffling her shoulders to the synth beat of the club music playing. Adding in some snaps on the downbeats, she wiggled her hips. Raising her hands over her head, Emilie slinked around Gabriel as she danced. As her hip passed his, she bumped them. With a quick spin behind his back, she bumped his other hip with hers, then continued to dance in front of him.

Gabriel was thrown off balance with each hip bump, and not just literally. The contact from her short-circuited him each time. All he could manage was dumbly watching her dance before him. Suddenly, he once more wondered what he was doing at that party; with her. At the same time though, he didn't wish to be anywhere else.

"Well?" Emilie giggled, "Are you joining in?"

Gabriel bashfully shook his head. "I told you, I don't dance."

"Actually, quite the contrary. You just told me that you do dance. So let's see it." She then smirked and grabbed each of Gabriel's hands. "Here, I'll even help you get started." She altered pumping each of their arms over their heads, then she leaned away from him so she could wiggle their arms as if they were swinging double-dutch rope.

"What are you doing?" Gabriel laughed.

"Helping you dance to prove that you can do it. Your shoulders are still a bit stiff though." She dropped his hands and instead grabbed his shoulders to shake them to the rhythm.

He laughed harder and grabbed her hips to try to stop her. Instead, she smirked and rocked her hips more enthusiastically. Her own hands shifted from his shoulders to the sides of his chest in an attempt to get that to move as well.

"We look ridiculous." Gabriel shook his head, and stubbornly didn't move his feet.

"Exactly! That's how you know we're having fun."

"Okay, enough 'fun' though." Gabriel chuckled and pulled her against him so she had no room to keep moving. It kept him a second too long to realize what he had just done.

They stilled as they stared at each other, their arms wrapped around each other's backs. Somehow, Emilie's jade eyes seemed a richer green than Gabriel remembered. The scent of lavender enveloped him. His body burned, and their chests rose and fell in sync.

A smooth jazz song with an electronic bass started up, causing the crowd to slow down and pinch close to each other.

Very much like how Gabriel and Emilie already were.

The song was in three-quarter measure, and had a sultry flow to the notes. Gabriel eased at the familiarity of the rhythm. He pulled Emilie's left hand off his back, and placed it on his right shoulder. He then tugged gently on her right elbow to coax that hand off his back as well. Sliding his fingers down her right forearm, he took her hand in his.

"Gabe?"

He smiled and gave her a quick wink. Mentally counting the start of the next measure, he began twirling her around their little circle of the floor. He smoothly lead her in a simple waltz. There was more space between them then there was a moment before, but somehow it felt more intimate; dancing with her like that. Her eyes enlarged and sparkled as a grin grew wider and wider across her face.

"Does this mean I know how to dance the waltz as well?" Emilie teased.

"It means you have a good partner."

She bit her lip as her smile kept crawling up her face. "I do, do I?"

Gabriel blushed and averted his gaze. Emilie quickly cupped his chin in her left hand, and redirected it back towards her. Running her fingers along his jawline, she then brought her hand back to his shoulder so they could continue dancing.

"Tell me about this mysterious flatmate of yours. Why does he feel like he's your keeper, and why the need to force socialization onto you?"

"He's one of those exhausting people-persons who needs stimulation every waking moment, and he's quite confused as to how I can enjoy our little flat, and be content with just my drafting table. So he shoves me out into the world and demands I take part in it."

"Drafting table? Are you some sort of architect then?"

"Fashion designer. Aspiring, at least."

Emilie leaned further away from him, eyed up his outfit, and giggled.

"Please tell me this isn't one of your designs."

"What's wrong with it?"

Emilie grew red, and pulled against Gabriel's hold, trying to shrink away from him. "Oh my goodness! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to insult you, I just figured the outfit was sort of plain, especially for a party like this. But I'm wearing a t-shirt, so I shouldn't judge what's fashionable. It was so insensitive of me, I just-"

Gabriel burst into a laugh. "I was just joking." Emilie backhanded his shoulder, and Gabriel reflexively muttered 'ow.' He laughed a bit more at her surly pout, but quickly settled. "I focus mostly on women's clothing designs, although you are probably right that I should start dressing the part a bit more myself. I might have to branch out into men's clothes as well."

Emilie's head slowly rocked side-to-side as she studied him. "You know, your blue eyes are almost a silver color."

"They are?"

"Yep. You would look really sharp in an ivory, or maybe a nice royal purple. It would really make your eyes pop."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really."

Gabriel pressed gently on Emilie's back, directing her into a spin under his arm. He held her at arm's length, and she leaned away from him, waiting to be pulled back in.

"Why did you let him bring you here? Your flatmate. If you weren't going to enjoy yourself at this party, then why come? Why not stay at your drafting table designing the next great fashion trend?"

Gabriel tugged gently to again spin Emilie under his arm, and caught her back in the standard waltzing pose.

"He was persistent. Also, perhaps a part of me hoped I would stumble into you again."

"You didn't even know I'd be here. I bet you can't tell me who invited me to this party."

"That's true, but it had been a week, and clearly you didn't need more cheering up. So, I decided to leave our meeting up to Fate, and Fate seems to have delivered."

"So you're saying it pays to leave the flat every now and again."

"In this one instance, yes, but don't let my flatmate know, otherwise I'll never get any rest."

"I'll be sure to avoid the topic, however I still don't know who your flatmate even is."

"Good. We should keep it at that."

"Afraid he'll whisk me away?"

"More that he'd scare you away. He's a bit... intense."

"Damn extroverts."

"Precisely."

Emilie giggled as the song ended. Tucking a non-existent stray strand of hair behind her ear, she tugged on Gabriel's hand. Silently, he allowed her to lead him out onto the balcony.

"You have a thing with balconies, don't you?" Gabriel hung back by the door as Emilie continued towards the railing.

"I enjoy taking in Paris. Your flatmate is right; you need to be out in this glorious city, not trapped inside with a drafting table. How could you not be inspired by all of this?" She swung her arms wide as they overlooked a sea of dazzling lights.

"It's not much different than the view I have by my drafting table. I did make sure to place it by a window."

"But it's not just the view! It's the people! The experience that is Paris!"

"The experience? You sound like a tourist."

"That's the point!" Emilie grabbed his hands and pulled him to the railing. She then gestured out towards the grand view, pointing to a large spire poking out in the distance on their left. "The majesty of the Eiffel Tower." She then pivoted Gabriel to face to their right. "The romance of the Love Locks on Pont des Arts." She stretched in front of him, pointing to the large tower looming just past their peripheral on their right. "The breathtaking views of Paris seen from atop Montparnasse." Gesturing to her left again, she pointed in a vague direction. "The history of the Place de la Concorde."

"You don't know where the Place is, do you?"

"Eh, it's over there somewhere." She wiggled her fingers roughly straight ahead. "I'm not the best with cardinal directions. I do know it's to the east of the Eiffel Tower."

Gabriel smiled, keeping his eyes on Emilie instead of the view she was trying to show off.

"But it truly is the people of Paris that makes this city special. You have to walk among them; greet them; rub elbows with them-"

"Kiss them?"

Emilie blushed. "Uh, about that. I didn't mean-" She turned towards Gabriel, and found him pressed against her side. "-to, uh, offend." Gabriel leaned in, and her blush deepened. "I'm sorry I never called you."

"Did you not want to?"

"No. I did. I wanted to so badly."

"You don't seem the type to hold back when you want something."

"You had been drinking. I didn't know if you'd want to hear from me again. Didn't know if you would even remember me."

"I don't think I could ever forget you." He ran his hand across the railing, and rested it on top of hers.

Emilie's eyes darted to his hand, then back up to meet his intense gaze. Her hand grew hot under his. Her lips parted slightly; welcomingly. Gabriel ran his index finger across the edge of Emilie's swooped bangs, following their line to her ear. He then brushed his thumb down the side of her face, their eyes never breaking contact. His thumb continued across her chin, and stopped just below her lips. He could feel the gloss of her lipstick, and wondered if it tasted of anything. Maybe the remnants of his whiskey that she had downed before they danced.

Emilie closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and reached out to kiss the tip of Gabriel's lingering thumb. It made his own breath catch.

"We both had some whiskey this time," Gabriel whispered.

Emilie hummed in response.

"I don't think that's why I feel drunk though," he continued.

Emilie's breath was sharp and loud. Her eyes darted open, and her hand wrapped around the nape of Gabriel's neck, pulling him hungrily down to her. Gabriel's hand quickly shifted to Emilie's back so his thumb wouldn't be in the way.

She seemed so tiny in his hands, and yet she was so fierce. He still barely knew her, but he wanted to more than anything else in the world. Every second he was with her, he craved more. He hated the world, hated being in it, but he'd gladly stand in the middle of a crowded Tokyo if it was to be with her.

He didn't understand what his appeal was to her, but he'd figure that out as well. He'd learn everything about her. He'd spend the rest of his life as her student; mastering every nuance, every scent, every movement, every tone, every kindness, every flaw; everything that made up Emilie.

They pulled apart after Gabriel had no clue how long, but he knew it was too soon. He rested his forehead against hers, his thumb running across the hand still tucked under his.

"I think you should give me your number this time, since clearly you can't be trusted to pick up a phone."

"Does that mean you'll leave your Fortress of Solitude again; join society?"

"As long as it means spending time with you."

She smiled and pulled away from him. She slinked her hand free of his, and held it palm up to him.

"In that case, I hope you have a pen on you."

[whatzappening]

The Zappadydoodah

Hello! I’m Jenny – I am 38, married to a beautiful (in all the ways) lady for five years. We have a son who is nearly two and another baby on the way. I’m writing this down because I’m in a transformative time of life, with deliberate hope for change occurring around some treatment for my Stuff. I’m feeling super overwhelmed, massively restless and thought it might be a) handy to channel it all into a writing area, and b) useful for anyone else in a similar sitch.

The Stuff

So here’s my stuff. Fibromyalgia since 2005, Chronic Fatigue diagnosed since 2011, Depression and Anxiety diagnosed since 2012 but probably always. Definitely always.

Here is a list of some of the things I have done to try to manage/fix/deal with my stuff:

SSRI’s

Meditation

Herbal supplements

Naturopathy

CBT

Psychotherapy

Protein shakes

Exercise Therapy

Counseling

Hydrotherapy

Acupuncture

Pilates

Yoga

All of the Elimination Diets

Gym

Walking

Alexander Technique

Kinesiology

Psychics

Hypnosis

A thousand doctors

Graded Exercise Therapy

Narrative Therapy

Rheumatologist

Physiotherapy

Massage

Reiki

All the other stuff I can’t remember

Short of fish slapping that’s all I can remember right now (I did not try fish slapping). I want to be clear that a lot of these things have been extremely helpful in managing my life and keeping me as upright and mobile as possible. The ones who promised me that they could fix me, did the opposite and caused catastrophic setbacks, in every single case. I don’t feel like me listing which ones are which is helpful because every human reacts differently to different options depending on who they are and what their experiences have been.

I will say, however, that my current team members around my health are counselor, physiotherapist, massage therapist, acupuncturist/TCM practitioner.

So that is my stuff. Read on if you fancy!

What’s happening now, and how and why?

So a couple of months ago we were taking our kid for an outing on a Sunday morning. We thought we’d head to a local market about half an hour’s drive and visit our friends who were selling food there to raise money for the local wildlife shelter. Cute! Fun Sunday outing! He fell asleep five minutes from our destination so we kept going, because sleep is golden and we had no place we had to be, and ended up driving past my sister’s place.

We hadn’t seen them for a little while (she lives there with her daughters who are 19 and 20, both at uni this year so sometimes not there) and pulled up in the driveway, waking them up because they don’t live with a toddler and get to sleep in. I have no bitterness about this, it’s just something worth mentioning.

Her youngest daughter, my niece has had severe fibromyalgia for several years now. The list of things she’s tried are varied and include things like hospital stays, ketamine infusions, morphine – and they didn’t help. Morphine didn’t touch the sides of her pain. I won’t go into too much detail but her quality of life was non existent and she was cut down at her best and brightest. It’s horrific and unfair and all the other things. I have not seen colour in that kid’s face other than green for a number of years.

When we rocked up, she was pink cheeked and was about to go out for brunch with a friend.

Let me pause there – every part of that sentence was not possible for years. So after mouthing OMG at my sister when my niece wasn’t looking, we sat down at my sister’s dining table after her she went out with her friend and my sister took my hand. She teared up and said will you please, please think about trying this thing. It works. Look at her.

And then my heart skipped a beat. It had literally not occurred to me that anything could work. That was certainly not my lived experience. I knew they were trying a thing, and I was ready to support them as much as I could (and knowing that sometimes I need to keep a stronger boundary, to protect my sense of self and eschew self pity) when it inevitably didn’t work and their desperation in scrambling for something, some relief, would continue.

“things don’t work for people like me”

That was the sentence that was ringing in my head, loud and clear as a bell. I had believed one too many times when someone had promised me they could make it all better, and then as time went on the prices would increase and the narrowing field of ways I could be pressed in on me and the possibilities vanished when things that weren’t actually physically possible for me to do (and no, I couldn’t push through or engage in mind over matter, get fucked if you think that’s a thing that can happen in this situation, frankly) and I was a bad, naughty client who wasn’t complying so their promise no longer applied. By then they had all of the money and my sense of self was at rock bottom. Snake oil merchants for the win.

Four or so years ago I had a massive breakthrough with a fabulous narrative therapist I was working on my health management with. One day she asked me how it would be if I could just accept my limitations and not place pressure on myself to be capable of anything more than I could do. That I have a serious illness that impacts every single area of my life, and the more I ignore it the louder it gets. How would it feel to accept that?

Because I was ready to hear it, and because I trusted her, and because I knew everything I knew by that stage, I took it in and really imagined how it would feel. And my shoulders dropped about fifty metres and I felt relaxed and calm.

That year I had my first winter since my diagnosis where I didn’t have a severe depressive episode. I rested more, I kept myself warm, I didn’t push myself to not be such a big whiny baby. I cared for myself. I didn’t pretend I wasn’t unwell. I acknowledged it and acted accordingly. Bloody hell – it was absolutely life altering. I will always be grateful to that therapist for that revelation. Then she went and decided to help the refugees on Manus Island with their myriad of psychological issues resulting from trauma and abuse, which I understood but felt a bit miffed about in a selfish way.

So that huge shift had informed the way I went about caring for myself. What a relief to not feel the pressure of turning every stone over just in case. Wearing myself out going to All The Appointments. Never stopping because if I did that meant giving up.

Stopping is brilliant and should be compulsory for all people in all situations.

So now I have my team around me. Every member is crucial and I’m pretty happy most of the time. I’m a great parent and wife and friend and relative, I think.

The thought of messing with that? Oof. SO risky. Terrifying. But my sister held my hand and asked me to think about it. So I did.

I don’t mean to vaguebook atcha. The thing is called TMS and is usually provided to people who have severe depression. The kind where no medication works and everything is hopeless. It’s non invasive, and uses magnetic thingamebobs to retrain the pathways in your brain that have died off due to illness. So for people with fibro, the pathways of normal sensation are often replaced with pain pathways. Recently when I was extremely distressed about a work situation and I could not deal with what was happening, my brain told me that whenever I took a step I was at risk of my ankle shattering. My ankle was not at risk of shattering, but the pain felt extremely real and terrifying. And so on and so forth. So the TMS thingo (and to be honest it’s a little bit tinfoil hat to avoid the government reading your thoughts) is a metal cap that goes over your hair on the place where the specific neural pathways are, then magnetic waves are sent through the thing which stimulate your brains. It’s habit forming, so doing it once a week isn’t going to do squat. But 3-5 zaps a week (each zap is 30-60 mins) will be highly likely to have an impact. 5 will work faster, 3 will still work the same amount but will take a little longer.

They recommend about 30 sessions and then you can taper off and see how you respond. Here’s the kick. I live 90 mins from Melbourne CBD and it’s the closest place I can go for treatment. A three hour round trip a day isn’t possible for me (both in terms of fatigue and available free time).

My work is quite seasonal so I had planned to close off my books from May for a few months, and we were all going to go as a family to rent a house for a few months and just smash it. But then we both realised my wife’s pregnancy wasn’t getting easier and sooner would be better than later. So the compromise is as follows:

Kicking off this month with a week together as a family for calibration and a couple of treatments, and then I’ll head to Melbourne Tuesday morning til Thursday middle of the day allowing me three zaps (Tues – Wed – Thurs) and on the way home I get acupuncture so I can decompress a bit before arriving for family time at home and don’t just dump all my emotions all over them. I’ll have had time to process and chat a bit. Fridays the kidlet is in daycare, Saturdays and Sundays as per usual, Monday with the wee fella. Tuesdays drop him off at daycare late on my way in to town. We’re getting some help with kid wrangling on Wednesdays from daycare pickup to bedtime so my beautiful pregnant wife won’t have to be too exhausted after working all day. There’s a lot going on. Did I mention we’re married but not legally so we’re going to do that in a few weeks as well? It’s a big time.

I turned it all over and over and over in my head, spoke with some key people and most helpfully talked with my love. You don’t owe us anything, she said, and meant it. You try it, you don’t try it, we love you. Your body and health changes, or doesn’t, we love you. If you try it and it doesn’t work and it creates massive turmoil for you then we cross that bridge. You’ve dealt with worse.

So forward we go. 

[storytellingape]

mad about you

1521 words; clydeland

After Morgan, Stensland’s life sort of falls apart. ‘Sort of’ is actually putting it mildly. What happens is nothing short of catastrophic. First, he’s fired from his temp job at the furniture store. Then, after failing to pay the rent for the fourth month in a row, his landlord kicks him out. The worst part of it all is that he winds up through no fault of his own in Boone County, Wes Virginia: broke, friendless, and with no clear recollection of how he’d wound up there.

When Stensland tries to recall what might have led him to travel halfway across the country to what can only be described as ostensibly the middle of nowhere, what comes to mind is only a grey haze: flashes of memories too vague to whittle together into a concrete narrative. Liquor had been involved, naturally. As had been tears.

For a month he lives off Doritos and tins of Campbell’s mushroom soup before finding gainful employment at an innocuous little bar called Duck Tape where the job description remains largely unclear and his list of tasks ranges anywhere from entering a list of rolling expenses into a spreadsheet to mopping up vomit from the grimy bathroom floor.

Mostly he just stands around watching his boss, Clyde, serve drinks at the bar one-handed. He’d lost his hand during a tour in Iraq and now wears a prosthetic arm though by no means does that make him any less adept at making cocktails or driving stick shift or punching people in the face when they’re being a dick.

By all accounts, Stensland has no business working at the bar but for some reason Clyde keeps him around even if he can’t mix drinks to save his life and has the tendency to hog the jukebox whenever his favourite song comes on. Stensland can even barely hold his liquor: two shots and he’ll spiral into a bout of self-loathing, four and he’ll start taking off his clothes. It’s become a bit of a problem with Clyde having to wrangle Stensland off the pool table and lock him in the backroom until he promises to at least put his pants back on.

Then there’s  the problem of Clyde himself which vacillates between horribly annoying to downright embarrassing. He’s got most of the qualities Stensland enjoys in a person: nice without being too nice, a good ear for stories, with a handsome face that rakes in tips.  And he has an accent - jesus - so that when he forms words slowly and very carefully with his mouth, Stensland’s spine sings just a little. In short, Clyde is a good guy and Stensland could date him if he weren’t dead inside and doomed to a life of heartbreak — would have, maybe, in another life; they would have the cutest children.

*

Duck Tape is just like any other small town bar: dim and cosy, with pool tables and an old jukebox, a counter top that’s never not sticky and a bathroom that hasn’t seen better days since 1987. The profits come and go and so do the number of customers though Stensland has learned over time to remember names and faces, telling apart first timers from the crush of usual patrons, haggard guys clad in denim from head to toe often with the gait of the road-weary. Usually they’ll be trickling in late from work and seating themselves in their favourite corners.

Clyde makes strong drinks, has a generous pour, and he never forgets a face. He’s a good listener, smiling at all the right intervals, offering a drink on the house whenever the situation calls for it.

The first month, Stensland keeps dropping things and ends up almost breaking the ice machine. The second, and he’s close to having a breakdown, his arms aching all the time from lugging boxes of this and that to the store room. By the third, he’s still somehow employed but no less frazzled when Clyde has him working behind the bar, handing him bottles and refilling drinks. But he gets used to it, eventually, and gets better at deflecting wayward hands flitting in the general direction of his arse, falling into a rhythm of waking up late in the afternoon to choke down two coffees and work a twelve, sometimes fourteen hour shift.

Often, he gets home at seven in the morning, full of breakfast/dinner courtesy of Clyde. Clyde drops him off because he’s got a car, and because, he claims, it’s not out of the way at all, even though he lives in an opposite direction altogether; they listen to Motown on the radio with the windows pulled down, the wind making hell of their hair, and drive through sleepy roads still empty of traffic, sometimes talking, sometimes not.

He can get used to this, Stensland thinks as he tips face-first into bed after barreling straight through the front door, too tired to change out of his clothes. He listens to the soothing rumble of Clyde’s car driving off, kicking off his shoes and shimmying under the covers; then he’s asleep within seconds.

*

Stensland doesn’t have a lot of friends in Boone County; his entire social life revolves around Clyde and his family: there’s Mellie, his sister, gorgeous just like him, and tall, and Jim, who comes around  the bar for free drinks sometimes bringing his precocious five year old daughter along.

On Sundays, when the bar is closed, Stensland sleeps in and wakes only to piss, shower, and eat because he’s hungry. Sometimes if he’s lucky, Clyde invites him to family barbecues, the location of which changes from time to time depending on whose turn it is to host it. This time it’s Clyde’s, and Stensland shows up bringing nachos, only because he’d feel like an interloper otherwise. Clyde’s house is small, but charming, a bungalow with a shingled roof and wrap-around porch, an actual white picket fence. There’s a bouncy castle set up in the lawn for the kids, and Stensland can already see Clyde slaving away at the grill even from a distance away, taking intermittent sips from a beer bottle and waving away bees. He’s wearing an apron over his clothes. He shouldn’t look good wearing it. But frankly, the man can wear a blanket and still look good, so the sight of him makes Stensland feel a bit faint though no more than usual.

“Hey,” Stensland says as he approaches, dodging a wayward kid on his way to the bouncy castle.

Clyde offers him a small smile. Stensland dies just a little. “I was lookin’ everywhere for you. I thought you were gonna flake on me.”

“Me?” Stensland laughs. “Never.” He sets the bag of Nachos on the table next to the array of other foodstuff: bowls of corn chips, some dip, plenty of coleslaw, a mountain of cornbread. “Need help with the grill?” he offers.

Clyde raises his good hand. “Nope, I got this. Now you just sit there and look pretty and enjoy yourself because you’re my guest and not working today. All right?”

Stensland flushes at being called pretty. Clyde doesn’t mean it of course; it’s just an expression. Still, it makes him oddly shy, and he bounces back on forth on his heels before confessing, “I don’t know anybody here.”

Clyde doesn’t look up from flipping a beef patty. “You can sit here then, if you’d like. Keep me company. I don’t know anybody neither. It’s mostly Jim’s friends from high school.”

“What about your friends?” Stensland asks.

Clyde just shrugs one shoulder, like that answers it. “There’s beer in the cooler.” He points to it with a spatula, and Stensland lets out a triumphant noise when he pops the lid off a Corona. It tastes like shit, but at least it’s free.

Free keeps him from going hungry. Stensland barely has any savings. He’s subletting a room/apartment in someone’s backyard, a square featureless building that had formerly been storage space, with terrible insulation and only one window looking out into a grey fence. The landlord sometimes forgets to unlatch the side-gate, resulting in Stensland having to climb inelegantly over the railing more times than not, with Clyde watching from the car and offering to help, giving him a boost that sometimes results in Stensland kicking him in the nose or straddling his face. Stensland’s whole living situation is shit, but it’s the only one Stensland can currently afford. He has a roof over his head, a mattress and an electric kettle. He can’t really complain.

[the-voice-of-hell]

Rent is Theft, part 20

Read from the beginning here, read the previous chapter here.  Note:  My MC is a Filipina trans woman and I am not.  If you have notes on that or anything else, hit me up.

                                                        ***

      It was taking longer than it should.  Tall as the building was, a guy in each stairwell going floor to floor could get through the whole mess quickly enough.  If Mike took some elevators and skipped them, a few repeats still wouldn’t take all that long, and they’d catch up to him.  Still, it was close to eleven o’clock by the time they came back.

      Grime and Richie were worn out, but more than that, weirded out.  Mike was super energetic, eyes bugged out, acting wired.  Wasn’t his drug of choice heroin?  Marcie got up to take his arm.

      “Mikey, are you OK?  Come sit down.”

      “Hey, we got the werewolf,” he said, beaming at Knobby as he let Marcie sit him down.  “I’m great, Marce.  We got snacks, great!”  As soon as his butt hit the couch, he lurched forward and started throwing back handfuls of chex mix.

      “Take it easy, Mikey!  You aren’t high, are you?”

      “Yeah, dude,” Knobby said.  “You look like you’re gonna explode.”

      “What, what, what?”  He looked around at people, saw how they were regarding him, and leaned back with arms folded.  “I’m clean, I swear it.  Just feel excited about the exorcism is all.  You know I like The Exorcist, right Marce?”

      “Yeah, I know it.”

      “Well I don’t wanna start up until, say, five minutes to midnight, so relax, Mike.”  I picked up some three by five cards and started passing them out to people.  “Everybody has to read part of the spell, and do some things. I'm going to tell everybody what to do or to read and when. Some of you only have one card, some of you have a few. I'll let you know what card to read off of and when, but it's a good idea to look at the cards now and let me know if you'll have trouble reading any of the words on them."

      "Scorg?," Olivia asked herself.

      "I think it's pronounced sour," Knobby said.  He did not have any cards to read himself, but was trying to help her.

      Leimomi leaned over and softly said to me, "I can't read any of this.  It's too hard."

      I put a reassuring hand on her arm, but was too distracted to speak when Mike stood up and started for the living room.  "Hold that thought, sweetie.  Mike, where are you going?"

      "Gonna check out the magical stuff.  I'm so excited!"  He was already around the corner and I jumped up to follow him.

      In the living room he stood still at the edge of the circle, body language tense, twitchy, unnatural.  A few people had followed me out and were standing behind me, but I couldn't pay them any mind.  Mike had my full attention.

      "Argh OOgha!," he grunted.  He doubled forward at the waist, began to transform.  A million hair-like tendrils sprouted through the back of his polo shirt, and where his skin was visible it was likewise soon consumed with green fur.  Amid the fur, tiny leaves blossomed like chia sprouts and some of those thickened growing into small oak leaves.  "It's all mine," he groaned in a strangely lecherous tone.

      He began to piss into my magic circle.  The fucking nerve on that guy!

      "Holy shit," Knobby yelped. "He's got it too!"

      "Nuh-uh," said Olivia, "It was always just him."

      "Shit," I said, "I'm sorry, Knobby."  Mike started to lunge forward, and I grabbed him around the waist.  I didn't like the feeling of his slippery wet monster ***** against my wrists.

      He was too powerful and began to jerk free of my grasp, when another set of arms joined mine on the left, another on the right.  In a chaotic press of flesh, the crowd managed to wrangle him into the kitchenette.

      Somehow in the ruckus I ended up on the far side of the kitchenette, and could see my comrades in the melee.  They were scrawny Olivia and Knobby, Momi, Marcie, and Richie.  These are not the fighters I would have chosen, but were clearly the only people able to get in behind me easily within the small confines of the apartment.

      I also had a full look at transformed Mike.  There was something familiar in his appearance, his twisted gargoyle form.  I had seen statues, or drawings perhaps, of club wielding wild men clad in ivy.  He bore that likeness, but the leaves grew straight from his body clustered in areas where his own natural hair would be the longest - top of head, beard, chest belly and crotch.  Weirdly his clothing were mostly intact, the tendrils having grown through the fabric before the leaves blossomed on them.  Some buttons had burst to accommodate his increased strength and, disgustingly, increased virility.  The leaves on his belly mercifully obscured the contours of his exposed ******.  The Jolly Green Giant wouldn't do this to us, I thought.

      We were treating him with kid gloves, to be honest.  It was less out of mercy and affection for the man, as much as we did have that, then it was out of revulsion for his lurid condition.  Nobody wanted to accidentally get a fistful of that wobbly green thing.

      Momi, of course, was our ace in the hole.  She easily gripped him around the chest in her strong arms and dragged him around the corner towards the living room.

      "Hold him right there," I said, "Don't mess up the symbols in the triangle!  Olivia, I got some rope in the bathroom.  Go grab it, quick!"

      The hog tying was about as difficult as one would expect.  I was glad we hadn't needed to do this to the frail boy, but Mike didn't really deserve this either, the poor weirdo.  Marcie, of course, was his best friend in the building, and lamented his sorry state.

      "Oh, Mikey, what are we going to do with you?"

      "We're going to exorcise his ass," I said.

      Sadly we had about an hour left until midnight, so we had to hold him there like that.  It was arduous and disgusting, but Leimomi and the floories got through it together - while I reheated the blood and magic brew.

      "Do we know his whole name?"

      "No," said Marcie, "We were in Narcotics Anonymous."

      "Then Michael it is."  It was time.  "Patrick, pass me the wands. Momi, Olivia, Marcie, you're with me."

     We got Mike into place tied to a chair in the middle of the triangle and I stood above him imperiously.  I got the wands and handed one to Olivia and one to Marcie.  I gently directed Momi and them into positions, then turned my attention back to the green man, holding my wand high.

      “In the name of Our Blessed Lady I command thee to depart from Michael.  Evil green devil from Hell, begone!  Begone!  Again I say, begone!”  I gestured for assist and Grime reached in to pass me a Garfield mug of the magic potion.

      Mike looked up at me in wonderment, goggle eyes and fuzzleaf brow.  What did he think was about to happen?

      I slapped him across the cheek with the wand and he barked in surprise, then I splashed him with the hot magic potion from the other side.  Some went in his mouth.  I hoped it wasn’t too poisonous, but I tried to stay in the zone.

      “I command thee to depart and free Michael’s soul.  Evil green devil from Hell, begone!  Begone!  Again I say, begone!”

      “Garrggh-ooo!”  He was making very wolfy faces for a plant-themed monster man.  I smacked him on the other cheek, splashed him again.  With all the bargling, his mouth was open and caught more of the potion than I would have preferred.

      “I command thee to depart and free Michael’s soul.  Evil green devil from Hell, begone!  Begone!  Again, begone!”  Slash, splash.  My mug was empty, dripping.  I handed my wand to Momi and stepped back to the kitchenette.  I fished out my three by five cards.  Had to do things a little different.  “Alright, ladies.  You repeat after me, whack him one time, then walk to the triangle corner to your left.”

      “I don’t wanna whack Mikey!,” Marcie said.

      “Mine!  Hoogha hoogha!”  Mike was writhing.

      “We should whack Mike, Marcie,” Momi said.

      “OK.”

      I read, “Green spirit, ugly spirit, old spirit.”  They repeated the lines.  I’d swapped out references to wolves, tried to make it relevant.  “Do as you are told, leave this man, fly away,” they monotonously repeated, “To where it is night and never day!”

      Richie helped me fill three mugs with the reheated blood sauce.  I brought the steaming mugs over to the ladies and passed them around.  “Whack him one time and then splash some of this on him.  Not all of it at once, you wanna be able to do it two more times, OK?”

      Marcie frowned deeply, Momi looked weirded out, and Olivia was her usual tightlipped sphynx self.  I offered sympathetic looks and went back to the kitchenette.  “Whack away!  When you’re done, corner to the left.”  I waited for them to do their bits, then repeated the spell.  “Green spirit, ugly spirit, old spirit...”

      While they whacked and doused him again, I asked Grime to pass me a bottle of rum.  “Magical reasons, I swear!”  This needed to feel more magical.  After a deep swig, I looked out over the scene.  My ladies were ready for the last round of their part, and beyond them on the far side of the circle, the rest of the floories watched with trepidation.  Come on guys, it’s magic!  Swig.

      “Green spirit, ugly spirit, old spirit,” I went through my paces and they mumbled through their own.  “Now whack him again and then pour out the last of your cups on him!”  I reluctantly released my grip on the rum and used a mug to scoop more of the magic potion from the giant pasta pot serving as one of my cauldrons.  Then I waved for the ladies to come back to the kitchenette.  I took Momi’s wand off her hands.  It felt a little slippery, the end was slick with the blood sauce.

      I went out to see our monster man, did a little clumsy twirl on the floor along the way, then stood before him.  “Michael!  Michael!  Michael!”

      He looked up at me, shaking ill ingredients out of his eyes like a wet dog.  He was still green like the Hulk.  I smacked his stupid face.

      “Go, fly away to the sky, green devil thee I defy.  Out, out, with a howl and a yell, It will carry thee faster and surer to Hell!”  I smacked him with the wand again, then poured the steaming magic potion over his head.  It washed away much of the bloody mess, and a few of his beard leaves fell away.  Progress?

      I turned to the rest of the floories.  “All of you, come to the kitchenette, get a cup of the potion, and walk with me in a circle around the guy.  Repeat the spell after me!”  I waved the wand to stir them into motion.  Knobby went first, then Patrick dragged Perry.

      I waved the wand like a conductor until I had enough floories in motion, then led them, marching in a circle around Mike.  “Repeat after me!  Away, away, shoo!  Think we care for you?  You’ll feel our whips crack.  We’ll beat you blue-black!  Foolish green spirit, we have you at last!  Back to thy Hell home, fly out of him fast!”

      It was a weird, sad, and wearying protest march.  Hell no, we won’t go?  I grabbed the rum bottle on one of my rotations past the counter, tucking my wand into my head wrap, so I could hold my card in one hand and dook with the other.

      We couldn’t keep it together - not all of us.  Perry quickly became unmanageable, which meant Patrick had to take care of him.  We managed to at least keep them in the same room.  I felt it was important for us all to participate as best we could.

      We quickly ran out of magic potion to slosh on him.  I was bumping into people out of drunkenness, they were bumping into each other out of weariness.  Our breath vapor collected on the windows and surfaces, the mess on the floor was spread under our feet.  The chalk joined the fluids in muddy, gritty clumps that made walking even more treacherous.  I looked at the wall clock whenever I passed it, waiting for one AM to draw close.  Walking in circles for even ten minutes seems like forever.  This was some number of forevers.

      We were mumbling zombies, taking half-assed slaps at Mike, slipping, losing our place in the spell and starting over again.  I almost forgot to call an end to our torments, one time on the clock looking the same as another to me by then.

      “Everybody, back to the circle!”  I waved them back and they complied, leaving me with Mike.  I pulled out my wand.

      The green man looked at me with his head lolling on his shoulders, his eyes rolling in their sockets.  Could he even see me, or was his head coincidentally pointed my way?  He groaned, “I liked The Exorcist.”

      “Green spirit, from Michael you flee!  Michael, come correct and be free!”  I kicked him in the stomach.

      Instantly, he vomited green stuff Exorcist-style all the hell over me.  I was lucky it didn’t reach above my breast level or get both of my arms, but the rest of my body was awash in sick.  He was thrashing and spewing and thrashing some more.

      More from a sense of insult than a magical imperative, I started smacking him about the face with my wand again.  “Come on!  Come ON!  Ugh!”

      The fountain ran dry and he slumped in the chair.  I tried to step back, slipped, and landed on my ass in the green.  “AugH!”  A few other people were barfing now too.  I kept it together, pinching my nose and making my breaths shallow.

      Grime came up with a pitcher of water and poured it out on me.  “You alright?”

      “Eh. Ugh. Wait.  Hose Mike down!  We gotta see if he’s green!”

      Grime looked at the guy - he was less drenched than I was - then pulled out his cellphone.  He turned it on flashlight mode and tilted Mike’s head back to look.  “He’s pink like a salmon filet, Courtney!”

      Knobby clapped excitedly.  “Wooo!”  Richie joined in, but on the whole, the excitement was muted.

      Grime helped me to my feet, giving up on any idea that he could remain clean.  I looked at Mike’s beaten body,  I looked at all my people.

      “Good job, everybody.  Maybe we call it a night, see if this’ll work on the rest of us later, alright?”  I joined Grime in checking out our freshly re-pinked man.  Marcie budged in as well.  It seemed the three of us had all resisted the compulsion to vomit.  Natural born leaders, haha.

      “Mikey, talk to us, Mikey.”  Marcie held a disposable red cup of water vaguely under his head, hoping he’d stir and give it a sip.

      Grime didn’t say anything but tried to prop up his head in his hands, gently.  For a man with no background in medicine, he seemed very comfortable helping a man out physically - unusual in our homophobic place in the world.  Point Grime.

      I reached in as well, opened his mouth to see if his air passages were open, tried to feel for breath with the back of my least slimy hand.  He started to spit and twitch at the feel of my fingers on his mouth, and his big eyes dimly stirred.

      “Mikey, hey.  Gotta wake up, enough to get a drink, hon.  Take a sip for me.”

      “Maybe he could use some air,” Deandre suggested on his way past.

      “Yeah,” Grime said.  He tried to get him untied - hard to find the ends at first.

      “Graeme,” I said, “Thanks, but I’d like you to go make sure everyone else is OK.  Me and Marcie got this.”

      “Good thinking.  I’ll see you later.”

      Leimomi joined us, which was crucial because Marcie and I did not have the strength to move Mike at that late hour.  Everybody else filed out of the horrible ruins of my apartment pretty quickly, and the three of us hauled the man into my bathroom, sat him on the toilet.  After we got him to drink some water, Marcie tried to get him cleaned up.  Momi helped me with my own hideous state, everybody taking turns at the sink.

      Marcie and Leimomi got him back to his apartment, where Marcie said she’d stay and watch over him for a while, then Momi came back to me.  My place was a disaster and we were too worn out to do more than stopgap cleanup, with her doing most of the labor.

      Come three in the morning, we had me at least clean enough to stop dripping horror slime everywhere I went, and decided to spend the remains of the night at her place.  I grabbed a few things for the stay.

      Leimomi turned on the lights and walked me straight to her bathroom.  “First thing, you gotta take a quick shower.  Then you gotta wash your hair and wrap it with somethin’ clean.”  She started taking off my clothes completely unromantically, which made me a little sad but was the most sensible way to go.  Mike’s vomit smelled like that stuff usually does, with a strange vegetable undertone, as if he’d been pounding concentrated celery extract.  My nasty clothes went into a trash bag for now.  I could see if there was any way to salvage any of them later.

      She tried to help me into the bathtub, but I resisted.  Still enough strength to hold myself up.  I kissed her on the shoulder and hoped it wouldn’t be too disgusting.  As I lifted my head to turn around, she caught me for a little kiss on the lips.  I smiled and drew the shower curtain.

      A while later, my body was squeaky clean, which left one terrible task to contend with.  I braced myself and removed the head wrap.  Immediately, Reverse Courtney started in on me.

      “You know you can’t do me like you did the green man, right?  You’re the witch here, you’d need somebody else to do the magic on you, can’t do it on yourself.”

      “Bullshit, I can teach somebody.  Not like I knew that was going to work anyway.”

      “Hey, maybe it didn’t work.  Maybe green man comes back in the night, attacks Marcie.”

      “Go to Hell.”

      “Maybe he gives her the high hard--”

      “Shoulda held your breath, bitch.”  The back of my head coughed and sputtered as she was blasted by the shower head.  “Don’t bite me or you’ll never get clean, OK?  You like tasting dirty hair all day?”

      I dipped to get some shampoo in my hand and she broke free of the torrent of water.  “I’ll kill ya!  I’ll kill ya!  You’re going down, bitch!  They’ll put you in man prison!  You’ll get AIDS and--”  She choked and sputtered again as I ran shampoo through my hair, and quickly got it back under water.

      Unfortunately, she did bite at me.  I was getting practiced at minimizing the damage - no blood drawn.  I muffled her with a towel at the end of my maneuvers, put on a clean bathrobe, and came out into Leimomi’s boudoir.

      “I’m sorry,” she said, sitting in near total darkness.  “I heard that stuff.”

      “It’s OK.  But I wonder.  You never told me how you wash your hair.  Does it try to kill you, or is it just annoying?”

      “Just annoying.  It doesn’t try to kill me, but I don’t know what it would do to somebody else.  I hafta do it alone.”  She stood up.  I guess she’d worked up a sweat too, even if she didn’t get hosed with celery puke.

      “OK babe.”  I stepped close to give her a kiss.  Her lips tasted saltier than I remembered, probably in noticing a contrast where before we’d been equally sweaty.  She gently pushed me away.

      “I’ll see you when I’m done, Courtney.”

      She left me to get cleaned up, and I carefully laid myself out on her bed.  I was fully intending to stay awake, but the rum and exertion had other plans.  I passed out well before she returned.

                                                        ***

   Read next chapter here.

[your-brother-crutchie]

Friend of a Friend

“Friend of a friend needs a place to stay before they get evicted.”

Please enjoy this long ass fic that I can’t be bothered to edit because I’m lazy and it’s late.

TW: Mentions of homophobic assault

Spot was busy crushing it at Splatoon when he heard the familiar persistent knocking at his door that usually told him that Davey had arrived. Sighing, he dropped his controller, knowing that that incessant rapping wouldn’t stop until he answered it and deciding to just abandon the group of people that he did not know, to cross the small studio apartment and let the boy in.

As soon as Spot opened the door, Davey launched into it, stepping forwards and passed him into the room, “Hey, so you know, my friend, Jack?” Davey sneered slightly as he looked around him, seeing the unwashed dishes in the sink and the unmade bed behind the lounge area.

Somehow, Spot had managed to wrangle the only studio apartment in his floor so that he was able to be private and secluded. He’d met Davey, another boy on his floor, but hadn’t made any effort to introduce himself to Davey’s friends. The only downside, however, was that studio apartments had two beds in them. Thankfully, though, it was unlikely, at this point in the year, that anyone would move into the halls so Spot was pretty safe.

Nodding briefly, Spot sighed and gestured to the room that Davey had already entered, “Sure, Dave, come on in!” Spot chuckled darkly, swinging the door shut and dropping onto the sofa in the middle of the room, “Yeah, I know of him. Why?”

Davey sighed, picking up a dirty sock that was draped over the back of the sofa and flinging it onto Spot’s bed before sitting himself beside him, “Right, well, his friend lives off-campus but he can’t get the rent anymore so he needs a place to stay before he gets evicted and, since you’re the only one with a spare bed, I told Jack that you’d take him.” He said all of this very quickly, jumbling words together in a way that should have put Spot off the scent.

A quick scoff left Spot as he stared at Davey, trying to figure out what made him think that that was at all acceptable. He didn’t want a roommate, especially one that he didn’t know. He enjoyed his privacy and he hadn’t even introduced himself to the four other people who lived on his floor. Shouldn’t that have been enough of a signal that Spot was not open to ‘making friends.’ He was, technically, allowed to use the kitchen in the common room and hang out in that living space but why would he when he had his own?

“Davey, are you kidding me? I don’t want a roommate!” Spot suddenly launched into action, leaning forwards and tensing his muscles. He knew that he couldn’t threaten Davey, he’d already tried but it would have been nice to be able to back out of this.

As he’d thought, Davey quickly shut him down on that option, “Spot, just don’t question this one, okay? He’s been through too much. It’s too late now, anyway, he’s moving in tomorrow. I’ll be bringing him here in the morning so please be ready.” Davey stared at Spot until he settled back against the sofa in resignation, realising that there would certainly be no budging him.

Spot rolled his eyes, folding his arms and grumbling to himself, “Fine, fuck.” He stood, striding over to the free bed and picking up some hoodies to throw into his wardrobe, “Happy?” A snarl resting on his features, Spot watched Davey as he pulled himself upwards with a sigh.

Nodding, Davey rubbed at his face before heading towards the door, “Peachy. Right, I’ve got to go but, please, be nice to him and tidy up in here.” Opening the door to let himself out, Davey glanced around the room before throwing Spot one last pointed glare and pulling the door closed behind him after returning Spot’s brief wave as a distracted goodbye.

Leaping awake, Spot flung himself upwards as soon as he heard the violent banging on the other side of his door. He sighed, looking around at the tidy studio flat that didn’t even look like it belonged to him anymore and rolling his eyes as soon as he heard Davey’s raised voice, “Fuck’s sake, Spot, I told you I was dropping him off yesterday!”

Spot hauled himself upwards and staggered over towards the door, forgetting to get a t-shirt on his way over and swinging it open before remembering that he was only dressed in sweatpants.

He looked up to see Davey, rolling his eyes as he took in his appearance. Davey was acclimated to Spot greeting him at the door only half-clothed but the boy next to him obviously wasn’t. When Spot glanced across at him, he noticed that the boy was blushing furiously, looking anywhere else as he fiddled with the handle of his pitifully small suitcase.

“Spot, this is Race.” Davey sighed when he realised that Spot wasn’t planning on introducing himself, obviously realising that this was as much of a bad idea as he’d probably expected it to be.

Running his eyes over Race quickly, Spot looked him over before shrugging, trying to keep his quiet approval to himself. At least he was nice to look at. Davey could have dropped someone far worse on him. He looked back up to Davey, sighing when he saw the look on his face and stepping out of the way of the doorframe.

Davey pushed Race forwards gently, taking his suitcase from him and walking him passed Spot and into the room, “I assure you, he’s just always this prickly. It’s not you.” He set Race’s bag down on the freshly made spare bed, nodding in approval as he registered that Spot had tidied up like he’d asked him to. Spot might not have wanted a roommate, but he didn’t want first impressions to show him as a slob, even if he was a bit of one.

The only thing that Spot had forgotten to clean was Race’s nightstand, so Davey swept his general clutter onto the floor with a quick tut. He turned back to Race, who was stood stiffly and awkwardly in the living area, Spot behind him, “Okay, Race, I have to pick Les up from school but I’ll drop by later to make sure you’re settling in and help you unpack.” Davey reached out and led Race carefully by the elbow, as if he was delicate, forwards and over to the bed.

Spot frowned slightly, not understanding the light movements and also thinking over what about what Davey had said was troubling him. It struck him as Davey was almost out of the door, making him swivel to catch him before he left, “Wait, is this a permanent thing now? We’re in halls, he can’t just stay here indefinitely!”

A dangerous glare quickly filled Davey’s face as he tugged on Spot harshly, bringing him out into the hallway and closing the door behind him, “He can because he goes here, too. We spoke to the hall manager and he’s alright with it. What did I tell you about being nice to him?” He shoved Spot backwards lightly, obviously trying to make him realise just how serious he was about this.

“I didn’t know this was forever! I didn’t even have a choice!” Spot tensed his muscles, pulling up and trying to make himself look taller, despite him still being almost a foot taller than him.

Shaking his head in disappointment, Davey turned to walk away and out of their section of the floor, calling over his shoulder, “Too late now.”

Spot scoffed, watching as the boy held his hand up to wave briefly to Spot, never once turning back around to face him. He sighed, rolling his eyes and collecting himself before turning back inside the flat. Race was sitting quietly on the edge of his bed, obviously trying to make himself small as he fiddled nervously with his suitcase.

As he sneered gently to himself, Spot trudged back over to his bed before falling into it and burrowing under the covers, deciding to just go back to sleep and deal with the tense atmosphere when he was actually awake.

A couple of hours later, Spot woke up to a much gentler knocking at his door, yawning and pulling a t-shirt over his head this time. On his trek to the door, he noticed that Race was completely swaddled in his blankets, sleeping and and cocooned almost completely, with his duvet tucked tightly around his body.

Shaking his head in annoyance, Spot turned the handle and pulled the door open to see Davey, “Oh look, it’s you.” He huffed, stepping back into the apartment and letting Davey follow him, “He’s asleep.”

Davey glanced at Race before turning on Spot with a hushed whisper, “What did you do?” He turned Spot by the arm, making him look at him and shake his head at the questioning glare on Davey’s face. Sometimes, just occasionally, Spot wasn’t the root of the problem.

“Nothing! I was asleep and, when I woke up, he was asleep!” Scoffing, Spot dropped onto the sofa, peering over the back of it so that he could watch as Davey looked nervously at the curly-haired boy in his spare bed. Sorry, in his own bed. Spot didn’t have a spare bed anymore because he had a roommate and he had to deal with  another human living with him.

Turning around the sofa and sitting next to Spot cautiously, Davey pursed his lips as he turned back to him, “Why’s he frowning?” He tilted his head in Race’s direction, making Spot look over to see the furrowed lines in his forehead and how he was knitting his eyebrows together.

A shrug rolled across Spot’s shoulders as he gave up, falling back against the sofa and not bothering to watch Race anymore, “I don’t know! Why’s he made a cocoon?” He sighed, reaching across to shove at Davey but looking up when he caught his arm.

Davey looked serious now, really, properly serious, so he sat up slightly to actually listen to what he had to say, “Because he sold most of his stuff for last month’s rent and has been sleeping on a bare, lumpy mattress on the floor until today. Don’t ask what else he had to do for money, I can’t even say it.” His voice broke slightly, making Spot realise that he was completely serious and feel a small twinge in his chest as he glanced nervously back over at Race’s sleeping frame.

“. . . Oh. I didn’t realise it was that bad.” Spot’s mouth fell open slightly as he realised why Davey hadn’t given him a decision, feeling terrible for ever wanting rid of him. He looked back to Race, for the first time really seeing just how defeated he looked. Race looked like he’d been through a lifetime of shit, beaten down and broken and barely able to hold himself upright anymore. Spot barely knew him but he was certain, especially from how Davey cared for the boy, that he didn’t deserve any of it.

Nodding with a sad smile, Davey quickly caught himself and sneered slightly, hardening his expression as he rubbed at his nose, sniffing discreetly, “Well, yeah, it is, so just be nice to him, for fuck’s sake.”

Spot blinked at his language, not really knowing what he’d done to deserve it. Davey only swore when he had reason to. It wasn’t that he was against people using profanities, he just personally didn’t use them a lot, “Davey, Jesus, what’s up with you?” He chuckled softly, quickly stopping himself though as the taller boy dropped his head into his hands.

His voice beginning to raise slightly, it was obvious that Davey was mad about something as he snarled before wiping his hands down his face, “Not love for Jesus, that’s part of it!” When Race stirred slightly, he bit down on his lip and sighed until his body language was much calmer, “Sorry. Les is being bullied at school because he wouldn’t pray with the other kids.” He breathed out shakily, wiping at his eyes as he curled himself up on the sofa and rested against the back of it.

Blowing air out between his parted lips, Spot shook his head as he struggled not to become angry himself. He hated children precisely for the reason that they could be cruel and mean but Davey’s little brother had always been an exception, “Shit, man. That’s hard. Is he okay?”

Davey shook his head slightly, shrugging and sniffing harshly, “I don’t know, he won’t even talk to me about it. The headteacher won’t do anything about it.” He looked up at Spot with a sad smile, looking almost as defeated as Race in that moment.

“Do I need to beat up some children?” Spot’s offer, although he knew it was ludicrous, was partly serious. He’d never actually do it but, if they were his age, there would have been nothing stopping him. He wouldn’t have even asked for Davey’s consent. Spot would not suffer bullies.

Narrowing his eyes and knitting his eyebrows together, Davey shook his head slightly as he did his best not to chuckle, “Uhhh- maybe never say that again if you don’t want to go to jail?” He scoffed, smiling slightly as Spot nodded, “Good. Look, I’ll come back in another hour. Don’t wake him up.” Davey stood, sighing and rubbing at his eyes, flashing one last look at Race before turning and leaving.

It was another half an hour before Race woke up, stirring gently before sitting upright and rubbing at his eyes. He jumped slightly when he looked up to see Spot looking at him, pulling the duvet closer around his body, despite the fact that Spot had scanned the room for clothes and realised that Race had fallen asleep in his t-shirt and jeans from earlier. At first, he’d thought that it couldn’t be comfortable before remembering what Davey had said about where Race had been staying. It must have been more comfortable than that.

“Hey.” Spot offered him a small smile, trying to appear a little friendly, or at least somewhat warmer than he’d come off as that morning. Since Davey had told him what Race had been through, Spot felt awful about ever considering being so cold towards him that it would make him leave. Which he really had considered . . . A lot.

Running his eyes over Spot once, the corner of Race’s lip tugged itself upwards minutely before falling back into place again, “ . . . Hi.” He ran his hands over his face, sighing as he pulled himself to his feet and looked around him properly for the first time. He huffed once in amusement when he saw Spot’s band posters, focussing on them and trying to pick out ones that he liked.

Spot couldn’t hide his bright smile as he realised that they had something in common. This didn’t have to be as painful as he’d expected it to be! He came over to join Race, seeing him studying his As It Is poster, “They’re my favourite band! Look, I’m sorry I was harsh earlier, I was tired. You can stay for as long as you like; whether that’s for the rest of the school year or until you can find something, that’s up to you.” When Race turned to look at him, Spot smiled, trying his best to appear approachable.

He froze, however, when Race teared up slightly. Panic flooded his mind as he realised that he didn’t know what to do but quickly settled when he saw Race’s wide smile, “Thank you.” What shocked Spot the most was that Race lunged forward to hug him. Spot didn’t like physical contact; that was what he told everyone. What he didn’t tell anyone was that, although he wasn’t particularly used to a lot of it, he craved it.

Settling quickly into the hug, Spot relaxed as he held tightly onto Race, already sensing that he was the kind of person that also craved physical reassurance. He found himself drawing his bottom lip between his teeth, breathing in the smell of ginger and lemon coming from Race’s hair and realising that he really didn’t mind it.

The next time something strange happened was almost a whole year later. Spot and Race had become almost ridiculously close. They did everything together and when the university had asked if anyone wanted to share rooms next year, despite there being no reason to anymore, they’d signed up together almost immediately.

Spot had been out with Hawk, a boy that he’d managed to make friends with on his course, with some prompting from Race to make more friends. They’d asked if Race wanted to go with them but he’d said that he was busy working on papers, which was fair enough. He was always shutting himself away these days, or at least for the last week or two. Spot could barely get him to leave the flat and sit in the common area with their friends from their floor (Race had also told him that he needed to make friends with everyone else, so Spot was now friends with Jack, Crutchie, Katherine and Sarah and occasionally used the communal kitchen just to hang out with them).

When Spot returned early, he knew something was deeply wrong as soon as he pushed the door open. He couldn’t see Race but he could hear him and he could hear that he was crying.

Pressing on further into the room, Spot glanced around until he found Race, collapsed in a heap and sobbing on the floor of the kitchenette, “Race?!” Spot rushed over, dropping down quickly and reached out gingerly to see if he could touch him. Often, Race loved being hugged, especially when he wasn’t feeling too great. Occasionally, however, Race wanted Spot nowhere near him. He didn’t know why, he just knew that he did. Race quickly shoved him away, only crying harder as he bundled himself into a tighter ball, “Race, what’s up? What is it?”

Although Race didn’t want to say anything, Spot eventually managed to calm him down enough for him to sit, dead behind the eyes, and tell him what was wrong, “I’m sorry, it’s just- uhm. Fuck. It- it’s a year since- si-ince my brother d- die- died.” Race’s words tripped over each other on their way out, making Spot’s face fall further as he pieced together the timing and why Race had had to move in with him.

“God, Race, I’m so sorry, that’s awful . . . How did he-?” Spot wasn’t sure if he could say it. Not just because it was a horrific thing to have happened but because it was still affecting Race like this. This horrible, ugly crying was caused by some horrible tragedy that shouldn’t have happened, whatever it was, and Spot felt awful even mentioning it, whether he’d goaded Race to tell him or not. He shouldn’t have even asked how it had happened but Spot had a morbid curiosity.

Race sighed, the sobbing slow and more like strangled chokes every so often now. He sniffed, rubbing harshly at his eyes and blinking rapidly, before beginning to explain, “They- uh, they called it a m- mug-ging gone wr- wrong. He- he used to- t- to work so that was how we- we paid the rent. We don’t sp- speak to our parents. When he died, though, they- they took all of the mon-ey he’d saved for us so I had noth- nothing.”

Heart breaking for Race, Spot struggled to hold up his own tough-guy exterior as he watched his roommate crying. He hadn’t missed the way that Race still talked about him in the present tense, even though it had been a whole year. What Race had said about his parents made him physically angry. It made him shake and snarl and want to find them so that he could knock a bit of decency into their thick skulls, “No offence but your parents are fucking arseholes!” He quickly noticed that he was clenching his fist too tightly, releasing his hand and shaking it out as he winced at the sight of the angry little crescents his nails had left.

Nodding, Race sniffed with mock amusement, as if shocked that Spot would think that he might actually be offended by that, “Yeah. You’re right.” He shrugged lightly, more resigned in his sadness than actually sobbing now. There was anger there, deep-rooted anger buried beneath his skin but that was likely to be there for the rest of his life. Spot had never noticed it before but, looking back, it had always been there. Race had always been rundown and exhausted and broken but, underneath it all, he’d always been angry,

“If you don’t mind me asking, why don’t you speak to them?” Spot knew that he was treading in uneven waters as he pushed for answers, feeling that he couldn’t properly understand if he didn’t know. However, he knew that Race was just as likely to bite his head off as he was to answer him.

Race glanced across at him, an incredulous expression filling his features as he scoffed, “Because they’re arseholes? Homophobic arseholes.” Spot knew that he didn’t talk to them already, that wasn’t new information. After all, he’d stayed in their room over Christmas break. He’d told Spot that he was leaving to be with his family after him but Spot had come back a day before Christmas to pick something up and found Race still there. He hadn’t asked questions, he’d just taken him home with him for Christmas. His mum hadn’t minded; if anything, she was just happy that Spot finally had a close friend.

The information that Race’s parents were homophobic, however, hit Spot hard, “He was gay?” He figured that it must have been the brother. He must have run away with Race to be free of them and that must have been why he was targeted and why Race had chosen to use the words, ‘they called it.’ Spot had known that it sounded like Race disagreed.

Shaking his head, Race dropped his chin down so that he could hide his face slightly from Spot, “No.” His breath left in a shudder as Race snapped his neck back upright and tried to glance in any direction other than Spot’s.

“What?” Spot narrowed his eyes slightly as he questioned him. He’d been so sure that he was right. After all, he’d had known if Race was gay, they’d shared a room for a year. He would have said something. It wasn’t like Spot talked about his own sexuality at all but Race was a more open person than he was.

Race sighed, letting his head fall into his hands before mumbling the answer into them, “ . . . I’m gay . . . It should have been me.”

His horrified feeling only growing, Spot shook his head quickly and took Race’s face to make him look at him, glad that he didn’t yank himself away this time, “What? No! Absolutely not; it shouldn’t have been you because it shouldn’t have been anyone.” He felt his own eyes beginning to go hot and decided, just for once, he’d let himself be a little emotional. His best friend was telling about how he wished he’d died instead, Spot couldn’t sit stoically through that.

Tugging his chin away carefully, Race finally allowed his body to fall against where Spot was sat beside him, “ . . . They called it a mugging because they didn’t know what to do with the fact that the boys from college thought that Matti was me.”

“What?” Spot’s jaw dropped open, eyes burning as he looked down at where Race was resting against him. He couldn’t believe, not only that the people who’d done it were from their university, but that they’d been after Race. Anyone might have said that he’d got lucky but it didn’t sound like he had.

A sad smile lifted Race’s face for a moment before his attempt buckled. He scrunched his nose up, raising his hands to cover his face as he began to cry once again, “They were targeting me, they just got it wrong. We’re twins- identical.” Race’s crying filled the space once again, his sadness flowing from his chest and draping itself over everything in the room.

Spot let out a shaky breath, struggling to keep it together through Race’s waves of grief flooding over him, “Fuck, Race, that’s awful! I’m so sorry . . . What happened to the boys?” He came back for the question with a quiet tentativeness to his voice, not wanting to upset him but needing to know if he still interacted with them.

“Jail. Hopefully for the rest of their fucking lives.” Race’s anger was there again, bubbling and coming to the surface though still living under his skin. It would never be leaving him and that was quite clear. He would be angry about Matti until he couldn’t feel anything anymore, “Though they are keeping quiet about it because ‘it could ruin their lives’ if they ever get out.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Spot was silent for a moment before speaking up carefully. He couldn’t believe that a court had decided that they had to preserve the integrity of a pair of murderers who’d targeted someone based on their own prejudice. Spot found Race’s hand, lacing their fingers together and breathing out gently, “ . . . Would I have known them?” Part of him didn’t want to know. What if it was someone he’d spoken with?

Race gripped onto Spot’s hand as if it were some sort of lifeline, squeezing his eyes closed and raising their hands to his face so that he could press his knuckle into the space between his eyebrows for comfort, “Do the Delanceys ring a bell?” He let out another horrible shuddering breath as Spot felt his own skin burning with that familiar anger.

He found that he had to let go of Race’s hand, worried that he would hurt him as he felt his fists clenching, “The Delanceys?! They’re on the football team!” He couldn’t even fathom how he’d ever shared a locker room with those people, disgusted that he’d ever been seen chatting with them.

“They were on the football team, what of it?” Race snarled, pulling himself upright and into a stiff and awkward position. He obviously wasn’t particularly interested in discussing them for long. They deserved none of his time and they especially did not deserve any of his time on the anniversary of the day they murdered his brother in an attempt to get him.

Spot’s disbelief echoed through his voice as he shook his head, struggling to keep himself composed and on topic, “I’m quarterback.”

Scoffing, Race snapped away from him, disdain flooding his features as he tensed every muscle, making Spot realise just how lanky he was. He was only an inch taller than him but he had long arms and legs and suddenly might have looked a little threatening if he wasn’t sat in front of Spot, “What’s this got to do with you?! What? You were on the football team with a pair of murderers, boo hoo! Matti is dead and I have to live with that!” He snarled, shoving at Spot violently when he tried to reach across and calm him.

“No, Race- let me explain. I’m bi. I don’t understand why they didn’t say anything to me about it? We were in the same locker room.” Spot shook his head slightly, trying to think of any time when the Delanceys may have showed any sign of bigotry towards him.

Race rolled his eyes, sighing and eventually relaxing back against the kitchen counter, “When was the last time you had a boyfriend?” Spot had a feeling that he understood where this was going.

Thinking back, Spot realised that he really hadn’t had a boyfriend for ages, only one-night hookups that had stopped as soon as Race moved in, “Gosh, years.” He knew where Race was going. This was about visibility. Spot hadn’t had a boyfriend in years, he’d even had a girlfriend or two. He was the quarterback of the college football team and didn’t appear effeminate. If the Delanceys didn’t know, what would they do?

Holding a hand up and giving a pointed nod, Race pressed his lips into a thin line, “Exactly. You don’t ‘look’ gay. They probably didn’t know. Of course, the weird kid who kisses boys on the common is a fair target. Quarterback built like a house is a bit tougher, even if they did know.”

They fell silent for a few minutes as Spot mulled this over, sighing in relief when Race leaned back against him. He eventually turned over onto something that he’d never really forgotten, “ . . . Race, can I ask you something?”

“What?” Looking down at Race made Spot realise just how tired he always was. That little burst of passion about something had exhausted him to the point of slumping against Spot’s shoulder as if he’d just run five marathons. He looked like he’d been through hell and it sounded like it, too.

Spot smiled sadly, letting his arm drape comfortingly around him, “When Davey first brought you here, he said you’d been selling furniture for rent money.” This had been eating at him for months. Occasionally he forgot about it but it never truly went away. It always ate at the back of Spot’s mind, burning when he least expected it to and stopping him from doing anything. When Race nodded for him to continue, Spot sighed, gathering himself before potentially getting himself slapped, “He also said not to ask what else you’d had to do. He said it was so bad that he couldn’t even say it.”

Race was silent, not answering Spot as he glanced down at him, waiting to see if he would say anything, “Race, what is it?” He had a feeling that it was truly as horrible as he’d feared but Spot couldn’t go another day just worrying about him. He needed to know.

Hearing a sniffle, Spot glanced down once more and realised that Race had started crying again, “I- uh. I sold myself.” He let his head fall, obviously horribly ashamed as he turned his face into Spot’s shirt to hide from him.

“Oh, Race.” All of a sudden, Spot was reminded of the first time that he went out with Race. It wasn’t long after Race had moved in in, Spot had dragged him out with Davey and his friends and they went to a club.

Race hadn’t wanted to go to that particular club but they hadn’t listened, making him go anyway. Spot had been getting a drink when he’d turned around to see a man sidling closer to Race. They were arguing and Race was obviously trying to tell him to leave him alone but he wouldn’t listen. The thing that struck him as strange was when the man had slapped some money down onto the table and tried to pull him away with him.

This flared as a warning sign to Spot immediately and he’d strode over there to make the man leave him alone. He’d eventually turned away but Race had looked very distressed for the rest of the evening.

Spot hated the idea of Race ever having to go through anything like that. He was his best friend and he deserved so much better. Race was a wonderful person with a heart of gold who’d been through so much shit and still hadn’t let it shape him. He knew that Race was perfectly capable of protecting himself but, in that moment, Spot vowed that he would protect him from as much shit as possible.

[fanficsofmine]

Dream Vacation - Jongdae Fluff

We had the two following requests:

Can you write an amusement park or a fair date with Jongdae? Maybe with fireworks at the end? Super fluffy please!

Hi! I love you guys so much. Can I request some date night soft Chen? Or anniversary traveling? Something like that? Thank you!

So I wrangled my sister, @watermonkey0, to help me combine the two and this is the product! Hope you both love it! -T

“Surprise!” 

I skipped out ahead of the gate and grinned back at my boyfriend. Kim Jongdae stepped off the plane ramp with a small grin, pulling my suitcase behind him. 

“Why was that flight so short,” he asked suspiciously. It was our anniversary and, after a literal arm wrestle with his manager, I was able to get him some time off of work, even during his busy comeback schedule. It was the perfect opportunity to whisk him away where it could just be us for a change. But I hadn’t told him where we were going. That was the fun part. 

 “What ever do you mean?” I grinned and danced away. He followed after casually, looking far too wonderful in his ripped jeans and baggy pink sweater. His mask and sunglasses were shoved in his bag somewhere, probably stowed away because he thought he wouldn’t need them. 

 “We were only up for two hours. Did we even make it out of Korea?” He glanced around, catching sight of a banner printed in block Kanji. 

“Apparently…” He muttered to himself, hurrying to catch up with me as I steamrolled out of Naha Airport. 

 Okinawa, Japan, one of the most beautiful vacation spots in all of Asia, the lesser known Hawaii. It’s said that the waters and beaches around the island were so clean and clear, you could see straight to the ocean floor. The airport was small but bustling as Dae and I made our way outside. He ducked his head on instinct as we passed a large group of tourists, but they seemed too enraptured by the scenery to notice the celebrity slipping past them. Eagerly, I pulled him into a cab and instructed the man to take us to the ferry. 

 “The port? We’re not even going to the hotel first,” Dae whined, but I quickly shut him up with a quick peck on the lips. 

 “The surprise isn’t over yet!” 

 The cabbie whisked us along the narrow streets down to the water’s edge, where I pulled Dae out and skipped us onto the small ferry waiting on the dock. We were the last to board, so once we were settled, the boat departed, leaving everything behind. 

 I leaned against the railing of the upper deck, letting the sea breeze waft over me, when I felt two familiar arms circle around my waist. He rested his chin on my shoulder and I could hear his gentle hum in my ear as he hugged me from behind. He took a big breath in, and then sighed contently. 

“Man, I miss the ocean,” his voice purred against my back, making me snuggle further into him. 

 “You live in a coastal city. The ocean is never that far away,” I replied absentmindedly, enjoying the caress of the wind and the warmth of his chest.

 “It might as well be a million miles,” he mumbled and kissed my cheek. I recognized that tone, the one that said he was bitter about how busy they were, how tired they all felt, but I knew Jongdae well enough to know that he wouldn’t trade it for the world. He just needed a break. They all did. I turned in his embrace, facing the most beautiful man in the whole world. 

 “No need for ‘might as well’s. You have the whole week to do whatever you want. You’ll have great food, you’ll have the ocean, and you’ll have me. Pretty sweet deal, right?” His face broke into the biggest grin as he pressed his forehead to mine. 

 “A whole week with just you and the sea, huh? That’s the best surprise I’ve ever had.” He sighed dramatically, like he’d been entitled to it. But that wasn’t Dae. He would have kept working day and night if they asked him to. He was so giving, so willing. It was about time someone gifted him in return. 

 “Oh the surprise isn’t over yet!” I teased and sealed the deal with a small kiss to the tip of his nose. His eyebrows shot up in disbelief. 

 “How?” 

 “Because I’m awesome, that’s how.” I grinned and then pulled him towards the front of the ferry where he was more than willing to be the Jack to my Rose.

 After an hour at sea, the ferry reached our final destination: Zamami Island. The water lapping at the side of the boat was crystal clear, and I could hardly believe it. Tiny fish of every color darted about in the waves, and I could see the ocean floor, clustered with barnacles and coral. I pointed them out to Dae who thought it was funny to point out the smallest, brightest fish and name it after me. I swatted his arm playfully before the captain called for all passengers to disembark. 

We were staying at the house of a friend of Yuta’s from NCT. They often rented out the small house to tourists and it was pure luck that they were free this week. It was an adorable bungalow, nestled into the slope of a hill, a hundred yards from the water’s edge. In the most uncivilized fashion I could, I threw down my bags and made a mad dash for the waves, shoes flying, hair loose, wild as the wind itself. 

If I turned around, I was sure I would catch sight of Dae leaning casually on the beam of the porch, gazing at me with that infuriatingly beautiful look he usually gives me when I go off the rails—but to my amazement, I felt him splash up alongside me. The bottom half of his jeans were soaked, and the extra weight made his already baggy sweatshirt sag, but none of that mattered. 

He was so damn beautiful, standing knee deep in the clearest water in the world, grinning at me like he’d played my own joke back on me. Quick as a flash, he reached down and scooped a handful of water and splashed it at me. It wasn’t a subtle, sissy handful either—he totally drenched me. 

I was phased for only a moment before I was retaliating with both arms. He squealed and started to run, or well more, hop away, me chasing him down the beach. 

 When we were both good and wet, we declared a truce and sprawled out on the sandy beach. No towels were required when the sand was as soft as cotton. I wanted to fall asleep them and there, in the warm cuddle of the sand, but I made Dae get up and check the time. 

We couldn’t be late. 

He moaned and groan but eventually heaved himself up. It was only an added bonus that he peeled off his shirt and threw it at me, revealing his lick-worthy chest and abs. 

 “You better put on another one or we’re not going anywhere tonight!” I yelled as he jogged to the house like a supermodel on Baywatch. 

I rolled over, bunching his shirt into a damp pillow, and watched him step around the house, trying not to get sand everywhere and failing. He grabbed my bag from the kitchen counter and rummaged around for my phone. 

I saw it blink to life before he was yelling, “It’s almost seven. Why? Do we have plans?”

Rolling back over, I noticed that the horizon was much more orange than it had been, signaling the coming night. Not wanting to get up, but knowing it was inevitable, I stood with a groan and a stretch…and that’s when it happened.

It was an atrocious scream, one that he usually reserved for spiders or life threatening injuries. I knew this because a few months ago when he’d encountered an eight legged friend while on tour in Cambodia, he’d called me…still screaming. And last year when he’d hurt his wrist during a performance, he held it in the whole trip to my apartment before he broke down on my patio furniture. So I knew that timbre, a pitch I don’t think even I as a girl could match, and I was running, leaping over imaginary bushes, sprinting faster than the Black Flash.

The scene that developed would have been comical, had he not been scared to death. There was my boyfriend, the love of my life, Kim Jongdae, crouching on the kitchen counter, wet, shirtless, and covered in sand; and then there in the living room…was a pheasant. Its weird green head bucked forward and back as it stepped around, contrasting even more weirdly with its orange body. I will admit that its beady little red eyes had me in a bind for a moment as I tried to process what the hell was going on. The bungalow had retractable walls, so the thing probably just wandered in here, maybe wanting an autograph from EXO’s Chen. I guess somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered reading about Okinawa and how it didn’t have any native animals, so scientists had introduced a random assortment of fauna, hoping they would all just work. Pheasants had not been what came to mind though…

“J-Jagi...” Jongdae swallowed from the counter. He was hugging his knees, and I marveled at how he’d managed to make himself so small so quickly.

“Dae, it’s okay. It’s just a—”

“A parrot, right?” I froze mid-explanation. His eyes were pleading, and also so adorably innocent that there was no way I could tell him the truth. But, I also didn’t have it in me to laugh in his face.

“Excuse me for just a moment…” I mumbled and did a 180, exiting the house.

“Ahhhhh waaaeeeee!” I heard as I rounded the wall and collapsed into a pile of laughter, covering my mouth with both hands to try and muffle it.

The next thing I knew, I was shooing the bird out of the house with one of Dae’s notebooks, biting my bottom lip to suppress my grin. He was never going to live this down—not ever. I’d be telling the story of the infamous ‘parrot’ for years to come. And no, I didn’t correct him. He was going to go his whole life thinking pheasants were parrots if I had anything to say about it! But in the meantime, we had a surprise to finish.

I got Dae off the counter and sent him to shower off all the sand and humiliation while I closed the walls. Couldn’t have any more intruders getting in, now could we? Then, when he was done, I quickly rinsed off and dressed in the backless green dress Sehun had ordered me to buy. He knew more about style than SM’s whole fashion department, so who was I to disobey? I couldn’t deny how exotic it made me look though. The threaded halter front was sprinkled with glass beads and little trinkets of silver and gold. I could pass as a gypsy, just a bracelet here and some improvised eyeliner henna, and bam: Esmeralda. Jongdae didn’t need any help to look attractive, his jeans and shirt were more than enough to have me falling all over him as we borrowed our hosts’ bikes, and rode into town.

The sun was fully set by the time we made it to the entrance, and I only managed to glance back at him before he realized that my surprise, the one I’d been planning for weeks, was something he’d been asking for for months.

“Oh my god…is this—”

“The Ryukyu Kaiensai Fireworks Festival? Maybe.” I leaned forward on my handlebars and huffed on my nails, shining them on my dress like I was some sort of badass. In the effort of full disclosure, I never would have thought that he would want to go to something like this. Jongdae was very much a homebody, but he’d seen an article about it a couple months back in a magazine and he had been so impressed that he brought it home to show me. It was still laying on my coffee table, a reminder I’d left for my future self.

“Ahhh Jagi, this is…” He trailed off as he ran his fingers through his hair, clearly overwhelmed with how awesome I was.

“Well come on! Put up your bike! We gotta find a spot or we’ll miss the opening!” The smile on his face was intoxicating as we quickly locked up our bikes and ran, hand in hand, onto the crowded beach. But, luckily, my awesomeness knew no bounds, and I led him over to a large beach stone. As we got closer, Dae piped up.

“Yuta?” The young idol hopped down from his perch and grinned at the two of us.

“You guys made it! I was half expecting you not to show, if you know what I mean.” I wagged his eyebrows at us suggestively, and I blushed. I mean, if Dae hadn’t put a shirt on, it was a likely scenario.  

“Thanks for saving us a seat!” I beamed and he bowed his head to me, giving me a little wink on the side for good measure. He had been so nice and so helpful, and he’d never asked for anything in return for being so generous. He reminded me of Jongdae in that regard.

We shared a few more pleasantries before the loud speaker boomed that the show was about to start. Dae and I climbed up on our boulder while Yuta made himself scarce. I positioned myself between his legs and leaned into him. Sometimes it felt like the space over his heart was made to fit nobody else but me, like he was carved in such a way that I was the only one who would ever be able to be here. His arms slung loosely around me, and I grabbed his hands in mine. He was so comfortable, and he was so mine, and I was so happy.

The music began to play and the first firework boomed like a clap of thunder and I jumped in delight. It rattled around in my bones, and it was exhilarating. With my most excited face, I looked back to see if Dae was just as awestruck, but he was…only looking at me.

“Did you see it? Look, you’re gonna miss it!” I asked, but he only gave me a small content smile. “Look, Dae. Look!” I tried to move his chin to look up at the sky, but he resist, pegging me with an expression that I knew meant he was about to hit me with something profound.

“I’m not missing anything. You’re more radiant than anything up there.”

I melted a little, and it wasn’t just because it was EXO’s Chen telling me exactly what I wanted to hear.

“But we didn’t come here to see me, we came for the fireworks.” I muttered, kicking myself for arguing when he was complimenting me so highly.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Jagi. We could have stayed in Seoul, watching Netflix on your couch, and I would still say the same thing. Anywhere with you is exactly where I want to be. You’re amazing…thank you for this.” He gave me a small kiss on the lips that I couldn’t help but turn into a deeper one as ‘Kimi No Na Wa’ played on in the background, a sky full of fire and stars highlighting my love for this man.

[qqueenofhades]

i know you [i walked with you once upon a dream]

Because I saw this post from @twilight-deviant​, about if how if Flynn had saved his family, he’d return to a reality where none of the adventure had happened, the time team didn’t know each other, and Lucy didn’t know him, and immediately had to write the thing, for reasons (I hope that is ok!). Tagging @extasiswings​ as well because she is an enabler, and because if this becomes a multi-chapter, it will be entirely her fault.

February 20, 2017

Palo Alto, California

Lucy Preston pushes through the office door with her hip, because her arms are full of books, binders, half-marked papers, a catalogue from the bridal shop that Noah wants her to take a look at, and her purse, car keys, and the memo she just picked up from the front desk at the history department. Her tenure meeting has finally been scheduled, six weeks from now. Trust the chucklefucks to give her a short deadline, but she’s had most of this prepared for the past two years anyway. University politics are always a merry-go-round of emailing people, emailing the people they put you in touch with, pestering them to answer their email, emailing them to answer their email, and then discovering at the last minute that the class they timetabled you in for the fall is, whoops, happening in spring instead, and so forth – but Lucy feels vindicated. She’s been working for this her whole career, and now it’s finally happening. She just hopes Mom hangs on long enough to see it – and for that matter, her wedding. The last reports from the doctor, well. . . the words “end of life care” and “memorial arrangements” came up. This is a lot, but Lucy thinks she’s handling it. Most days.

She dumps the avalanche on her desk and boots up her computer, sifting through the stack of papers with her free hand. Logs onto her stanford.edu email, where there are 125 unread messages waiting. It’s only been a weekend, but for some reason it feels as if she’s been away much longer. She woke up feeling strange this morning. Broke down in the shower, for no reason. Noah was comforting, said it was just nerves, expected with everything – the wedding, her mom, tenure worries. Probably was.

Probably was.

Lucy frowns, then shakes herself. Deletes the spam from the fraudster academic publishers and the nineteen thousand “Campus Events” circulars, politely replies to the dozen students in her lecture who somehow cannot find the reading (the book is in the bookstore, or likely available free online as a pirated .pdf), debates whether to send her half-dozenth email to the tiny local archive in Illinois that she’s been bugging to let her into their Lincoln papers (she can probably wrangle a minor research stipend from the department – enough to cover a plane ticket, at least), and decides that no, she is definitely not brave enough to check her bank account. Tries to calculate whether the due dates for various bills have passed – internet, phone, gas, car insurance – and no academic gets into it for the money. As a junior professor, she’s definitely not making it rain, and Noah’s not making gigabucks as a doctor just yet either. Especially in this real estate market. The two of them, with their combined professional incomes, can just about afford to rent a nice closet. Lucy was – still is – living at her mom’s house a lot, but she really needed somewhere to escape to. Her own place. It feels like she needs to get away.

She’s just vainly hoping she may have time to do some actual research this morning, before she has to run to the library and print out her lecture handouts for tomorrow, when there’s a knock on her door. “Dr. Preston?”

“Yeah?” Lucy says, opening up her PowerPoint to make the edit she thought of last night washing the dishes. “Office hours aren’t until 1pm, can you – ”

“Sorry.” It’s one of the grad assistants. “There’s someone who wants to see you. Out in the foyer. Do you have a meeting this morning?”

“No, I don’t.” Lucy frowns. “Are you sure they’re looking for me?”

“They – well – he – seemed pretty sure. Lucy Preston, history and anthropology of American political movements, 450 Serra Mall, Building 200, Stanford University. I asked him if he was doing a project or something and he said no. Do you know a Flynn? Garcia Flynn. I think he’s European.”

“No,” Lucy says again, unsettled and confused as to why she had a momentary impulse to say yes. She isn’t exactly a big enough fish in the academic world to have people randomly turn up begging to consult her or take advantage of her expertise, and they usually email in advance anyway. It’s possible she lost it among the nightmare of her inbox, yes, but this is still strange. This also isn’t the kind of profession where you get crazy fans. Unless he saw her article in the American Historical Review in January, and just had to drive all the way out to Palo Alto to tell her how much he liked it (or hated it, you never know).

This is all weird, is the point, and it isn’t helping Lucy’s strange disjoint. But while the smart thing to do would be to insist that Garcia Flynn, whoever he is, is mistaken and send him packing on his way, she hesitates, then decides that the handouts can wait. She doesn’t have anything last-minute on her plate, and her curiosity is piqued. She logs out, puts her computer to sleep, and follows the graduate assistant out into the sunny hall.

Garcia Flynn, or so she assumes he is, is standing correctly at attention like a soldier on parade, watched intently by a few of the student services officers. The first thing Lucy notices is that he’s tall – six-three, six-four – and dark-haired, with a strange, intent stillness like the world moves differently around him. He’s wearing a black suit and tie and a black overcoat, making him look like he came from a convention of either morticians or accountants, and he turns with an odd expression on his face. “Lucy.”

“I’m sorry.” He’s not holding out his hand as if he expects to be introduced, and Lucy doesn’t offer hers either. “Do we know each other?”

He smiles, half to himself, as if that is either a funny question, or the worst thing he’s ever been asked. “We used to.” His accent is, as the GA said, European of some sort. Foreign intelligence service? Or domestic? Lucy doesn’t think she qualifies as an enemy of the state, but then again, with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in office, maybe they’re cracking down on the academics now. “Recently.”

“I. . . I don’t think so, sir.” Lucy feels further unsettled – and yet, though perhaps she should, not afraid. “I’ll be happy to point you to whoever in the department you’re looking for, but I don’t think that’s – ”

“Can we meet for coffee? This afternoon, if you’re free. I promise, one hour of your time, that’s all I ask. Then I’ll be gone, and you never have to see me again.” He has an unsettlingly direct way of looking at her. “I would very much appreciate it, Lucy.”

“I. . .” Innate politeness, the impulse to say, yes, of course, let me check my calendar, wrestles with the fact that this is completely inexplicable. But if nothing else, historians love a good mystery. It’s possible he’s planning to duct-tape her and throw her into the back of a van, but he probably wouldn’t ask straight out if he was, or plot to stage her abduction in a busy public place. “I suppose I can spare an hour. I’m free for the rest of the morning. Campus Starbucks?”

“Wherever you want.” He inclines his head. “Thank you.”

Lucy pauses, then goes to get her coat. She didn’t have time to grab breakfast this morning, so if nothing else, it will be a decent opportunity to get a bite to eat. If he does turn into a kidnapper, she can scream; security services will take care of the rest. She pulls it on, locks her office, and gestures to him. “Right, come on.”

They take the elevator down and step out onto campus, which is busy with its usual currents of students, bicycles whizzing by; one of them nearly rides into Lucy, and Garcia Flynn reaches out automatically to grab her arm, pulling her back. It’s a surprisingly forward gesture from a man she met five minutes ago, and Lucy disentangles herself. “I’m fine. I’ve got this.”

He pauses, considering her. Almost as if he’s looking for something, testing for some kind of reaction. Then he nods again. “Yes,” he says. “I suppose you do.”

They reach the Starbucks and join the typically lengthy midmorning queue, finally order their drinks – he pays, which is considerate of him, since he dragged her out of her workday and all – and jostle through the tables to find an unoccupied one in the corner. By now, Lucy would really like some answers. “Are you some kind of government agent? For. . . I don’t know who? I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done, but if so, I want a law – ”

He utters a short, dry laugh. “If I was interrogating you, Lucy, I assure you, I would not have bought you a latte and a croissant beforehand.”

“So are you? Government?”

He shrugs. “Do I look like it?”

“You look like something.”

He shrugs again, as if to say that he supposes he can’t deny that. He drinks a single espresso, straight, black and strong. “It would take too long to explain what I am.”

“Try me.”

Again, that look he gives her, straight to the back of her head. Then he turns and pulls the San Francisco Chronicle off the newsstand, opening it and pointing to an article about Mason Industries, one of the thousand high-tech aeronautics engineering companies around here. There’s a group picture, something they’re launching. Second from the left, a black guy with a gap-toothed grin and a MIT sweatshirt. According to the caption, he’s Rufus Carlin, project consultant. “Do you,” Garcia Flynn says, “know him?”

“No?” Lucy is starting to wonder if this was in fact a mistake, latte or otherwise. This man is clearly not right in the head. Still, though, it almost makes her. . . sad. “We’ve never met.”

“Ah.” Flynn folds up the paper and puts it back. “Yes,” he says, half to himself. “You wouldn’t have, would you?”

“Care to cut out the Tall, Dark, and Cryptic act, and give me some answers?”

“As I said. None of it would make sense. But I have to tell you anyway. I took the information you gave me. I went back and killed the men who killed my family. They’re. . . here. Alive. But it’s not the same as it was. They think I’ve just been gone for three years – and I have, more than I can ever explain. Lorena thinks I just left one day and didn’t come back. Iris – ”

He stops. Whatever he was about to say is clearly too painful to go on, and Lucy, despite the fact that absolutely no part of this makes the remotest bit of sense, feels her heart twist. “I’m sorry,” she says, with no idea what she’s comforting him for. “But I didn’t give you any information.”

“Let’s just agree that you don’t have the full story, Lucy.” He speaks calmly, but with an edge of irritation. “Yes?”

Lucy’s hand clenches on her drink. She doesn’t have to sit here and subject herself to this escapee from the mental asylum, can get up and tell him to stick it. But there was still that sense this morning, this entire day, that something is missing, and very much against her better judgment, she stays in her chair. “If I don’t,” she says at last, almost a whisper, “tell me.”

“I can’t. It makes no sense.” He looks frustrated. “I told you once that after I saved them, I would leave, because I could no longer be their husband and father after what I’ve done. And now I return to a world where they never died, where I never became a wanted terrorist, never stole the Mothership, and so you and I never met – or the other two, for that matter. You can tell Rufus I’m sorry about Chicago – but then. As you said. You don’t know him.”

Lucy keeps staring at him. As strange, as utterly cracked as this sounds, she is almost starting, or so she thinks, to get what he thinks, in his deluded little brain, is going on here. Some kind of alternate-universe, parallel-existence BS, where some version of her met some version of him, and they – well, she’s still completely lost on what they were supposed to be doing, but at least it explains why he’s so insistent that they know each other. “Do I. . . know you?” she asks again, slowly. Hesitantly. “Were we friends?”

“No,” he says quietly. “We weren’t friends.”

She wants to dispute that, the same impulse to reassure anyone selling themselves short, but instead he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a thumb drive. “Here,” he says. “Your journal doesn’t exist anymore, because you never had any reason to write it, but I did my best. You gave my world back, the least I can do is return the favor. I wrote down as much as I could think of, what happened. Look at it. You don’t have to see me again.”

Stunned, Lucy takes it by reflex. “This – ”

“Be careful, Lucy,” he says, still more quietly. “It’s not going to be easy to open that box. I don’t blame you if you don’t want to. Your life now is a lie – ” he shrugs a third time, that expression of trying to communicate that he doesn’t care, it’s nothing to him, when she can tell that he does, more than anything – “but not one you’d have any way of easily disproving. And not one that would hurt you, perhaps, to stay in. But if the time comes when you want answers, at least you’ll have them.”

Lucy opens and shuts her mouth. Nothing comes out.

“And as I said. You don’t have to see me again.” He finishes his espresso, puts the demitasse cup on the saucer. “I’m not sure where I’m going to go just yet. It’s. . . being the only one who remembers, it’s. . . it’s not something I’d wish on my worst enemy. And believe me, I know what it means to say that. You used to, once.”

“Garcia – ” This is the most surreal half-hour of her life, and yet Lucy can’t help but feel sorry for him. She leans forward, putting a hand over his as he seems to be ready to get up and leave, and his eyes flare with shock. “I’m sorry, all right? I hope you do find what you’re looking for.”

He looks at her. As if – and this, of course, is utterly not what it is, but she thinks it for a second anyway – it’s sitting in front of him right now, and because there is no other choice, not even the remote dream of one, he will get up and walk away forever. As if whatever he lost the first time, he knew all along there was no going back, and he has burned his bridge to a second chance. Their eyes flick to her hand on his, and a constrained shudder moves through him, as if the fact that she’s touching him gently and sympathetically proves once and for all that she truly does have no idea who he is. Wryly he says, “You’ve never called me that before.”

Lucy wants to point out that she’s never called him anything, since they don’t know each other, but arguing him out of this elaborate and complicated delusion would take more time than she has, and she senses somehow that it’s all he has left. His eyes flicker to the diamond engagement ring on her finger. “I’m taking it,” he says, “that’s not from the idiot?”

“What? Noah? Do you know Noah too?”

“No. I don’t.” He keeps looking at her. She really wishes he’d stop, or at least that he’d blink, or something, anything would break this spell. And at the same time, as insane as he is, and insane as all this is, it is the only thing that feels solid or centered or real, as if he’s drawn her into that slightly altered reality around him, where time moves slower, where the world is bent that just bit different, where the odd ache in her chest is gone, and it –

Well.

It makes sense.

She almost wants to tell him not to leave, when thirty minutes earlier, she couldn’t wait to get rid of him. They stare at each other over the table, their silence straining even over the bustle of the coffee shop, until he finally clears his throat. “I’ll walk you back to your office?”

“Ah. Yes, of course.” Lucy distractedly crams the last bit of her croissant into her mouth, chews, washes it down with a few slugs of her lukewarm latte, and gets to her feet. They head out and walk back toward the history department, as she finds herself dawdling, dragging her steps, wanting a few more moments around him. “So, are you going to be in Palo Alto long?”

“No. Just for today.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “As I said, I wanted to tell you that it was done. I destroyed the Mothership, by the way. Rittenhouse won’t get hold of it, but. . .” He pauses, as if trying to decide what else to tell her. “I can’t guarantee that Mason Industries won’t invent a new one. Then maybe this will get a chance to happen after all. Who knows.”

“You have to know,” Lucy says gently, “none of this means anything to me.”

“No,” he says again. His eyes are very far away. Perhaps it’s her imagination that he too is delaying this last parting (last parting? That sounds dark and tragic and damaging, as if he’s a part of her soul she can’t send away, and not just an eccentric stranger she charitably had a coffee with for a few minutes this morning) as long as he can, his last connection to any world he knew, any chance of understanding what’s going to happen to him next. As if when he says she won’t see him again, he means it in a way she can’t even possibly imagine.

They reach the history building and walk up to her office. “So,” Lucy says at last. “That was. . . well, I don’t know exactly, but. . . I hope you find some peace, all right?” Moved by a sudden impulse, she reaches out and squeezes his hand. “If you’re back in town, let’s have coffee again.”

“I won’t bother you.” His large fingers curl briefly around hers, as if pressing an ungiven kiss into her palm. “I wish you the best. Goodbye, Lucy.”

And with that, he inclines his head again. Pulls up the collar of his overcoat, and turns around, striding out of the office, the door shutting behind him. As she stands there, tempted to ask someone if they actually saw him, or if she’s just been conversing with herself this whole time in true cracked-academic, Beautiful Mind-style. As if he is indeed a visitor from a parallel reality briefly intruding on her own, one of those inexplicable incidents that you tell as a good story at a cocktail party. And there is certainly no reason for her chest to ache as much as it does. As if her heart was whole for a few beats, and now with him, and whatever life he thinks she belonged to, taken from her again, it’s fractured back into pieces.

Lucy closes her fingers around the flash drive he gave her. She doesn’t want to read his bizarre manifesto. It would be best to throw it out, not have it sit there, tempting.

Would be best.

She goes inside to her office. Opens up her email again, tries to concentrate. Still so much to do. There always is. Wedding. Mom. Tenure. It repeats in her head like an echoing, endless litany.

Her phone buzzes. It’s a text from Noah.  Hey beautiful! How’s my favorite historian doing? On my lunch – miss you. Hope Monday isn’t too bad. See you tonight. Xoxo.

Lucy stares at it for a long moment, fiddling with the ring on her finger. I’m taking it that isn’t from the idiot, Garcia Flynn’s voice whispers.

Lucy gets up, closes her office door. Sits down in her chair, leans her head into her hands, and silently, thoroughly, savagely, with no idea who or what she is even grieving, begins to sob.

[theinvinciblenoob]

The Consumer Electronics Show, like Burning Man, is a massive event in the middle of the desert. Also like Burning Man it is populated by some of the greatest minds in technology. But, unlike Burning Man, these people are all dressed and only a few of them are on hard psychotropic drugs. Also CES is mostly inside.

Here are some tips and tricks I’ve collected over a long career spent staying in awful hotels and wandering around massive conference halls full of things that won’t be released for another year. Hopefully they can be of some use.

Why should you go?

CES is not about innovation. It is about networking with potential buyers. The show is massive and it is popular primarily because it is in Las Vegas, a city so nice they made the movie Casino about it. But the days of you and your brother being dragged out into the corn and beaten to death are gone and what’s left is an adult playground of 24 hour craps and bad drinks.

You are not going to CES to drink and gamble, however. As a startup you are going there to find customers or get press. If you have the hustle and the will you can easily meet hundreds of potential buyers for your technology including some big names who usually buy massive booths to show off their “innovative” systems. When you go bypass the armed booth guards who stand at the front directing traffic and go talk to the most bored person at the booth. This is usually some middle manager who was wrangled into telling people about his company’s most boring innovation. Talk to him or her like a human being, offer to take them out for a coffee, do whatever it takes to get a warm lead inside that massive company. Repeat this hundreds of times.

CES costs $300 and the tickets to LV and the hotel will cost far more. Be sure you’re not cash poor before you go. This isn’t a Hail Mary for your startup, it’s a step along the way.

If you don’t think you can pull off this sort of social engineering I describe then please don’t go to CES or instead send the most personable member of the team. It’s too big and there are already enough nervous nerds walking around.

You haven’t planned yet?

So you’ve decided to go. Do you have tickets? A hotel? At least an AirBnB? It’s pretty much too late right now to get any of those things in time for January 8th but you can try.

Further, if you have a friend who lives there go stay with them. The hotels gouge you during this week. Check out the Excalibur hotel, arguably one the worst on the strip. Right now, you can stay at this illustrious medieval-themed hotel for $25:

Need a smoke-smelling room abutting a flying buttress topped with an animatronic Merlin around January 9? Fear not, my liege!

The best time to book for CES is a year before CES. The second best time is never.

Maybe you’re going to buy a booth. I wouldn’t, but go ahead and give it a try. I like what my friend Tommy here did. Instead of going through one of the countless staffing agencies in Las Vegas he put out a general call for help and he got plenty of responses. Lots of people would be willing to go to Las Vegas to help out for not much cash.

Do everything in your power to stay as close to the Convention Center or Sands (the hall with all the startups) as possible. It is a living hell trying to get around Las Vegas and you’ll thank me later for every hour in a cab line you save for yourself.

Go to where the action is

If you are trying to get press for your product launch then you came to the wrong place. First, if you’re going to CES to launch then you MUST LAUNCH AT CES. I’ve seen too many idiotic startups who flew in, paid for everything, and then told the world they’d launch in like two months or whenever Sven back at the main office in Oslo was done putting the finishing touches on the device driver. If you’re not ready to ship then don’t go.

Do not spam journos about your product unless you know them. Your emails will fall into a black hole.

Further, instead of getting a booth at the show I recommend getting a booth at Showstoppers or Digital Experience. The events costs about $8,000 for a booth and are approximately the same. They are held before the main event and they’re where all the journalists go to get free prime rib and ignore you. It’s also where all of the small market journalists and the weird freelancers who wear fishing vests and live in Scranton wander around so be ready to do a little target acquisition.

Want my advice? Put one person at your booth who can tell your story in two minutes exactly. That person must tell that story as many times as possible and give the odd journalist who will stand there asking dumb questions for an hour the stiff arm whenever someone else comes up. Maximize your message dispersal. Also, if you have product then have about 20 pieces there ready to give away to Engadget, Gizmodo, the New York Times, The Verge, and the like. Don’t give anything to me if I see you. I don’t want that crap in my suitcase.

Now for the ingenious part. Find the most popular food item at the buffets and stand next to it. When a hungry journo comes up to grab a spaghetti taco or whatever you scope out their badge and offer to walk them over to your booth. They’ll harrumph a little but unless they are one of the countless millennial reporters who believe they have to liveblog these events they have nothing else to do that night except for get drunk on gin and tonics. Drag them over to your booth and give them the two-minute pitch. They’ll be so busy eating they won’t be able to ask questions. Write down their email address – don’t ask them for a card – and give them yours. Then email the heck out of them for the next few days to remind them about your launch.

Further, never rent a suite and invite journos to come to you. They have enough trouble getting out of bed let alone getting a cab to your dumb room. If a journo wants to meet you MUST go to them. Don’t make them come to you.

Manage expectations

Like Burning Man, CES is the worst show on the planet held in one of the most unforgiving habitats known to man. As long as you accept these two points you will be fine. You will not “win” CES. At best, CES will give you a kick in the pants in regard to your competition and actual value to the world. Want to know if you have customer fit? Go to CES and meet your customers. Want to see if journalists care about your idea? Pitch them when they are fat and sassy at CES and feeling powerful. That experience will humble even the biggest ego.

Remember: the world is a cold, uncaring place and this is doubly true at CES.

Be careful with PR people

See that animated GIF above? That’s how I manage my CES email. I scroll through the subject lines, look for people I know, and then select all unread and delete them. One of the worst things about CES is that the letters “CES” show up in multiple words and barring writing a regular expression it is very difficult to filter them out. 99% of your CES emails will go unread.

So should you hire a PR person? Yes and no. If you hire them to just send emails then you might as well burn your money. However, if that PR person can lead you around the show and introduce you to folks who can help you get your story out then it might be worth it. Sadly, there is no way to tell how incompetent a PR person is until you get on the ground with them. I know a few I can recommend. Email me. Otherwise be very careful.

Don’t go

Look, CES sucks. I’m not going to lie to you. It’s too big, everyone there is distracted by potential Blackjack winnings and trying to get noticed or launch at CES is akin to holding a poetry reading in the middle of a rock concert: nobody is paying attention and you actually may annoy more people than you reach. It’s your call whether or not you want to give it a try but be ready to hustle. Besides, there’s always next year.

Bonus Tip: Buy a humidifier

I learned this trick from Brian Lam, formerly of Gizmodo: when you land go to Walgreens and buy a very cheap humidifier. Put it in your room and leave it on all day. Las Vegas air is very dry and you’re almost guaranteed to get chapped lips and a cough if you don’t have at least one spot where it doesn’t feel like you’re on the surface of Mars.

This was us at CES 2008 or so. We were such sweet summer children.

via TechCrunch

[fmservers]

A startup’s guide to CES

The Consumer Electronics Show, like Burning Man, is a massive event in the middle of the desert. Also like Burning Man it is populated by some of the greatest minds in technology. But, unlike Burning Man, these people are all dressed and only a few of them are on hard psychotropic drugs. Also CES is mostly inside.

Here are some tips and tricks I’ve collected over a long career spent staying in awful hotels and wandering around massive conference halls full of things that won’t be released for another year. Hopefully they can be of some use.

Why should you go?

CES is not about innovation. It is about networking with potential buyers. The show is massive and it is popular primarily because it is in Las Vegas, a city so nice they made the movie Casino about it. But the days of you and your brother being dragged out into the corn and beaten to death are gone and what’s left is an adult playground of 24 hour craps and bad drinks.

You are not going to CES to drink and gamble, however. As a startup you are going there to find customers or get press. If you have the hustle and the will you can easily meet hundreds of potential buyers for your technology including some big names who usually buy massive booths to show off their “innovative” systems. When you go bypass the armed booth guards who stand at the front directing traffic and go talk to the most bored person at the booth. This is usually some middle manager who was wrangled into telling people about his company’s most boring innovation. Talk to him or her like a human being, offer to take them out for a coffee, do whatever it takes to get a warm lead inside that massive company. Repeat this hundreds of times.

CES costs $300 and the tickets to LV and the hotel will cost far more. Be sure you’re not cash poor before you go. This isn’t a Hail Mary for your startup, it’s a step along the way.

If you don’t think you can pull off this sort of social engineering I describe then please don’t go to CES or instead send the most personable member of the team. It’s too big and there are already enough nervous nerds walking around.

You haven’t planned yet?

So you’ve decided to go. Do you have tickets? A hotel? At least an AirBnB? It’s pretty much too late right now to get any of those things in time for January 8th but you can try.

Further, if you have a friend who lives there go stay with them. The hotels gouge you during this week. Check out the Excalibur hotel, arguably one the worst on the strip. Right now, you can stay at this illustrious medieval-themed hotel for $25:

Need a smoke-smelling room abutting a flying buttress topped with an animatronic Merlin around January 9? Fear not, my liege!

The best time to book for CES is a year before CES. The second best time is never.

Maybe you’re going to buy a booth. I wouldn’t, but go ahead and give it a try. I like what my friend Tommy here did. Instead of going through one of the countless staffing agencies in Las Vegas he put out a general call for help and he got plenty of responses. Lots of people would be willing to go to Las Vegas to help out for not much cash.

Do everything in your power to stay as close to the Convention Center or Sands (the hall with all the startups) as possible. It is a living hell trying to get around Las Vegas and you’ll thank me later for every hour in a cab line you save for yourself.

Go to where the action is

If you are trying to get press for your product launch then you came to the wrong place. First, if you’re going to CES to launch then you MUST LAUNCH AT CES. I’ve seen too many idiotic startups who flew in, paid for everything, and then told the world they’d launch in like two months or whenever Sven back at the main office in Oslo was done putting the finishing touches on the device driver. If you’re not ready to ship then don’t go.

Do not spam journos about your product unless you know them. Your emails will fall into a black hole.

Further, instead of getting a booth at the show I recommend getting a booth at Showstoppers or Digital Experience. The events costs about $8,000 for a booth and are approximately the same. They are held before the main event and they’re where all the journalists go to get free prime rib and ignore you. It’s also where all of the small market journalists and the weird freelancers who wear fishing vests and live in Scranton wander around so be ready to do a little target acquisition.

Want my advice? Put one person at your booth who can tell your story in two minutes exactly. That person must tell that story as many times as possible and give the odd journalist who will stand there asking dumb questions for an hour the stiff arm whenever someone else comes up. Maximize your message dispersal. Also, if you have product then have about 20 pieces there ready to give away to Engadget, Gizmodo, the New York Times, The Verge, and the like. Don’t give anything to me if I see you. I don’t want that crap in my suitcase.

Now for the ingenious part. Find the most popular food item at the buffets and stand next to it. When a hungry journo comes up to grab a spaghetti taco or whatever you scope out their badge and offer to walk them over to your booth. They’ll harrumph a little but unless they are one of the countless millennial reporters who believe they have to liveblog these events they have nothing else to do that night except for get drunk on gin and tonics. Drag them over to your booth and give them the two-minute pitch. They’ll be so busy eating they won’t be able to ask questions. Write down their email address – don’t ask them for a card – and give them yours. Then email the heck out of them for the next few days to remind them about your launch.

Further, never rent a suite and invite journos to come to you. They have enough trouble getting out of bed let alone getting a cab to your dumb room. If a journo wants to meet you MUST go to them. Don’t make them come to you.

Manage expectations

Like Burning Man, CES is the worst show on the planet held in one of the most unforgiving habitats known to man. As long as you accept these two points you will be fine. You will not “win” CES. At best, CES will give you a kick in the pants in regard to your competition and actual value to the world. Want to know if you have customer fit? Go to CES and meet your customers. Want to see if journalists care about your idea? Pitch them when they are fat and sassy at CES and feeling powerful. That experience will humble even the biggest ego.

Remember: the world is a cold, uncaring place and this is doubly true at CES.

Be careful with PR people

See that animated GIF above? That’s how I manage my CES email. I scroll through the subject lines, look for people I know, and then select all unread and delete them. One of the worst things about CES is that the letters “CES” show up in multiple words and barring writing a regular expression it is very difficult to filter them out. 99% of your CES emails will go unread.

So should you hire a PR person? Yes and no. If you hire them to just send emails then you might as well burn your money. However, if that PR person can lead you around the show and introduce you to folks who can help you get your story out then it might be worth it. Sadly, there is no way to tell how incompetent a PR person is until you get on the ground with them. I know a few I can recommend. Email me. Otherwise be very careful.

Don’t go

Look, CES sucks. I’m not going to lie to you. It’s too big, everyone there is distracted by potential Blackjack winnings and trying to get noticed or launch at CES is akin to holding a poetry reading in the middle of a rock concert: nobody is paying attention and you actually may annoy more people than you reach. It’s your call whether or not you want to give it a try but be ready to hustle. Besides, there’s always next year.

Bonus Tip: Buy a humidifier

I learned this trick from Brian Lam, formerly of Gizmodo: when you land go to Walgreens and buy a very cheap humidifier. Put it in your room and leave it on all day. Las Vegas air is very dry and you’re almost guaranteed to get chapped lips and a cough if you don’t have at least one spot where it doesn’t feel like you’re on the surface of Mars.

This was us at CES 2008 or so. We were such sweet summer children.

Via John Biggs https://techcrunch.com