#i can say with confidence that i have experienced heartbreak for the first time

[sea-me-now]

good omens season 2 was like a warm blanket that wrapped around my soul, but it turned out the blanket was there to conceal the loaded gun pointed at my heart

[pippin-katz]

Edwin's Parents Canonically Did Not Hug Him

I was watching interviews of the boys for a post I'm working on, and fucking excuse me?!

Source: Advocate Channel Interview, Timestamp 3:17

We have confirmation from George that Edwin's parents did not hug him while he was alive. It's due much more to the time period rather than neglectful parenting, but that is still crazy to think about. He also says "parents", meaning both his father and his mother; neither of them gave him any kind of physical affection.

The repressive time period causing Edwin's parents to be very emotionally absent from his life is not a new concept, and it gets brought up in varying intensities in fanfics I've read, but it always felt like a fuzzy, floating concept based on speculation heavily supported by probability. I knew it was an accurate assumption, but I couldn't reach out and touch it, if that makes any sense. Now, it's concrete in my mind.

It gives this scene even more weight:

Edwin's expressions, while already perfectly understandable, make even more sense. The way he's seemingly pained by the embrace at first. He did not even realize how badly he needed and wanted this kind of affection.

There is such a strong surge of pure joy, comfort, and love from the hug that it hurts him, because he realizes in that moment what he's been deprived of his entire life and existence. Edwin has existed for over a hundred years, and even though it's hard to believe, they've never hugged each other like this in the thirty years they've been together. I don't think I could ever confidently say that they never hugged, ever, in thirty years, especially given how physical Charles is with his affection.

But that expression on Edwin's face in undeniable.

George says earlier in video that Edwin "lacks the skill set to keep up" with all of the new emotions he's experiencing, and you can feel that in the way his face changes.

Edwin hugs him back, and lets out a big breath, relieved and satisfied by the embrace. The wave of emotions passes as he realizes that even if he overwhelmed and terrified by the love he's feeling, it feels good to hug Charles. He realizes that he wants to hug Charles, that he's allowed to want to hug Charles, and that he actually can hug Charles.

God, the amount of emotions Edwin has in that moment that he's completely unequipped for, simply because he's never experienced it, not even from the people closest to him in life. It's heartbreaking, but seeing him learning how it feels to be loved for the first time is so beautiful.

Edwin, the character that you are... George Rexstrew, the actor that you are... 😔🩵

(ko-fi)

[fleurrreads]

hi b!

i was wondering if maybe i could request something angsty w steve?

thinking maybe of something like … unrequited love? or you feel like it’s unrequited?

(i absolutely SUCK at requesting i apologize)

★ right person, wrong time

an: hi lovely! i went through it with this request lol. i hope you like it ♡

warnings: angst and some more angst

tick tick tick

The day is going excruciatingly slow. You’re counting down the minutes before the school day is over. Just ten more minutes. Ten more minutes until your life hopefully changes for the better.

The plan is simple. You’ll go to Family Video after school, ask Steve out on a date and then hopefully he’ll say yes and you’ll have the best day of your life.

You try to push away the lingering anxiety that he won’t reciprocate your feelings. Pushing all the contents on your desk in your bag when the bell signals the end of the day. Hands sweaty as you stop by your locker to gather some things for the weekend.

Your locker door gets pulled open abruptly, Robin facing you with a smile. “Soooo? How are we feeling? You ready to confess your undying love to Stevie boy?” She wiggles her eyebrows and you laugh nervously. “I’m ready. As ready as I’ll ever be at least.” You’re trying not to think too hard about it.

The walk to Family Video was probably the most tiring and nerve wracking that you’ve ever experienced. On the way you’ve been recalling all the times you’d tell Steve how you knew you fell in love with him.

‘That one time you were still working at Scoops Ahoy and you gave me that ice cream for free because you saw the look on my face and just wanted to see a smile on my face.’

‘And the time when we went camping as a group and my tent just wouldn’t cooperate and you set it up for me without any complaints.’

‘And then of course the countless times you call me ‘pretty girl’ when you pick me up from school.’ You feel confident that he has to feel the same. It can’t be a coincidence that he’s never helped Robin like that.

Your feet stop infront of the video store and your heart beats madly in your chest. Robin stops you and spins you around before you can spot Steve in the store. A panicked expression washing over her face. Your heart sinks. “What’s wrong Robin?” You try and turn around to face what she’s looking at but she turns you back to face her. “Nothing. Uhm- I just forgot to tell you that I needed your help on this project of mine. Maybe we should uh… maybe we should go to my place first and finish it. Yeah! That’s a great idea!” She’s rambling, she’s nervous. You shove her hands away from you lightly, turning around and looking into the shop.

Robin was right. We shouldn’t have been here now. My heart feels like it’s breaking in a million pieces.

Steve is stood infront of the counter, a blonde girl standing next to him — kissing him. You see Steve smile into the kiss, grabbing her by the back of her head. You feel funny, the world is spinning as you stumble away from the store. Robin’s grim expression makes you feel even more embarrassed. She was rooting for this to go successfully. Did she know about the girl?

“Who is she Robin?” your voice is wobbly from the tears threatening to spill. “Did you know he was seeing her?” your embarrassment is on an astronomical level as you recall all those moments you thought he was showing you he liked you. Pfft, what a joke.

The hesitation in Robin’s voice is the final straw. You don’t look at her as you turn on your heel and make your way home. You don’t notice Steve watching the whole thing unfold with the blonde now walking around the store. Robin yelling your name after you.

As soon as you get home in the comfort of your own space you break down. The sobs now racking your frame as you fall to the floor. After a few jagged breaths you throw your bag’s contents on your bed. The letter you wrote Steve being right on the top. You rip it into four before throwing it in the trash bin.

Your heartbreak turned into despair. You were a fool to think that he would ever like you. Why did you think he’d ever go for you? You should’ve known better.

You cried yourself to sleep that night.

You hadn’t contacted Robin the entire weekend. You couldn’t face her. So as Monday rolled around you dreaded going to school. You barely ate anything at all, your cheeks were hollow and eyes baggy. You’re tired.

Robin tries talking to you before your Chemistry class, but you ignore her — choosing to sit at the table furthest from her. Away from everyone.

At lunch you sit with Dustin and the Hellfire Club. No-one asked anything as you sat down, quietly eating your meal.

Last period rolls around and Robin finally gets the chance to talk to you. “Please, talk to me. I’m so sorry for what happened. I didn’t know he was fooling around with that girl. Please you have to believe me, I didn’t know.” Robin is pleading, desperate. She scolded Steve when you left that day. ‘How could you not tell me you were serious with her?’ to which Steve replied, ‘Who? The blonde? We’re not.’ Robin was just as mad as you were. Steve could be so oblivious sometimes. So she told you everything. What he said and how he was just desperate because he hasn’t had a girlfriend in months.

Your brows furrowed. Has he always been like that? Was that why he was nice to you? Because he was bored and desperate? Robin sighed, her frustration also evident on her face. “Please try the confession again, I hate seeing you like this.” You laugh sarcastically. “Are you serious right now? I can’t do that, no.”

Something flashes in Robin’s eye, and she nods, understanding that was a silly question. “Steve’s picking us up today by the way.” She says it hesitantly. You look down, your shoes giving you some silent encouragement that you’d be able to face him today.

You see his car before you even step foot out of the building. Robin walks you towards the car, holding your hand in reassurance. You stop dead in your tracks before you can open the car door. “I can’t do this. Pretend i’m okay. Pretend i’m not hurt. I don’t belong here. I don’t want you to have to choose between us, because that would be unfair towards you. He didn’t technically do anything wrong. Just tell him i’ve been sick or something. I’ll walk home from now on.” You breathe a relieved sigh and walk towards the school again, tears spilling from your eyes.

You were wrong. Your heart fell in love with someone it shouldn’t have.

Steve watches from the car as you wipe your eyes, as Robin gets in the car. “What was that? Is she not coming with us?” He hasn’t heard from you in three days which was unusual for you. Robin puts on her seatbelt, sighing sadly. “She won’t be driving with us anymore. She says she prefers walking now. Something about exercise.” Steve picks out on the obvious lie but chooses to ignore it for now.

Steve thinks of how he was going to ask you to watch a movie with him that previous friday when that stupid blonde came into the store and kissed him for a bet and ruined his plans. He saw the look in your eyes when you walked away that day.

His heart ached as he drove away. He blew his shot, the only one he seemed to really care about. This one shot with you, and now that was gone too.

[thoughtfulchaos773]

Sydney Adamu Theories

I am on a Sydney kick. So many possibilities come with cracking Sydney open and exploring SYdney's background. I am confident that the writers will explore this because the show is masterful at answering our questions in the midst of all the chaos. Even on Reddit, there are questions about Sydney.

Since Storer used tattoos to tell the story of the character, as we learned about Carmy, his tattoos started to make sense because we explored his history. The question for Sydney's tattoo sits with us as viewers; it's an ample opportunity to see Sydney and why she wants to get a star, succeed, and how she landed at the beef ready to work with Carmy and reach that dream. What inspired her to stage with Carmy, and what did she mean when she told her father she was at a different place in her life?

Theory one: Sydney, unlike Carmy, experienced failure in her career; some will see she is a quitter, and others will see Sydney put her mental health first. Maybe before Sheridan Road Catering, Sydney had a breakdown dealing with pressure and abuse like Carmy experienced at Eleventh Madison Park

I wonder if, like Carmy, we'll see the cost of committing to your craft to the point where you miss out on life. I'm leaning towards Sydney experiencing a nervous breakdown in the past. Her father is adamant about Sydney not committing to the thing that caused her heartbreak. Maybe Sydney has gone through many ups & downs in addition to Sheridan Road Catering.

The past must be so sorrowful for someone to imprint a symbol representing heartbreak over her shoulder. Maybe putting her all into things is part of Sydney's nature, and her father witnessed such a mental health scare that he's worried when she says she doesn't have another one in her...

But when she shows her dad the potential of the bear on opening night, her dad validates her: this is the thing. Now that her dad sees her as a leader, someone who's stable and knows what they are doing, she's pressured to work at a place that could be the like other places, and this time, she's trapped.

When her dad asks her if she trusts Carmy, this could be in relation to someone in her past experience as a chef, someone who was supposed to be her mentor and someone she could trust who broke her heart. They weren't necessarily partners (whoever this past person was), but it was a power dynamic. A dynamic that's absent in Sydney's and Carmy's relationship. Here are other reasons she probably had a mentor in the past that used her-

When Carmy tells her he's her boss, she considers what to say next. Carmy pulling this power play made her speak up and tell him her needs. Most importantly, she can stand out at The Beef.

Her father gives her a book on leadership. Perhaps this person (a mentor) stole her ideas, kept her from having a voice, and drained her mentally.

To keep it short, Sydney put so much pressure on herself that she ended up having a nervous breakdown and maybe she didn't have a partner but someone who used her, perhaps a boss or mentor who exploited the power dynamic between them.

There's another question that remains: What's with the name of the Catering business she started?

I'm also confident this will be answered because it's written in the original script.

Siderbar/theory: what's up with Carmy asking Sydney about her favorite road? The only road in relation to Carmy that I can think of is Jimmy mentioning the car accident dream. He said they were driving around Lake Genova or something like that. Well, maybe it was Lake Michigan, meaning they were driving along Sheridan Road- maybe the dream was a foreshadow?

Ugh this is all over the place, but I got questions, and I don't know how I'm going to wait for 6 more months.

[khaire-traveler]

do the gods ever have problems with love? i’m talking to a guy right now and he’s giving me mixed signals, and i feel like it would make me feel a lot less alone if i knew the gods know how i feel right now.

Hey, Nonny,

I'm sorry to hear you're having a tough time. Know that, as a whole, you're not alone, outside of the context of the gods. I personally have gone through this, actually, and I know how incredibly painful it can be. Regardless of how the situation turns out, it will be ok, even if it's not ok now. Mourn, and feel your feelings, but know there is hope for a brighter future. Even if this person isn't the one, this one experience won't define your future in relationships. I hope you can rely on your loved ones for support. 🫂

Anyway, to answer your question, I had to give it a lot of thought. Firstly, I think it's extremely important to state that no one can speak for the gods officially. There is simply no way to know in confidence when someone is speaking truthfully or for their own gain. Along with that, I think it's just generally impossible for us to know what the gods experience. What is it like to be a god? We simply don't know. Everything I state hereon is an opinion based on my personal experience. Just as others cannot say with certainty what it's like to be a god, I cannot say with certainty what it's like to be them or what they've experienced throughout their immortal lives.

I'm of the opinion that the gods have had experiences such as being led on, being sent mixed singles, and heartbreak caused by mortals. Even in myth, we're shown the capacity the gods have for love, and in my own experience, they can love us humans dearly. The existence of godspouses also speaks to love the gods can have for us, even in a romantic context. I feel sure that they've experienced heartbreak in many different forms. So, Nonny, I don't believe you're alone in this when it comes to the gods. I'm sure that they're happy to send you comfort during this time, be it with empathy from their own experiences or sympathy from knowing it hurts. Know it's ok to find comfort in them regardless of what you decide to believe they've experienced.

I'm not sure if this answer helps, but I hope that it does. I wish the best for you. Take care of yourself, and know it's ok to step away from a situation for a bit if it's too emotionally taxing. Put your own well-being first. I hope your coming days are better. 🧡

[queenlucythevaliant]

Story ask game for Lawrence of Arabia, if you please, with a 4, 14, and 21 (for that, assume the "author" is David Lean).

Lawrence! Lawrence! Lawrence!

4: assign the story a hyper-specific genre name

Epic historical wartime adventure biopic tragedy. With camels.

14: how likely do you think the story is to break the reader's heart?

I think it's very much a matter of personal buy-in. If you're the sort of person willing to invest emotionally in four-hour epics from the 60s, then it 100% will break your heart. This movie is devastating. I can quote chapter and verse of all the lines and scenes and moments that wreck me, if you want, but really what it comes down to is Lawrence in the empty Arab Council saying "And that would have been something." Ahhhhhhh. It's a story about reaching and failing to grasp, and those are always the most effective tragedies imo.

21: based on this story, would you be interested enough in the author to read their other work?

I would love to watch every David Lean movie over the course of my life. I've already made a pretty big dent in it! Doctor Zhivago is my next favorite after Lawrence, being a better literary adaptation than 99.9% of amazing novels get. Zhivago is such a literary favorite of mine, and it should be high praise that I love Lean's movie almost as much as I love Pasternak's bittersweet beautiful heartbreak of a novel. Ask me about the book sometime, if you're interested.

I also recently watched Brief Encounter for the first time, which I just loved to pieces. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. The best tragedy of timing that I've experienced in a long time. Will definitely be revisiting in the future.

I will admit, I giggled my way through Bridge Over the River Kwai. It was an excellent movie, but I think the whole "we are BRITISH we are going to build THE GREATEST BRIDGE EVER" thing, which is supposed to be a sign of a semi-broken mind, was just too funny for me to move past in favor of the serious tragedy. Having already seen Tom Hank's The Volunteers, which parodies Bridge Over the River Kwai, didn't really help either.

I will probably give A Passage to India a try next. That's also an adaptation of a novel I thoroughly enjoyed, albeit not in the way I love Zhivago. I'm sure I'll get to his Dickens stuff eventually too, although those will be a harder sell for me. It's a shame he never directed A Tale of Two Cities. I know he's got a bunch of other, lesser known movies too, and I will definitely get to those eventually as well.

So, in short, a resounding yes to the question. I'm not, like, a film person in the way that many people are, but I think I can say with some confidence that Lean is my favorite auteur-director.

[thepigeonsopinion]

Guys, guys, guys, gays, GUYS

I am IN LOVE with the Kagami x Felix combination it may have not been the ship I was looking for, but it was the ship I needed.

I mean, come on! A momma's boy with a mommy issues girl TOGETHER! BEST COMBINATION EVER!

Like I wasn’t expecting it to happen, but BOI was I surprised.

When you truly think about it Felix is a good match for Kagami. I may be going off on a limb here BUTT! Because Felix is a momma’s boy, he knows how to be respectful, caring, and a TOTAL MUTHERF**KING SIMP! Which Kagami needs.

Hear me out. Kagami is a girl whose been taught how to be an obedient, yet independent and confident girl. That is why she has such a fiery personality that I adore. Kagami has been taught by her mother what is wrong and right through her strict teachings. Not to mention, she has also experienced true friendship and heartbreak (Adrien) for the first time in her life at the age of 14, FOURTEEN!!! Kagami is becoming a badass queen as we can see throughout the show. But she still struggles with being vulnerable. (Not to mention the fact that she’s still getting over Adrien, but that’s besides the point.)

Felix is the guy that can help with Kagami’s vulnerability, and help her move on. Felix shows respect towards Kagami and treats her like the badass queen she is. And Felix truly cares for Kagami’s opinions and wants her to be free from her mother’s watchful eyes.

ANNNDDDD. . .Their overall dynamic is just really cute! I mean. . . LOOK AT THIS-

They are too cute for their own good, your honor.

Anyway that’s all I wanted to say. . . Happy New Year! And always remember. . .

But that's just my opinion (・ε・)

((Also this is my first post of the new year! Hopefully I can try and post rants again because LORDY I have a lot of stuff to say about this franchise that I’ve been to busy to heheheh))

[chronic-ghost]

Chapter 10 of Recovery Road

chapter rating: E (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 31K (part 1: 14K + part 2: 17K)

chapter summary: how they find each other again . . . and everything else

chapter warnings/tags: discussions of mental health, medication discussions, therapy (so much therapy), everything about theater and theatre production is nothing but fake lies, and yes lots of smut

a/n: there's a longer, sappy-er reblog coming but i just wanted to say thank you to everyone who came along with me on this journey. this wouldn't have been possible without you and i hope to see you again soon!

▲ Series Masterlist | Previous | Part 2 + Epilogue

▲ AO3 Link (posted there as a single chapter if you like to read it all at once)

▲ Taglist Form

“Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever.” - Jane Austen, Persuasion 

SEPTEMBER 

“And so we can see that with the abstract paintings, color theory, as well as a fundamental understanding of color under light, is more important than ever. We can have a more immediate reaction to abstract art precisely because it digs at our unconscious thought. We see what we want to see and that can give us perspective on our own lives as well as that of the artist.” 

One hand jumps up from the back of the crowd. 

“Yes?”

“Is it true that Van Gogh ate yellow paint because he thought it would make him happier?”

You nod. “He did. But Van Gogh was a deeply disturbed man and while many of his best works come from his Yellow period, art historians have debated for decades about whether or not the madness was worth the beauty.”

The same boy in the back, blonde, lanky, frowns out of frustration, not boredom. 

“So he ate yellow paint and then painted yellow things?” 

“It could be said that he wanted to literally take what he was feeling inside and put it on the canvas.” 

Another boy, bigger than the first and clearly used to all eyes on him, snickers. He points to a frame at the end of the salon wall. 

“So, what, the artist who did that one wanted to get their blood all over everything?” 

You cross your arms, unphased by yet another teenage smartass. “What does color theory tell us about the color red?”

“It’s associated with anger,” a young girl at the front says with confidence. “Or more often, love. Intense emotions.”

The same jokester in the back chuckles, louder this time. “Wow, so that guy must have really been in luuuurve to paint that.” He pinches the waist of a girl next to him and she wriggles away, giggling. 

“Actually,” you say, straightening up, “I had just come out of a horrific break up and was trying to process grief, trauma, and heartbreak unlike anything I’d experienced before.” 

That successfully manages to silence them all. It usually does.

“You painted that, miss?” The girl at the front asks again, her eyes wide in awe. 

You smile at her. You remember being her age, fourteen, and thinking the world of art, theater was all so exciting. 

“I did. Am I a vain bitch for putting my own paintings in my gallery? Probably, but for some reason, people like to buy them and I’m not going to turn down an opportunity to fund another kitchen renovation in my home.” 

There’s a surprised chuckle amongst the students. Nothing endeared you faster to teenagers by some light cursing. 

“What other paintings are yours, miss?” The blonde boy asks, eyes suddenly leaping from wall to wall, trying to spot similar brush strokes. You don’t miss when the girl looks at him, her cheeks red. 

“Miss Lorraine only has a handful of her paintings in this gallery.” Marie steps forward from around one of the salon walls, her trusty iPad clutched against her chest. “If you are really interested in her work, I highly recommend going to see her charcoal sketches upfront. But this is the end of the tour. Your teacher has given you fifteen more minutes to view any last pieces or purchase a souvenir, but then it’s back on the bus. ” 

The gaggle of high school students disperses, an excitement buzzing as a few surge towards the charcoal exhibit. 

You roll your eyes, as bodies flow around you, and flick your best friend of the past ten years on her earlobe.

“That was supposed to be a secret.” 

“Oh, whatever.” Marie bats your hand away. “It’s honestly some of your best work. You should be proud.” 

“This is meant to be a business, not a housing facility for my ego.”

“Well, the second your ego starts to suck money out of this place, I’ll let you know.” She taps her iPad with her stylus. “Speaking of which, Andrew should be by in about ten minutes to discuss that piece he wants for his new show.” 

You groan, falling behind Marie as she leads you to the front desk, where some of the students are purchasing posters of the art they liked. You watch as the sales girl rings up a few posters and some postcards, as Marie continues to scroll through her tablet, always thinking of the next thing, the next move. 

“This had better be the last one,” you sigh, particularly pleased when you see someone buy a postcard of your red painting. “Why am I starting to think this damn show is going to be the death of me?”

Marie scoffs as she leans forward onto the corner of the sales counter, your bark always worse than your bite. “If you’re so concerned, think about what the notoriety of designing a set for an off-broadway production will do for this gallery.” 

“Does it always have to come back to this dump?” You smile at her, knowing you are the only one who is allowed to tease her precious child. 

“Duh.” Marie sticks out her tongue at you. 

Despite the absolute horror you felt about starting your own gallery three years ago, you can’t say it hasn’t been a success. A reasonably-priced gallery in Brooklyn, you worked to showcase small local artists who needed a leg-up in the industry. Not that breaking into the art world yourself had come easy, but with your old connections in Hollywood and Marie’s in the music scene, you recognized the sheer number of doors open and available to the both of you. The community received the opening of the gallery better than expected, given that it was occasionally used as a center and study hall. It was small, quiet, and unassuming, but it was yours. Yours and Marie’s. You wouldn’t be here without her. Quite literally.

“Once you’re done sulking, we have a meeting with a local council member about expanding the property at two, then that new artist from the Bronx is coming by to measure his space.” She scrolls through your day, with the sharp eye of someone who never missed a beat. You told her she didn’t have to wear that crisp white shirt and pleated black pants, but she rolled her eyes at that: “I’m going to be thirty-three in two weeks. I cannot wear plaid shirts to work every day.”

Same old Marie. Using any small excuse to dress up. Unlike her, you had zero compunctions against wearing old concert shirts and paint-splattered jeans to “the office”. Except, you conceded, on days like this where it was tour after tour, client after client. You attempted something “professional” for her sake, but these heels pinched your feet and the emerald green top seemed to draw the eye of every teenage boy who walked by you. 

“Ah, shoot,” Marie says suddenly, standing up right from her iPad. She glances at her watch. “Andrew asked to see a print of King Square and I totally forgot to grab it.”

“Want me to get it?”

She waves you away. “Nah, mingle. I’ll be out in a second.”

You smile as she struts away. Again you wonder what you possibly did to earn a friend like her, what you did to earn her devotion for a decade of friendship. It was as if the universe had been steering you away from all other friendships, keeping you a friend-virgin, until you met Marie. The One. The girl, now woman, who had saved your life more times than you could count, even before she became the manager of the gallery. You hoped to spend the rest of your life proving to her that she had chosen well. 

The class of teenagers has thinned. Only a few remain to chat with friends, or check out one last piece they might have missed, a plastic bag with a rolled-up poster in their hands. The noise in the gallery dulls, as the patter of feet against the wood grain and the sound of eager voices falls away. You hear the front door swing close and the room goes silent. You inhale, the saw-dust smell of the space always soothing to you, even before you turned it into a gallery.

This place felt like a destination, a culmination, a breakthrough after so many dark nights. You poured your heart and soul and nearly every dime you had into building this space and its community. You could wander through the salon walls, easily identifying the artwork done from different points in your life, what each of them meant to you, by the colors or mediums used. You experimented a lot after rehab, trying every creative outlet you could find until something stuck. Hell, you even attempted cross-stitching – Marie still laughed herself silly every time it was brought up. 

Early on, you processed a lot through clay, through sculpture. It wasn’t very good, but it gave you somewhere to put your rage, your frustration, those hot emotions that made you want to squish warm goo. You could never make bowls or vases – instead just absurd creations with teeth and wide eyes. 

Next came the paintings that covered entire walls. You’d come home after spending hours in a rented workspace, covered in paint, hot and tired and teary, but relieved. The scratchy ball in your chest loosened after those hours of working yourself into exhaustion. That was also around the time when you had started to process decade old feelings and memories regarding your parents with your therapist. It all went hand in hand. 

It was only recently that you’d turned to charcoal and your canvases shrunk. There was something hypnotic about charcoal as a medium, the stark contrast of black and white, of the delicate shading required to give depth and offer light, the way it stuck to your palms, your forearms as if the subject you sketched lingered on you. 

You turn a corner and are welcomed by the sketchings of dozens of artists who also worked in charcoal. The exhibit is called The After Effects of Flame and the artists had completely risen to the challenge. The soft paper, the light etching, it makes the space beautiful, quiet, warm. 

But your eyes fall to a single piece across the room, your heart thrumming in your chest. 

He had shown up in your work in prior years, of course, as much as you tried to swallow him and the memories down. A flash of the curve of his chin, the sharp angle of his nose, the endless brown of his eyes – they were there as you sorted through the cracked pieces of your life in rehab and continued on in therapy. As you moved on from that night in the hospital. 

As you moved away from him.

But you still found slivers of him, splinters that dug into your skin against the wood grain. Marie said it wasn’t noticeable, that only you saw those flashes because of what you had been through, what he had meant to you. But he was there, inside you somewhere, after ten years, and he became a different sort of ache. What he had been to you was never clear, never given structure or form, and perhaps that was why closure had been so hard to find: there was no road map to moving past whatever Dieter Bravo had meant to you. What he had become. What he still, in the fitful state between dreaming and awake, was to you. 

He wasn’t haunting you; you had never known a silent ghost. But he lingered, like the remnants of last night’s perfume or the body warmth of a loved one after they’ve left the bed. You saw him in everyone and in everything and, simply put, Dieter wasn’t going away. 

Much like with grief, you learn to hold this part of you that held him and let the memories, the good and the bad, pass over you without judgment. 

The world is hard enough on you as it is, your therapist told you, don’t add to it by beating yourself up.

So you let him stop by, hang around if he wanted to. He kept you company as you sketched and drew and created in a way you had never experienced as an actress. This is what you were meant to do. It just took you twenty-two years and a decade of heartbreak to get here. 

You stepped closer to the centerpiece of the exhibit. 

A simple sketch, nothing outwardly advanced or difficult, but it is detailed. Thoughtful, introspective. It comes from an image that appears to you in the morning light of your empty bed, or as you fade into the welcoming arms of sleep. It feels like it should be a memory, but if it is, you don’t know when or where it sits in your history. Sometimes, it doesn’t even feel real. Other times, it’s too real, the added weight in your bed almost palpable – you can smell him in the air, you could reach out and touch the curve of his shoulder – and you blink, the image is gone and you’re alone. Your outstretched hand floats through empty air, the tears stinging so sharply in your throat you can’t breathe for a moment. 

To anyone else, the sketch is that of a man, naked, sleeping partially on his stomach, partially on his side, turned away from the viewer. His arm curls beneath his head, under the pillow, and the sheet slips low on his hips, the turn of the light dictating whether or not the exposure is playful or sensual. The waves of his hair fan out across the pillow, tuck around the back of his neck in a way that begs to be teased, tugged on. To everyone else, it’s a loving image of relaxation, of peace, of quiet, joy. 

To you, it’s the image of Dieter that visits you most frequently.

You stand before it now and try to find that solace, that imaginary morning where domesticity dripped into your bed with him, the tension it takes from your bones. But you can’t find it. The day is coming up again, the first blush of fall breathing down the New York streets, and like a thready hangnail you forget to cut, you find pain with every movement. 

He sits, melancholic, in your heart. I know, darling, I know. 

Unconsciously, you rub a hand up your shoulder, unease mounting. You rub again, and something catches in the corner of your eye.

Someone is still here. 

Tan coat nearly the same color as the floorboards, the man somehow blended in amongst the cream paper of the charcoal sketches. His knee-length coat looks expensive, the white Converse do not. His head is tilted back, looking up, inspecting one of the pieces. 

Okay, yes, you saw him in passing on the streets – a flash there, a blur here – but this is getting ridiculous. 

You stare, immobile and silent, at the dark curls that catch against his collar. At the broad shoulders that curl inwards. This is not a ghost, a specter. This is not a haunting. He even stands, holds his weight, just like – no, no, this is just desperation, you’re overworked and tired and – 

Oh, fuck, the black rings –

“Darling!”

Your head snaps to the front of the gallery, seconds before you are nearly tackled to the ground by your friend and long-time benefactor Andrew Young. He had started to go gray at twenty-five, and never to be outdone by the ravages of time, he dyed his entire head silver. It’s been this color for years, blinding and shining, the only thing he changed was how it was styled. Nearly forty, he’s shaved the sides and let the top grow long. It flops in his face as he pulls back, grinning from ear to ear. 

“This looks fantastic!” He beams around your latest exhibit. “Baby girl, I am so proud of you!” 

You drag out a smile, your lips catching on your teeth, the buzzing in the back of your mind at a low hum.

“T-thank you, Andrew. I– uh,” you blink up at him, “sorry, it’s been a day and I haven’t eaten. I’m just a little dizzy.”

Andrew frowns and throws an arm over you. “You work too hard – has anyone told you that? And that, quite frankly, I simply cannot have. You see, I can’t do the set without you, and then I can’t do blocking and stage production, and then the damn thing itself is off the rails. Do you see my problem?” The designs you had been planning are back in your office, some initial sketches drawn up and laid out based on Andrew’s requests over the phone. You smile, settle, that gnawing sense of panic easing. Andrew watches you visibly relax in his arms and he taps your nose with a bright blue nail. “Besides, it’s up to you, you New York native, to help me show my star a good time around town.”

He steps back, arm thrown out wide, and your heart plummets. 

You know who he is before he turns that thick head of hair, before you see that aquiline nose in his profile, before you are swallowed up by those endless, warm brown eyes that flicker in the corners of your heart. 

“My dear, I’d like you to meet –,”

“Natalie?”

The noise is barely human, a punched out groan from a hit that maybe broke a rib, popped an organ loose. 

The gallery has gone silent, or maybe it’s just you’re so suddenly stuffed full of memories, of rage and joy, grief and giddiness, that there’s no room for any sound. 

He’s not a ghost, not a haunting, but he is pale, the whites of his eyes bright and round and staring. 

He is not the Dieter that curls up against your neck at three in the morning when you can’t sleep, no, this one’s different. The lines marking his eyes are deeper, more pronounced – laugh lines, you remember, he’s clearly laughed a lot in the time that he’s been gone. His beard is speckled with gray, here and there, drawing your gaze to that lovely bare spot where the hair refuses to grow. His hair is longer, unkempt, and wild, and in his ear sits a small silver ring. This is not the Dieter you remember. 

He’s older and so are you. 

The coffee cup drops from his loose fingers and splatters against the ground, light brown liquid splashing everywhere. It rolls towards his shoes, but he doesn’t move. Neither do you. You couldn’t, really, even if you wanted to. 

To cope, in the beginning, in the cold, sick days in the hospital, you told yourself that he had died. That’s why he left you, why he abandoned you to get the drugs out of your system alone. To get him out of your system. It was childish and petty and completely irrational, but it soothed you in a way that made living manageable. You could walk around those long white hallways, talk, eat, exist without a giant gaping bloody hole in your chest. 

Consciously, you knew he was out there, somewhere, but in all the chunks inside of you that made up his lingering presence, the old idea, the old comfort, embedded itself. 

Seeing him now, seeing him ten years older, it’s like he had come back from the dead. You could not have made up a more surreal dream.

“Oh, hey, Andrew, I got your print and I –,”

Marie stiffens the instant she sees who’s in your line of sight. Her mouth drops open and the poster joins the spilled coffee on the ground.

“Holy fucking shit.”

Andrew’s perfectly manicured eyebrows eject into his hair. “What? You’ve met before?”

“W-we . . .” the rest of the sentence dies in your mouth, catches fire and turns to ash. “We – I . . .”

“We used to . . .” his voice is raspy, deep, as though scraping through a wet crevice. “We used to work together.”

It doesn’t sting, the casual distance in his words, because he’s right. All of you met a decade ago for work.

Marie swallows as her eyes slide to you. 

His have traced every line of your body, once, twice, and three times over. They stay on the bridge of your nose, the crook of your neck, the arch of your cheek. He’s not looked at Marie once. Given the circumstances of your last meeting, perhaps it should have been you to appear as a ghost from beyond the grave. 

“Uh, Andrew, do you mind if we give Dieter and Natalie some time alone to –,”

“No!” You both bark, a sufficient reason to tear your gaze away from the other. 

He sounds genuinely frightened. Your stomach twists. Your gaze flickers to the spill at Dieter’s feet. 

“Marie, would you get some towels for that?” She nods, completely forgetting the print and nearly sprinting for the bathroom. You swallow, set your shoulders, and turn to Andrew. “I’ve got the designs in my office. If you’d – if you’d both – like to–,”

“Natalie.” He tries again and you flinch as though his voice is a physical force that has pressed roughly against an internal bruise. At his side his hands clench over and over, mouth opening and closing, brow furrowed as if he’s scrambling through every word he knows and can’t find the right one.

Your chest suddenly squeezes so tightly you have to put a hand over your sternum to keep your ribs from collapsing into your spine. You can feel the blush breakout across your cheeks, down your chest, and you’re so confused as to why, a hot bloom of anger overwhelms everything else. 

Andrew’s eyebrows are in danger of falling off his forehead. Dieter still hasn’t looked away. 

“Okay, what am I missing here?”

“We dated.” You say. You keep your gaze on Andrew, knowing your knees would buckle if you look anywhere else. “While we worked together. We dated about ten years ago on the set of one of our movies. But,” you swallow, your knees shaking in these stupid fucking slacks, “that was a long time a-ago.” Your voice cracks and you hate it. You want to hear him say your name again, just to make sure he got it right.

“Are you sure you don’t want a second?” You nod. “Then, uh, let’s see this design.”

Dieter doesn’t follow you and Andrew. Small miracles, you suppose. As you walk Andrew through the designs, you can see out the clear office door that Dieter had taken off that rich tan coat and is using it to soak up the spill. You can’t tell by the twist in his mouth if he’s regretting that particular decision, or regretting something else, but Marie appears a moment later with a rag. His expression changes as she hands it to him, softens, that wind-swept, knocked-back-on-his-ass surprise creeping into the opening of his mouth. She says something to him – her back is to you – and his mouth flatlines. He nods and Marie turns on her heel towards the office. 

You avert your eyes from her and look back at Andrew.

“So what do you think?” 

He grins, completely obvious to the exchange outside, as he shuffles through a few papers. “As always, darling, you’ve managed to somehow crawl into my brain and recreate exactly what I’ve been looking for.” 

You won’t be designing the actual set pieces, but more of the backdrop, what the audience will see through the open windows and around stairs. Most productions use lights to fill in their backdrop, but Andrew described wanting to make the stage feel as claustrophobic as possible. “Nothing breathes in here,” he had said over the phone. “We need something sturdier than lights.” 

You have never felt claustrophobic in your office, but staring at Dieter, an older Dieter, a different Dieter, absurdly scrubbing your gallery floor spotless, the walls nestle tighter, the air stagnant and stale. You feel like you’re seeing the entire place with new eyes and you realize how dingy it is. You can’t look Marie in the eye as she opens the office door. 

“How goes it in here?” She says, surprisingly breathless. 

“Fantastic!” Andrew claps his hands together. “The theater has given us access to the space starting Monday, so I’d like to get to building this as soon as possible. The back lot is huge so I’m hoping to do all painting onsite.”

You nod, the request somewhat expected – Andrew was a bit of a micromanager. 

Behind you, Marie is humming with unfocused energy, but only in a way you can pick up on after ten years of knowing her. To Andrew, she calmly asks,

“Would you like us to bring out those other pieces you won at the fundraiser? We can have them loaded up, if you’d like.”

Andrew’s eyes widen. “Oh god, yes, please. I’m so sorry – I told you I’d pick those up weeks ago! I’ll go get the car.” 

Marie’s gaze latches onto you as he jogs past her. 

“What do you want me to do with . . .” 

You can’t find him through the window, but the floor is spotless. 

You shake your head, that slightly dizzy feeling returning. “Go help Andrew. I’ll . . .” you shrug. “Actually, I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to be alone with him if you don’t want to.”

You feel your back muscles tighten. “No, no – I want – I mean, it’s fine. If I’m going to help Andrew with the designs, then we’ll have to see each other, right?”

Her look is apprehensive but she gives in. “Alright. I’ll be just a minute.”

The second the door closes, you push your palms into your eyes and groan. What the fuck is happening?

You spot him again in the charcoal exhibit, as if this is the area he is confined to. He holds his coat over his arm, the bottom half of it damp and a different color, as he slowly roves from piece to piece. He’s on the opposite side of the room from your contribution, but a part of you wants to yank it down and shove it under the floorboards. A very large part of you.

“Dieter,” you say, hands up, but your voice startles him anyway. His stark white t-shirt matches his converse, and you vaguely think, he’s going to be cold without a jacket. 

He physically steps back the closer you come. You don’t know if that hurts or if you feel relieved.

“Andrew went to get the car,” you say, your focus going in and out as you stare at his earring. “He has some paintings he won at an auction here and he hasn’t picked them up so Marie is bringing them out to the curb to load up.”

“Oh. Okay.” 

“Yeah.” You lose track of the earring as you meet his gaze. Terror, in his eyes. Concern, worry. 

Sadness. Yeah, you definitely know that one. 

Without a single coherent thought in your head, you head for the front doors, feeling him fall in step behind you. 

You can almost hear the storm brewing in his head.

“Natalie, wait.” 

Just in front of the glass doors, you stop. On the other side, Marie and another backend worker load wrapped canvases into a Black Escalade. Even without the faint howl of wind, it looks cold outside. 

He stands in front of you, older after ten years, but no less beautiful. He’s thickened over the years, more solid, an oak instead of a stretchy willow. The thought of what it would be like to wrap yourself around his chest, feel the warmth of his stomach against yours, comes crashing down on you. The inclination is to yank it back, submerge it, but you don’t do that anymore. 

You look into his eyes and the old ache hums. You thought it was gone, despite the many times you think about him, the many versions of him that live in your memory. But it’s there. You’ve missed him.

“Look, I’m sorry – for, um, the surprise visit.” Voice low and quiet, like trying to pass on a secret, his thumb spins through his rings distractedly. “Andrew said he had some errands to run around the city a-and the names didn’t register with me . . . a-after all this time.” He swallows, glancing at your shoulder for a second before finding your eyes again. “Had I known it was yours, I would have . . . I’d . . .” 

“You’d what?” You want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Shake him until he speaks, until he explains himself for showing up and cracking your world in half. 

His mouth crumbles, stricken with regret, and he shakes his head. “I – I –,”

Someone taps on the glass beside you and it’s your turn to jump ten feet in the air. Marie waves to you and Dieter, her arms wrapped around her chest to stave off the cold. On the street, Andrew gets into the Escalade as the worker heads for the warehouse around back. 

“For what it’s worth, it was really, really good to see you.”

Your head snaps back to him. No stutter, no unease. Confidence. This is what he feels. This is what he means to say. 

And then Dieter Bravo smiles at you. Genuinely, gently, full of wonder. He is . . . relieved.

You nod, dumbstruck, as he pushes through the glass doors and you’re following him before you know what you’re doing. The air has a bite to it, the threat of winter swirling in the gray clouds above the city streets. A particularly rough gust of wind barrels down and Marie staggers into you. Wrapping her up in your arms, you watch as he climbs into the Escalade and the passenger window rolls down.

Of course Andrew hired a driver. He leans out, his silver flop fluttering in the wind. 

“We’re having a party tomorrow, my place. A little kick-off party before production and rehearsals begin. You two should come.” 

You can’t see Dieter behind the tinted glass but you know for a fact he just tensed up. Beside you, Marie is shivering, the little thing.

“Maybe, you know? We’ve got a lot to do around the gallery before the weekend,” you say as you rub her shoulders. “It’s kind of a bad time.”

“Well, the art director is going to be there, so it might be nice to get to know him before we get started.” Andrew shrugs, seriously, unaware of the consequences of his simple request. 

Nothing about this feels like a good idea. You nod. “Lemme get Marie here back inside before her lips go blue. I’ll text you tonight about it.” 

You both step back from the curb as the Escalade eases its way into New York traffic. Your eyes stay pinned to the window until you can no longer see it in the distance. Holding her close, you kiss Marie’s cold forehead. 

“C’mon, Frosty, I think we both deserve the biggest cup of coffee our Kerig can make.” 

The hum of the potter’s wheel is loud in your concrete basement. Cold air curls in from the small open window at ground level, chilling the floor and the walls. It stings your bare toes just a bit to keep you awake and focused, your arms and hands already chilled by wet clay. You pump the wheel a bit faster as you try to thin the edge of this bowl – or what may be a bowl. This rarely ever works out, but at least the concentration forces out everything else in your brain. And, as an added bonus, the sound of the wheel also blocks the incessant buzzing of your phone.

Andrew and Marie had not stopped trying to call or text you since the gallery closed. Marie was not above simply barging into your brownstone if you had been quiet for too long, but this was a special case and she knew it. 

Hands wet, back aching from your hunched position, fingers as steady as they’ll ever be, you smooth the rippling clay as it spins. You pump the pedal steadily – too fast and the clay will spin off, but too slow and you’re basically playing with playdough. 

To your enormous surprise, the clay curves, molds between your finger tips. With every rotation, there comes a clear, distinct solid edge to this unfinished ceramic. 

Yes! Okay, just a little bit to round things out and –

Your phone alarm goes off, you jump, and the maybe-bowl deflates into a pile of squishy goo. 

“Damn it,” you mutter, even though you have only yourself to blame. You set this alarm because you needed two extra minutes to clean off before accepting the incoming Facetime. 

You just finish rinsing clay out of your nails when you hear the familiar chimes from your phone. Switching between your phone and a dry rag, you accept the call and smile into the face of a sixty-five year old woman. Blue tips on the edges of her gray hair, oversized cat-wing glasses, Dr. Carla Holstein always reminded you of Ms. Frizzle’s evil twin sister, in appearance only.

“Natalie, how the fuck are you doing?” 

Her non-existent brain-to-mouth filter was one of the things that initially endeared you to her. Talking to a shrink about your childhood trauma felt less embarrassing when the woman taking notes had electric blue nails. 

“I’d say I’m good, doc,” you smirk at her as you head up the wooden stairs of your basement, “but then I probably wouldn’t be calling you.”

“It’s like you only wanna talk about the bad things with your therapist,” she shakes her head mockingly. “As if I wouldn’t appreciate you calling with good news.” 

You chuckle as you drop onto the floor of the living room, mindful of any furniture that might get smeared with errant clay from you overalls. “I’ll save those for our weekly meetings, alright?”

“Which brings me to my next question – what the fuck is going on? You haven’t made an emergency appointment in years. What gives?” 

You set your phone up against a stack of books on the wooden table you lugged here all the way from 42nd street. Frowning, you lean against the redbrick fireplace, in a home you decorated with ugly little trinkets and overused furniture. Tidy and messy, this place holds everything that over-spilled from your brain, a place that feels like what the inside of your heart might look like, if you could see it.

“Seriously, Natalie, what is it? You’re kinda freakin’ me out.” 

“It’s Dieter.” 

Those perfectly drawn on eyebrows arch into that silvery hairline. “What? He called you?”

“He showed up at the gallery this morning.” A motormouth when left unchecked, Carla is a fantastic therapist, first and foremost. She knows exactly when to shut up and let everything pour out of you. And you hated when she did that. You scrubbed your face with your hands, groaning. “Not like that, but he’s the lead role in Andrew’s new production. I don’t know how the fuck he even found out about the part in the first place, but he swears he didn’t know that Andrew and I know each other. I know it wasn’t an intentional ambush but . . .”

“But it still feels like one?” You nod, your bottom lip snagged between your teeth.  

“It’s just . . . it doesn’t feel real, you know? Like, what are the fucking chances that everything has to line up perfectly in the universe for him to come stumbling into my gallery after ten years?”

I really thought I’d never see him again. 

“Was he actually stumbling? Is he sober?”

“No to the stumbling part, but I have no idea. I mean, I don’t think Andrew would hire someone so coked out they couldn’t remember their lines . . . but he was always so good at hiding it.”

The desperate anger in your voice makes you cringe. Even after all these years, you hate when you confess something you didn’t mean to. Dieter’s ability to mask how high or drunk he was used to scare you. Like you were never quite sure which version of him you were going to get. But then again, you were also so high and drunk you never really cared. Which was entirely the point.

“Well, that’s his shit to work out,” Carla scoffs. “I wanna talk about you. What did you feel at the time?”

“Nervous. Shocked. Surprised. Angry.” 

“Talk to me about the anger.” 

“I’m angry that I couldn’t think of a single fucking thing to say to him. Not even a good ol’ ‘fuck you’ or a ‘hello’. I’m angry that he’s back in my life in a way where I’ll have to see him again and again. And I’m fucking pissed that after all these years, after all this work, I see my ex for thirty minutes and I’m running scared to my therapist.”

Carla’s face softens. If you were in person with her, this would be the part where she lowers her clipboard and looks at you with warmth you are barely accustomed to. 

“But did you run for a drink?”

“No.”

“Did you run to the nearest street corner and pick up a bag of coke?”

“No.” 

“Then the process is working. The tools we built to manage your anxiety, to find healthy outlets for your emotions, they held up under scrutiny. You can be pissed all you want but you should also be fucking proud as hell.” 

Something hot and sharp threatens to choke you, your cheeks flushing. The word “pride” and you in the same sentence always fucking did that to you. You cough, clearing your throat.

“Okay, then what do I do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how do I act around him? Do I treat him like a stranger? A friend? Can I be his friend? Should I?”

“Is that what you want? Don’t forget you always get to set the boundaries of any relationship you have. He doesn’t get to decide that for you.” 

Your toes squeeze into the plush forest green carpet beneath you, thumb pressed into your palm. 

“I . . . don’t know.” The truth of what you want sears the back of your throat, a vomit-burn on your tongue, but you keep it to yourself. “But I shouldn’t be around him, at the very least, right? Isn’t rule number one for ex-addicts to keep away from contacts in their past lives?”

“Sure,” Carla nods sagely. “Old friends can bring back old patterns. But are you saying that because you are genuinely concerned about what would happen if you reconnect or because you feel like it’s what’s expected of you as a recovering addict?”

You bite your lip harder. “I don’t know, Carla. It just seems stupid to willingly let someone like Dieter back into my life.”

“And I’m saying you don’t have to. This is a hard case because not only is he an ex, but he was also your dealer and fellow addict.” Carla leans into the camera – this is the part where she put away her clipboard entirely. “But whether or not you let Dieter back in is irrelevant. I want you to go through life with the security in yourself that your past doesn’t have to own you. You have come so far and done so well. You’re on medication and in therapy. You’ve built a great life for yourself, in spite of everything. There will always be temptations, cravings to go back, and I’m not saying you should be overconfident and assume nothing can go wrong, because it absolutely can. But you are not the old Natalie anymore, have faith in yourself. You get to decide your life.”

Once again, you are reminded of all the people who let you forget that. The anger, the hurt, decades in the making, it’s still there. But its bite is no longer cruel. 

You nod. “Thank you, Carla. I needed to hear that.”

“I know that,” she smirks. “I’m a damn good therapist.” 

“As if you’d let me forget.”

You thank her and end the call. With a sigh you lean back, staring into your living room. Back then, you grew spikes to keep back a world intent on consuming you. Dieter had been the only one to not mind the spikes, even mold around them. 

If he’s still a fuckhead, I’m gonna kick his ass.

Your stomach makes a displeased noise, irritated at being empty for so long, so you stand, taking your phone with you as you head for the kitchen.

You bring up his contact and type out your message:

Hey Andrew! Would love to come to your party. What time?

Marie did not want to go to the party for a variety of reasons.

Too busy at the gallery. Invoicing. Nothing to wear. Straight up tired. 

All valid reasons. Except they weren’t and it was bullshit and you made her go anyway. 

Groaning all the way on the subway, she won’t even look at you as the elevator doors open to Andrew’s hallway. She’s gone uncharacteristically silent as you near the party. This is not her usual “I’d rather be in my Snuggie” scowl, but something else. Her eyes are sharp, hard. 

“What?” You bump her with your elbow. “You look like you’re plotting murder.”

“Maybe I am.”

You still and she does too. It’s like you can see inside her brain. “This is about Dieter?”

“Andrew’s a good guy,” she huffs, waving at the shut door. “He doesn’t deserve Dieter’s drama and bullshit . . . and neither do you.” 

About a foot shorter than you, Marie carries enough spitfire to fill someone twice her size. You’ve never actually seen her in a fight, but you really don’t want to. Her cold pink nose from the wind outside does nothing to deter her rage.

“If it makes you feel any better, I was cleared by my therapist to be around him.” 

She harumphs. 

“Look, if I can make this much progress, this much change, shouldn’t we give him the benefit of the doubt? Maybe he can too?” 

Her scowl deepens, but the murderous glint in her eyes fade as she knocks on Andrew’s door. “You are too nice for your own good.”

You mock-gasp. “You take that back!”

Just like every other party you’ve ever been to hosted by Andrew, the vibe is intimate, warm, and friendly. You run into and greet a few of the costume designers and lighting techs he’s used in the past, ones you’ve met before by way of just hanging around Andrew during rehearsals. Andrew is very fond of adopting creatives like pets and if he likes your work, chances are he’ll use you again – something uncommon in the industry, but very welcome to those whose paychecks are never steady. However, you notice how small the gathering is. You’ve seen this open-floor plan apartment full of people, partygoers nearly stacked on top of each other during Halloween parties or on New Years Eve. But this production team is a fraction of that size. 

Private. That was the other word Andrew mentioned over the phone for the backdrop design. He wanted the space to feel private, as though you were staring into something that was none of your business. 

That feeling doesn’t persist here. Here, everyone is welcome. 

Everyone, including –

“So, are you going to tell me what the fuck is up with you and him, or am I going to have to think up a very elaborate con to get you to confess?” Andrew snakes an arm over your shoulder, a glass of sparkling water in his hand. His green eyes are full of mischief, the faint lines around his eyes crinkled with glee, as he watches for any change in your expression. Dieter sits on a chair across the room from you, leaning in to listen to a story a man on the center couch cushion is animatedly telling with his hands. To his right, and nearly touching Dieter, is a blonde, beautiful, twenty-year old actress who everyone is telling you will be on Broadway any day now. You know someone told her your name, but you can’t remember it. You swat away your annoyance.

“C’mon, I’ve never seen you look at someone like that. I’m dying to know –,”

“Is he sober?” Your frown falls on Andrew who takes a step back, his own thick eyebrows scrunched together.

“Who, Dieter?”

“No, the man on the moon.”

Andrew shrugs, the lilac pullover he wears looking soft enough to eat. “As far as I know, yeah. We met when Toby and I went to that yoga retreat in Oregon last year. It was a substance-free commune so unless he was getting drunk off the atmosphere –,”

“You’ve known him for a year?” You gape at him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why would I tell you about some actor guy I met out on a co-op in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere? I didn’t know you knew him! We didn’t reconnect until I asked him to come read for the part.”

“And why did you ask him?”

“I . . . dunno,” Andrew says, clearly ruffled. “I liked his vibe. Matched what I had in my head for the role of Sam. And he’s got the best puppy dog eyes of anyone I’ve ever seen.” 

It’s not like you can disagree so you turn away from him, scowl on the verge of pouting. 

“Oh, no, the conversation does not end here, not after you’ve given me the third degree. Who the fuck was this guy to you?”

Across the room, the blonde’s knee knocks against Dieter’s and something acidic like bile claws the back of your stomach. You take the cup of water from Andrew, other hand digging into your purse.

“We dated. It didn’t end well. In fact, just watch Recovery Road – kinda says the whole thing.” You know Andrew doesn’t deserve your ire and you’ll apologize with coffee and a biscuit from his favorite bakery, but right now, if you don’t leave right now, you’re liable to pop something. “I heard it even won an Oscar.”

It’s stupid and childish and wrong to get jealous every time he talks to a woman. 

Okay, notice the thought. Observe it. And let it go. 

You inhale, the orange ring immolating the paper around the tobacco, and exhale smoke over the railing of Andrew’s balcony. It’s a nice balcony, as far as metal balconies go in New York. It’s private, sturdy, and a perfect place to contemplate the insanity of your own life. The sunset bleeds rapturous colors, bright and loud, across the city, light reflecting like stars in the glass windows of the buildings. The sight and the smoke is enough to ease the burden in your chest, just for a moment.

It’s not like you are even really jealous. You know that feeling and this isn’t it. The pain is farther away than the immediate nip of jealousy. You follow the feeling, careful not to nick yourself too hard on old memories as you use your toolbox to sort through the undulating waves of feeling. 

But therein lies the problem. You remember.

You remember when that girl curled up next to Dieter, eyes full of adoration, used to be you. 

You tap the ash against the metal railing, feeling terribly sorry for yourself, when the door to the balcony slides back. A few people had come and gone, shared a smoke, then went back inside. You know you are probably being a party pooper, gazing alone and wistful at the sunset, and you promise yourself this is the last one. It’s officially getting cold the lower the sun falls. But then you turn to the person who just came outside. 

“Ah, shit.” He blinks at you as the noise from the party inside is muffled behind the closing door.  “I mean, uh. Hi. Um. I didn’t know . . . look, I’ll just come back later –,”

“Andrew says you’re sober. Have been for at least a year. Is that true?”

Maybe you should have just brought a police hat and badge if you were going to grill everyone like this. You lean your hips back against the rail, the burn of the smoke forcing you to breathe slowly. 

The autumn wind tugs at his hair, threatens to pull that black sweater out of his pants, as he stares, a lighter and a packet of cigarettes in his clenched fists. 

“Um, yeah. He’s right. I’m . . . I’m sober. Have been, for a while.” 

You nod, reeling in that invisible electric fence you kept him at the edge of. He senses it and hesitantly, cautiously, he takes a few steps forward and joins you at the railing, but at least two arms lengths away. Eying you, he taps out a cigarette and lights it. He smokes, a full inhale and exhale, before continuing.

“Going on about ten years now.” 

The way he says it knots your stomach. His tone of voice. You know exactly what he means. How could you not?

You sip slowly, unable to look at him. 

“You haven’t had a drop of alcohol or smoked a single joint in ten years?”

He shrugs. “Doc says weed’s actually good for unfucking my brain.” He swallows and props himself up against the railing. “But, uh, I did go to therapy in rehab again and for the first time, I continued going after I got out. Turns out risk taking behaviors and mood swings are not things normal people experience. Looked lot at my anxiety around self-acceptance too. Triggers included feelings of inadequacy. I even got a new syndrome named after me in the DSM. Baffled my therapist for months.” 

“Really?” You stand up right, mouth parted. 

“No.” And there’s that Dieter grin. After a decade, it blooms across his face without any hesitation. Your heartbeat pounds rough against your throat for a second. But then his expression grows heavy. “But, uh, I was serious about the therapy part. It’s helped with the depression and anxiety attacks.” 

You roll your cigarette between your forefinger and thumb as another wind blows by. You nip at your lower lip. 

“Personally, I found Buspar was really good at keeping me from wanting to claw my skin off. Anxiety’s never been better.”

His eyebrows jump and he shuffles a bit closer. 

“Oh, yeah? Used to give me the worst headaches, but we fucked around with the dosage and it helped.”

You nod, remembering those weeks of trial and error. You don’t know what to say, what else to admit. His gaze flutters up your shoulder to the side of your jaw and he leans forward with you.

“Did they, uh, put you on Campral too? Wish they had that the first time I went to rehab.”

You shift your weight as you glance over your shoulder. “Yeah. Makes coming to shit like this easier. I, um, don’t feel so overwhelmed to fight the urges, you know?”

“Yeah. I fuckin’ do.” 

You blame the catch in your breath on a particular rough gust of smoke. He taps out that cigarette and eagerly lights another one. Yours is barely holding on. He must think of something, remember a joke, because he smirks again. 

“They also tried to put me on Metoprolol, but I told them to fuck off.”

You frown at him. “What’s that for?”

Dieter shakes his head, barely containing the smile on his face. “Fucking blood pressure medication. You turn forty-five and they wanna put you on Centrum fucking Silver.”

“Centrum? Isn’t that for –?”

His look dares you to tease him for it, all low eyes and curling lips, but you can’t swallow the fit of giggles. You snort, which makes him laugh, and then you do too. 

You laugh with him, until you remember you shouldn’t. You swallow your giggles, sipping more fervently on your cigarette, hoping your abrupt end wasn’t too obvious. 

But if Dieter notices, he doesn’t say. He watches the city skyline, contemplative.

“But of all that, therapy seems to be the thing that sticks the best.” 

You groan, smacking your palm against the railing, hunching your shoulders. “God, doesn’t that fucking suck? The one thing that actually helps is talking about your stupid fucking feelings?” 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “yeah, it really does.”

Grinning, you flick your cigarette into the concrete pot Andrew has specifically out here for that sort of thing and go to light another one, but your packet is empty. You both stare at the empty box and then each other. 

Dieter pulls on his cigarette, with a big inhale. “Well, I guess you, um, gotta go back –,”

Your past does not own you. You decide what you want. 

“Do you wanna get lunch sometime?” That is not how you should have asked that question. His eyes go wide and he’s consumed by a coughing fit. You realize your mistake only seconds too late. “That’s not a line, I swear–,”

He bats your concern away, eyes watering, shaking his head. 

“No, I know–,” he croaks. “Yes, I’d like — to catch up. No – I didn’t think it was – a line.” 

He barely gets his breathing right, your own hands knotted together, as the balcony door opens for a second time. 

“There you are!” Marie tsks. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere and –,” 

She frowns at the hunched-over coughing man in the shadows. He tries to smile at her, cheeks red, eyes wet. 

“Hi, Marie, how are–,”

“Andrew wants to make a speech.” She talks like she didn’t hear him. “Come on.” 

She all but takes you by the scruff of your neck and hauls you back inside. You wave over your shoulder to Dieter and realize you don’t have his number anymore. Haven’t had it for years. You no longer have any way of contacting him, even if you wanted to.

As speeches go, Andrew was always very good at them. Short, sweet, and to the point. He thanks everyone for coming as he stands on his dining room table, thanks the caterers and the staff. You stand in the corner with Marie, chatting with the art director you finally met until Andrew started his speech. You focus entirely on Andrew, resolutely not searching the crowd or the balcony, as he continues to welcome everyone to New York, cracking a few jokes here and there. But then the perfunctory part of his speech is over, when something thoughtful comes over his face. 

“I know you’ve all got better things to do than listen to me rant and rave, but I know each of you personally, and I’d like to say I’m so happy you’re in my life. I’d like to think everyone touches each other’s lives for a purpose. Not to sound utilitarian, because those purposes can be healing an emotional wound, or filling a hole you didn’t know was there. Or, in Jack’s case, the best damn audio technician I’ve ever seen. Thanks, Jack.” He holds up his glass as the crowd laughs. Andrew smiles and shifts his weight. He had never done any sort of acting himself, always more content to be the conductor of the chaos, but you always think he would have done well. He has a presence and it’s comforting. “Every day we interact with each other in ways that we can’t foresee and leave lasting consequences we can’t explain. That’s what’s at the heart of this story, this play we’re about to create. The effects we have on each other, how those chance meetings can have lasting consequences.” He grins across the crowd, to where you know his husband, Toby, stands. “How love is the only thing that matters in this fucking world. I really hope you remember that as we start production. If nothing we do matters, then love is the most important thing we’ll ever do.” He holds his glass high and everyone follows. “To love.”

“To love,” the chorus chants.

You’ve never been good at sitting still but this is getting ridiculous. Beneath the table, your toes curl and uncurl in your boots, rubbing blisters with your thick socks. Your teeth nibble the thinnest piece of skin behind your lip, chomping constantly like an uneasy horse chewing at its bit. You stare at the menu and read absolutely nothing. It could be written in French for all that you retain. 

This is such a dumb fucking idea. 

The restaurant is nice. Too nice for something like this. They have glass cups and plates that clink together when stacked on top of each other. The lighting feels low, even for the middle of the day. The paneled wooden walls are too stuffy, too old money. When you asked Andrew for a brunch suggestion, you never should have trusted the recommendation of someone whose idea of loungewear is a pair of hot pink Puma track pants. You loosen your grip on the leather-bound menu out of fear of breaking it in half. 

“This is so weird.” 

Your eyes snap across the table to your lunch companion. Sunglasses pushed up and nestled inside his long hair, Dieter distractedly tugs at his earring, frowning at the cream-colored menu. Everything about this is wrong. The location. The vibe. The white fucking table cloth. The fact that he’s here, sitting with you, like this is some chat with a business acquaintance –

“This is so fucking weird,” he says again, slowly. “Not a single thing on this menu looks good.”

He pauses for a moment, letting it settle, before he grins up at you. With a sigh, all the air rushes out of your chest. You smile back.

“There’s this really good hot dog cart down the road.”

He snaps his menu shut with glee. “Lead the fucking way.”

Ten minutes later, Dieter groans into a steaming chili cheese dog. You’ve found a concrete bench overlooking a small nearby park. It’s Saturday so the park is full of children and their parents, dogs and their owners. It’s . . . normal. 

“Holy shit, this is good.” He licks melted cheese off the space between his thumb and forefinger and goes back in for seconds.

You suck a drop of chili off your thumb and grin. “Found this place when Marie and I first moved here. We lived just down the road and Tony with his cart became our guardian angel. And even now, even though I live across town, I’ll still come by just for his hot dogs.”

The man, round as he was tall, waves over his shoulder, heat rising from his chunky yellow cart, and you both wave back. 

“Can Tony adopt me? Please? I clean the dishes every time, I swear.” 

You chuckle as Dieter continues to slurp every errant stream of meat juice careening down his wrist. 

“I think his other kids would object, but you can try.” 

He chews slowly, suddenly thoughtful, glancing over the cold autumn air at the vendor. “You told me once you felt like it was hard to make friends. Guess that’s not the case anymore.”

He glances at you and you finish off your hot dog in two bites, your mouth dry. You shrug. “I do a lot of things now that I didn’t back then.” 

He nods – rather, moves his head up and down rigidly – and finishes his lunch as well. You hand him a napkin and he takes it gratefully.

“But, uh, speaking of friends, how’s Heidi? Do you still keep in touch?” 

Dieter’s eyes light up. He tosses away the napkin as he takes out his phone. “They just adopted another little kid.” He scrolls through his pictures before handing it off to you.

And once again you’re struck with the weight of memories that had been at the bottom of the box for years. Heidi’s older too, her hair now completely sheared off, cut shorter even than Dieter’s, but she’s smiling. She and another woman hold up a boy who looks to be about six, while two others, another boy and a girl, sit in front of the couch. All of them smile up happily for the camera. It tugs at a soft place inside of you. 

The thing that’s been circling your mind for days lifts its head out of the churning mixture of your thoughts, sniffing the air, knowing it’s almost time. 

“Oh wow! He’s adorable!” You grin genuinely. 

Dieter smirks as he closes his phone. “Carlos. Heidi asked me to help him practice his Spanish, but I’m pretty sure he knows more English than I do.” 

“So they’re happy?”

His brown eyes fall on you like autumn leaves and your toes curl again. “Yeah, they’re happy.” 

“And Mark? Do you still keep up with him?”

Dieter glances away, biting his lip. “Um, no, actually. It’s kind of hard to hang out with someone after you’ve punched them in the face and called them a liar while being so coked out you’re hallucinating.” He picks at a callus on his palm. “Wouldn’t be the first time I lost a friend because I did dumb shit while I was high.”

You nod, the shame and embarrassment all too familiar. Plus, every memory you have of that hotel you handle with radiation tongs and chemical-resistant gloves. 

“But, uh, what about you?” He leans back against the bench, hands in his lap. Behind him, children run and scream in the cool sunlight. “Were you and Marie always friends, even back then?”

“That’s a complicated question.” You sigh and tuck your hands up into your jacket pocket, matching his position on the bench. His legs sprawl out far longer than yours. “I wanted to be her friend back then, and I tried, but then things got . . . intense, with you, and the drugs, and I stopped responding to her calls and texts. For weeks at a time.” His gaze flickers to you as you talk, between your face and your pockets. “But she was also there for me . . . afterwards. She says Heidi called her and told her what happened and she immediately came to the hospital. She just fucking forgave me. Forgave all the shitty things I had done to her, just like that. To this day, she doesn’t hold it over me and I don’t know why but I’m so grateful for her . . .” Your voice cracks and you squeeze your eyes shut for a second. You can feel the wind on your cheeks, your unspilled tears sitting in your eyes. 

You have to get this thing off your chest.

“Dieter, I’m so sorry.” With a gasp to stifle your tears, you turn to him to look him in the eyes. “For the first two years of my rehab, I thought about writing to you, or calling you. Just to say how sorry I was. I had no idea what it was like on the other side of sobriety, how every day is a such a fucking struggle, and I rubbed that in your face, over and over again until you snapped. I’m so sorry.” 

He studies you for a moment, arms crossed, dark eyes almost black in the thin light. You can hear children yelling and shrieking with glee. Faint, distant. He taps his teeth together twice before finding his answer, his jaw tight.

“That’s not why I snapped and you know it.” 

His voice holds like iron in the wispy wind. Everything blurs around you but not that. Not him. He shakes his head gently, eyes falling to the scarf around your neck. 

“And please don’t apologize to me. I don’t think I’ll be able to stand it.” 

He meets your eyes and you swear they’re damp. A shade brighter than they were before. You stare at each other, on that park bench in Brooklyn, on a cold autumn day, for a long, long time.

You have to ask it now. You can’t avoid it any longer.

“You wanna get coffee?” You pass the tremble in your hands off as a shiver. He nods, still chewing on his mouth, and you gather your trash. 

It slips out of you as casually as you slip your napkins into the trash bin. 

“How’s Chloe?”

You barely have turned around when his hand seizes your upper arm. His grip is almost too tight, his eyes wide and manic.

“Oh, shit.” He blinks as though he’d been slapped. “Natalie, I never told you – I didn’t even think – fuck –,”

“What, Dieter?” You want to pull away, but the touch around your arm is warm, thick. You peer up at him from furrowed eyebrows. “What didn’t you tell me?”

He swallows.

“The baby – it’s not – it wasn’t mine.” 

Your entire body goes slack as your mouth drops open. The hold he has on you is welcomed; the entire park is in danger of spinning sideways. 

Somehow he has the good sense to pull you both back onto the bench. Your knees buckle the second you move and you all but collapse into the concrete. Dieter releases you and rubs his hands together, leaning forward on his elbows, eyes still wide and blank. 

“How do I say this?” He murmurs and that old hurt turns to panic, to anger. 

“How to say what, Dieter?” You snap, hotly. “Just start at the beginning. Please.”

He shakes his head, tongue up against his molars, finally turning to look at you. “Chloe and I got divorced. Years ago.” He takes a steadying breath, thumbnail absent-mindedly against the black ring on his third finger on his left hand, as if to remind himself what was there. This is why no one over the age of twenty-five needs to wear this many rings, Dieter!

“Look, Chloe and I – our marriage was shit from the get-go. I didn’t want to admit it back then, but it’s true,” he says, still soothing himself with gentle strokes. “I used Chloe, like all the people in my life, like a crutch and she felt it. I was smothering her and she couldn’t get far enough away from me, even halfway around the world. She started seeing someone in Portugal and I think she was happy there. I hope so. But, uh, she didn’t want it to get to the papers that she’d cheated on her movie-star husband and got knocked up as a result, so she passed the baby off as mine. We were about seven months in when she finally told me. I don’t know if she could tell I was coming apart at the seams or she was finally ready to be happy, but she confessed. And I confessed to her – the drugs, the affair with you – all of it. I think I just wanted it to be over, done. We weren’t going to come back from something like that and I think we were both okay with it.” He stops spinning the ring and, against all expectations, grins. “This is probably kind of fucked up of me but we kept in touch for a while. She married the baby’s dad about a month after we divorced. He’s actually a really nice guy. I was even invited to the wedding, if you can imagine.” 

There must be something wrong with your hearing. He’s stopped speaking but there’s a high pitched whine nestled between your ears. 

“So you don’t . . . you aren’t . . .”

“No, I don’t have some ten year old kid running around out there,” he huffs, shaking his head. “And no, I’m not a father. Or a husband. Not anymore.” 

You say the first thing you think of. 

“Dee, that’s fucking crazy.” His old nickname slips out while your brain is offline. “That’s, like, soap opera levels of insane. That’s . . . I can’t believe . . .” 

With a massive inhale, where you can see the hot steam of breath enter into his mouth and nostrils, he sits back, hands limp in his lap. 

“I don’t blame her, you know. After what I had done, to her, to you, I didn’t have the right to be angry that she cheated on me. In some fucked up way, it made sense and it wasn’t just my paranoid, druggy brain telling me something was off. I was never a good husband, was never going to be a good father. When I think about it, the kindest thing she ever did was agree to leave me, even when that seemed impossible.” 

His massive palms smooth across his thighs, his soft hair tugged on by the wind. His fingertips stop just short of touching yours, inches from your own lap. 

“Natalie, I’m sorry I never reached out after that night. Or even years later. I lost hours of sleep thinking about what I was going to say to you if you ever let me see you again. I had all these grand plans of finding you and showing you how sorry I was. But then,” he swallows, “I realized what damage that would do and I . . . I thought it would be better if we just never saw each other again.” 

Your ribs expand out into your chest, just once, just enough for it to hurt, before everything settles.

“I didn’t try and find you for the same reasons. I wanted to, though.”

If that counts for anything.

Back then, Dieter always had a fascination with your hands. Holding them, inspecting them, drawing invisible artwork across your palms and over your veins. He even sketched them on notebook paper and post-it notes from time to time, when you sat still long enough to let him. 

You can see it in his eyes that he wants to touch you, to hold your hand, but he doesn’t. Instead, he puts his own back into his pockets. 

Anxiety churns in your stomach. There’s more he wants to say and so do you, but for now, you’re content to let the confessions of the day settle. 

It’s funny, the little things that you pull together in your mind to create an image of someone. You didn’t think of it often, but when you did, you tried to imagine him happy, with his wife and child. And now you know that’s all they were, imaginings. You wonder if you thought about it more than he did. 

The label of father for Dieter was gone, after ten long, insufferable years. You had no idea what would take its place.

“Can I ask you something?” 

When you look at him, the intensity in his gaze is lifted. Something lighter has taken its place.

“Sure.”

“Why were they called The Sixers?” 

The whiplash between conversation topics is colder and sharper than the air around you. You suddenly remember you’re in a park full of children with Dieter Bravo inches from you.

You grin at him.

“Because it sounds like the sex-ers. Like sex-havers but said fast.”

That press of skin, the dimple on his right cheek, deepens and he smiles. “Nick came up with that one, didn’t he?”

You giggle. “Yeah, but the rest of them signed off on it.”

He nods, eyebrows arching as he shrugs. “But I actually meant why are they called The Sixers when there’s only five of them?”

Not once, after a decade, after millions of memories you shifted through, pulled out and examined and held up to the light – after shifting weight and blame and shame, putting your entire life under scrutiny – after sobriety and founding the gallery and finding Marie as the best friend in your whole world – 

Not once, had you ever stopped to consider that. 

It starts low in your stomach, expanding rapidly, arching up your spine, pulling your lips open, your head back until it bursts out of your mouth so absurdly loud, you clap a hand over your lips to keep from drawing attention.

You laugh so hard, you cry. 

Dieter is bent over, howling alongside you.

When he orders your coffee, he remembers how you take it.

“Cream, no sugar, right?” He smiles as he hands you the steaming cup.

What else of you still lives inside of him? You hesitate to wonder.

You nod, thanking him, and follow him down the street. 

A brisk evening settles between the high rises and rows of brownstones. The air has a mean bite to it now, a chill that nips at the bone. But you don’t really notice it. Not with his warm shoulder pressed up against yours, the warm styrofoam keeping your fingers from numbing. You’d brought up Andrew and the discussion quickly turned to the play. Dieter gestures wildly, chatting about this role, something so different from Hollywood.

Not that he had done much in the way of the public eye after Recovery Road. Smaller stuff, indie films, a few local LA plays. Then when all that became insufferable, he wrote a few treatments for some films, scripts to movies that never saw the light of day, and sold off the rights of those scripts to keep himself busy. He even directed a short film or two, but still felt a restlessness you were all too familiar with.

“So when Andrew called, I got the next flight out. This is the first part I’ve been excited about in years.” 

You smile at him as you sip your coffee. “I’m really glad to hear that. Andrew’s a great director, I think you’ll have fun with him.”

As you led him near and nearer to your street, the conversation wove between artistic inclinations, production management, set design, character work – things you thought you’d forgotten about for the most part, but came back all too easily. You laughed easily too. 

You were laughing when you stopped in front of your brownstone, but then instantly sobered when you saw who was waiting for you on the steps. Which was intentional because she absolutely had a set of keys.

“Oh, uh, hey, Marie.” 

“Dieter.” But she’s looking at you, her jaw set and eyes blazing. “I just came by to get those invoices. Did I interrupt something?”

The back of your neck warms and you put more space between your shoulder and his. “No, i-it’s fine. Dieter was just walking me home. The invoices are in my kitchen.”

The chill of the air settles around you, tapping against the bubble you’d found yourself in after the park. You have him at arm’s length and you don’t know whether to shake his hand or give him a hug. You go with neither.

“It was good catching up. I’ll see you Monday?” 

He nods, grinning in that silly way that makes him look like a fourteen year old dumbass. “For sure. See you Monday.”

It’s not the way you wanted your afternoon with him to go, but in honesty, it was probably the best way it could have gone. Dieter waves at Marie as he heads back the way you came, towards the subway station. 

He’s not entirely out of earshot when Marie turns on you.

“So, what the fuck was that?”

You don’t meet her eyes as you fumble for your keys, your fingers numb from the cold. The door to your brownstone creaks as you stumble inside, as if irritated with you that you’re letting all the warm air out. 

“What are you talking about? We were just catching up.” 

She’s hot on your heels as you slide off your jacket, almost running for the kitchen. 

“You don’t just catch up with someone like Dieter Bravo. He knows all your weaknesses, Nat.” 

You scowl as you toss your purse onto the kitchen island. You face off with her, your hands on your hips. “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means he’s your blindspot,” she says, carefully watching your face. “Always has been. He’s not just some guy and you know it. He broke your fucking heart.” 

It had been all smiles and laughing and remembering the good this afternoon. But she isn’t wrong. She rarely was. 

She can see the understanding cross over your face. 

“Where’s his wife anyway? Chloe?”

“They’re divorced, okay?”

Marie’s mouth falls open in disgust and you cringe. Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that. 

“So he’s back in your life for five minutes, single, and you’re getting coffee with him?” 

“I didn’t know he was single when I asked him — you know what, it’s fine. I asked if he wanted to get lunch and that turned into coffee and we spent a lot of time talking about the play. That’s it.”  

She crosses her arms, reading every line in your body for secrets, as if he might have slipped you a bag of Oxy. You stare back. You have done nothing wrong and neither did he. 

(You store away the fact that this was the first time you hung out with Dieter Bravo in a capacity that didn’t have you both hiding in shadows, ready to examine later alone in bed.)

“And you can honestly say you didn’t feel anything for him?” Marie arches an eyebrow, waiting for your stony face to crack. “No flicker? Nothing after ten years of radio silence?

“It’s not like it was before,” you answer as honestly as you can. “Even if it was, I can’t imagine he feels anything but guilt over me, which isn’t a great starting point for a relationship. You saw his face in the gallery – he looked petrified, not in love.”

When she nods, it stings, just a bit. She eyes the paperwork, knowing the income and good word coming from Andrew’s production would benefit the gallery for years to come. And of course she knew – she was the one who came up with it. Would she have said yes if she knew Dieter was attached to it? Would you have?

“Are you going to see him again?” 

You wave a sweeping hand at the invoices, as if to show how the gallery and Andrew’s show are completely intertwined. 

“I have to, right?” 

Marie frowns at you, angry but not at you, and then her face softens, all fight gone, and she goes around the island to hug you. This is what saved you. This is what kept you going. 

“I know my boundaries, Marie,” you say to the crook of her neck, unwilling to look her in the eyes while you say this. “And I know what happened in the past. I’m not going to make the same mistakes.” 

She kisses your cheek. “Good because I really can’t run the gallery by myself.”

You laugh, pulling apart, and you shuffle the invoices together. “Yeah, who would you have to cart all this paperwork around?” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Bright and early.”

You wave her goodbye from your porch, locking the door after her. 

You want to google his name and “divorce” to see if it’s true. If anything he told you today was real. You want to curl up in bed, with your head under the sheets and try and piece his life without you together. But you don’t. 

That was the thing with Dieter. You want things, but you can’t have them. You have this indescribable urge, but it must be tempered. The obsession is lesser, a blindspot more than anything, now that you know your next hit and how you felt about him had been horrifically tied up into one, incessant, painful need. It would never be as bad, you assure yourself because now that you don’t have that overwhelming urge to get high; whatever you would be feeling is just good plain old human brain chemicals. And if you survived being coked out for nearly a year straight, you’d probably survive your own stupid emotions. 

You would survive Dieter Bravo. All you have to do now is be his friend.

OCTOBER

A sharp chill had descended over the city, bringing with it an explosion of color. A consolation prize for the painful nip in the air. It was too early in the season for snow, or anything to prevent the wind from being so cruel, so everyone had to bustle from one structure to the next, careful to avoid the cold that hounded them like dogs. Teeth clenched, hands clutching scarves, the streets were filled with scowls and pink cheeks, raw knuckles and frozen ears. The crowds moved faster, eager to get where they’re going, out of this cold, out of this wind that pressed unsuspecting bodies together with the force of it. It made getting out of bed, leaving the cozy warmth of duvets and covers, planting your feet on the freezing wood, almost a monumentally impossible task. Especially for those who hated mornings anyway. 

As much as you tried – really, truly, desperately tried as you sorted through the mosaic of your life, shining up as much as you could – you simply could not turn yourself into a morning person. Yawning widely, you stirred the cup of terrible coffee aimlessly, as if with enough glaring it would not only taste better, but startle you awake. 

No such luck. 

“Hey, miss, where would you like us to put these?” 

You grimace as you choke down the black sludge, pointing the workman to a far wall at the back of the stage. Six in the morning and you already know it was going to be a long day. There are supplies to organize, materials to sort out, work to delegate, but you can’t seem to climb out of that sleepy haze. It had been a while since you’d been on the set of a production but if you don’t plant your feet now, you are liable to get swept up into the chaos. 

You shake your head and blink. Focus. 

Your designs had mapped out six separate moveable pieces of extra thick balsa wood. Attached to wheels, stage hands could rearrange the pieces as needed, depending on the scene. The “walls” are light enough for Andrew’s skeleton crew, but with some shadows and shading, you could give them depth and visual weight. You just had to build the damn things first, but Andrew assured you that all of his stagehands are basically master carpenters. By the confused but eager looks on their faces, you doubt that’s entirely true. Maybe by the end of this you’ll all be master carpenters. 

Smiling to yourself, you go to help them unpack the planks of wood, but freeze when you hear Andrew’s voice unexpectedly. Assuming he’d come by when most of the work is nearly done, you poke your head around the thick black curtains. 

Andrew stands facing the house, his arms wide and mobile. You smirk at the Lululemon sweats – his version of dressing down – as he addresses the small crowd in front of him. It’s the cast, you realize, only about seven of them and in the center is, of course, Dieter, with dark circles under his eyes. He’d never been a morning person either. He has his arms crossed over a thin black shirt and he’s focused entirely on Andrew, thick brows furrowed. 

And focused entirely on him, is Emily (you finally remember her name), the cute blonde twenty-something. 

Friends help friends get dates, right? Maybe this would be a good first step.

Getting Dieter Bravo laid.

Lunch arrives well past noon, leaving everyone tired, hungry, and a little irritable. Cast and crew go off into their separate corners, looking for peace and quiet and somewhere the pounding of hammers isn’t audible. 

You’re deciding between a ham or turkey sandwich when he sidles up next to you. His plate is half a sandwich, three strawberries, and four cookies. Good to see his voracious sweet tooth hadn’t dulled even a little bit. 

You glance over your shoulder. Emily sits on the edge of the stage, munching on a bag of chips and reading over her script. With your elbow, you nudge Dieter and he turns to look. 

“She likes you,” you grin. 

He frowns, glancing back between you and the girl on stage. “Who? Emily?”

“Duh. She has eyes, doesn’t she?” 

Dieter’s mouth goes tight and he turns back to the craft’s table, suddenly interested in adding something healthy to his plate. 

“She flirts with everyone. Besides, I’m kind of out of practice.”

“What do you mean?”

He picks at a melon, noses through the box of chips. “Rehab makes dating kinda hard. Unless . . .” he pauses and puts down his plate, “unless you’ve figured out the secret to dating in rehab.”

Your neck heats again. “Um, no, definitely not. It’s been a while, for me too.”

“How long is a while?” His eyes darken as he asks. 

You are completely baffled at how quickly this conversation spiraled out of your control. 

“Dieter – I – it’s been – you —,” 

He spares you and bites the corner of his cheek. He glances over to Emily as she swings a long, bare leg over the edge of the stage. 

“I’m not sleeping with her.” You nod, dumbstruck by this complete and total opposite reaction you thought he’d have. He works his jaw before looking back at you. “Her or anyone else. Okay?”

Andrew calls the cast to the stage to review blocking before the buzz saws start up again, so Dieter is pulled away before you can sputter incoherent consonants at him. He leaves his plate with you.

“Don’t let anyone steal my cookies,” he says very seriously before wiping his hands on his jeans and heading back to work. 

What you said is true. You didn’t date anyone in rehab, the practice actually rather forbidden, and didn’t really have the inclination once you got out. It had been years before you actually tried to date anyone, but most of them ended after the first awkward hug goodbye or when he tried to put his hand up your skirt at dinner. 

You hadn’t been a nun this whole time – you weren’t a fucking saint – but there hadn’t been anyone, anyone who really mattered in, years. For the first time, that struck you as odd. There wasn’t time, you reason with yourself as you watch him cross the stage on Andrew’s direction and jot notes in his script, his hair sticking up in all directions as if a cat’s tongue had licked him up the back of his neck. With moving to New York and starting the gallery and then running it, expanding it, there just simply wasn’t time to find something to fill that giant, gaping hole in your life. A hole you didn’t seem to mind or even notice, until Dieter came back. 

Okay, maybe, friends didn’t need to help friends pick up dates. He didn’t seem interested anyway. 

You pick up his plate, careful to not spill his precious sweets, only vaguely aware that his first inclination after loading up his lunch was to come find you.

🤍 Next: Part 2 + Epilogue

[ladyelainehilfur]

Yay!! I'm happy to see an Odd Girl Out reader who analyzes the story and really understands the characters (I read your blog post about your fave webtoons). How are you feeling about the hate Seungha is receiving? Many comments under each episode are about Chanyang being the best one for Nari and how Seungha is awful and how they'll drop the story if Chanyang x Nari aren't endgame. The way Morangg is writing Seungha's story saddens me not just because it is a sad story but because the author is incredible in fleshing him out, giving him so much development since the very beginning of season two, but the readers are too caught up on how he broke Nari's heart, refusing to see that Seungha is depressed and suffering just as much. So many shippers are focused on the romance and not the depth of the characters.

first: super sorry for answering this so late. I'm really glad to hear you enjoy reading me ranting about the comics I read :P

I believe the hate Seungha's receiving is from people who strongly relate to Nari and take her heartbreak as theirs. Seungha was in the wrong for refusing to communicate with Nari about his problems, but if Chanyang did the same thing, he might be disliked as well. People just don't like to think a guy they're in a good relationship with will turn on them for any reason, even if the reason is good.

Personally, I do prefer Seungha and Nari be endgame. As far as depth of character, Nari is much more suited to Seungha than Chanyang. We're experiencing Chanyang's backstory right now in the Korean updates, and while he's just as fleshed out as Seungha, his reasons for liking Nari still ring hollow in comparison to Seungha's. They both find her attractive, but like I've stated before, Nari is literally everything to Chanyang. His motivation, his happiness, his reason for living. It's not healthy and I don't want Nari to feel responsible for his growth as a person. He plants himself in various places in her life and some readers don't see that as problematic because his intention is romantic. Chanyang skipping school and running around the city to find her bookbag did display an admirable commitment, but also...that's crazy. Reckless displays of affection can be good, but he did it without thinking. Nari has that kind of influence over him, and that's just not it. I still like him as a character, because he does have a certain simple charm and humor about him, but he's simply not cut out to be a good long-term partner for her.

On the other hand, Seungha's brief time dating Nari without being her boyfriend showed how well they work together as a pair. I've heard people say they had to separate because Nari needed to come into her own as a student leader, and I don't disagree. She hadn't necessarily become reliant on him, but it did truly hurt her when she could no longer depend on him.

I think a lot of readers misinterpreted his decision to team up with Yurim. Admittedly, the optics of running for president against Nari while teamed up with her enemy were horrible. At that point, Seungha's main goal was to become the school president so his dad would "want" him and consider him as good as a biological son. He disregarded Nari's history with Yurim to achieve his goal because he felt had no other choice. He didn't know his parents would love him either way. His arc of coming out with the fact Yunha had been abusing him, and spending time away from his family to find and recenter himself was long. He didn't think Nari would stick around, and he didn't want to drag her through it anyway, so he wrongfully pushed her away instead of confiding in her.

Neither Chanyang nor Seungha are good at talking about their problems and feelings. Chanyang will make drastic decisions to solve his problems without telling the people he should so they're not in the dark, and Seungha does more or less the same. It's too bad that communication is Nari's main pull, because she does NOT like having to play detective. Chanyang could be dating Nari right now if he just told her about his messy family history, and I'm pretty sure she and Seungha would be half way to married if he'd just spilled about the abuse. Yunha would no longer be with us, but it would be a small price to pay.

However, it doesn't erase the good that happened when she and Seungha were on the same page. He met her where she was, he listened to her problems, and he supported her in the PR department when no one else did. He didn't blindly agree with everything she said, and in fact, he often challenged her. When she ignored him due to social pressure, he didn't let his feelings cloud his judgement or let that pressure get between their friendship. Like, when that man wants to fight for something or someone, he fights. He's not currently in the position to impose his feelings upon Nari, and he's not trying to, but they've made up in what has to be one of the cutest, goofiest ways I've seen a pair of characters perfectly suited for each other make up. (Spoiler: they both cried with each other).

I'm not sure what the author's intentions are with either Chanyang or Seungha at this point, but I've got a feeling this upcoming school festival arc is going to play a big role in determining who ends up with who. Nari slowly learning about Chanyang is leading up to something, as well as Seungha openly giving her full control of the organizational committee despite being school president. To me, the willingness to support Nari as a leader, while being a leader himself displays every reason why Seungha should be endgame. Neither of them consider each other above or below each other--they're equal partners.

I'm all for Nari putting herself first and deciding not to date anyone, but I hope she gives turtle-candy-loving, competitive-af, meticulous-date-planning, sometimes-cringe-fail Seungha a chance. I also hope she gathers enough information to give Chanyang a definitive, final answer concerning their relationship.

[alagaesia-headcanons]

Hello! Finally scraped together my courage! I love how you talk of the inheritance cycle and i have a lots of feels for that saga, it's the first fantasy i have EVER read.

As you have probably guessed i love Orrin and kind of appreciate Murthag, but my favourite character is Jeod.

Could you talk a bit about your thoughts on him? I find him an incredibly fascinating character (and he wields a RAPIER. that's the BEST WEAPON.)

lots of love! i really like your blog!

Hello hello!!! Thank you so much, I'm glad you enjoy my stuff and I'm glad for the ask as well!

I really like Jeod! He's one of my favorite background characters. I think it's especially refreshing that he's not emphasized as a warrior and the most important contributions he makes are through his scholarly studies. In that way, he really balances out the main characters who are very focused on the war and the battles. And the way he encourages his same sort of curiosity and joy for books and learning in Eragon is very sweet, and I wish we could have seen more of it. Overall, Jeod simply comes across as very heartfelt, I see him as one of the more caring characters with the way he so readily goes out of his way to help- joining the Varden to steal the egg in the first place, helping Brom and Eragon without hesitation, and giving Roran and the others from Carvahall the chance to reach Surda. He does all he can and it's very endearing.

I also have an old headcanon deep in my heart that Jeod had a long standing and ill fated crush on Brom. In the beginning, the mysteriousness and intrigue that his brisk, guarded manner evoked drew him in, and then he came to admire his sharp wit experienced confidence. It started as a little crush, light and guileless. He never had the courage to mention it and Brom, always forging ahead and never slowing down, didn't give him much chance anyway. But the feelings stayed with him and they slowly transformed into something more sincere- a quiet, persistent pining. But Jeod still feared saying what he felt and Brom always regarded them as colleagues, or sometimes friends, and if he recognized anything else in Jeod's heart, he turned a blind eye to it. Jeod told himself maybe he would finally say something more after they settled the matter of the missing dragon egg, but then Brom died. At least Jeod believed so. Too little too late. When he married Helen a few years later, it wasn't his most thought out decision and he always carried a bit of guilt for never loving her quite the same way he loved Brom. After Brom suddenly appeared on his doorstep again, Jeod almost told him, but it still felt like too late. He was married now, and he could sense that wherever Brom's fate led, it was with Eragon and Saphira, not him. And lo and behold, he lost Brom a second time months later, a more gentle heartbreak than the first, but still poignant.

But on another note I've been thinking about lately, if they'd gotten a proper opportunity, I actually think Jeod and Orrin would get along very well. Of course their shared interest in academics and research and learning would give them common ground and draw them together, and I picture them going back and forth discussing their various areas of interest for ages. And I rather wish that the sort of support Jeod gave Eragon could have been shared with Orrin as well because it would really suit both their characters and could have been a very touching and significant exchange. Orrin's interest in science is very genuine and passionate but it never receives any encouragement in canon and I can really easily see that coming from Jeod, who deeply understands and respects the drive to learn, telling him that his work and skill are admirable and valuable. Also, I can only imagine how jealous Orrin was of Jeod during the war lmao.

Jeod: oh haha I'm not much of a fighter anymore so I help the war effort with my scholarly knowledge, studying books to find things that might help! :)

Orrin, through clenched teeth, vibrating slightly: god I wish that were me.

[llondonfog]

Book 7 Spoilers but consider: If potion!au somehow took place after book 7, MC would definitely be helping rescue Silver. He saved them in the dream world so I can’t imagine MC wouldn’t be at least a little loyal to him. Also they’ve experienced brainwashing courtesy of Jamil, I doubt they’d let anyone suffer under that, let alone someone they care for. With Silver kidnapped their friend, Malleus, and his guards are miserable.

And really, after book 7 no one would expect the magicless human to be helping the Briar Prince and the Dread General. MC can play the kidnapped by fae and treated terribly card thanks to Crowley and OB!Malleus, which may soften Andrei to them slightly. Who better to keep Silver away from his family than a poor child who suffered the same fate? This allows MC to befriend Silver. Meanwhile MC is reporting everything they see back to Diasomnia, and also trying to subtly jog Silver’s memory. If Andrei catches on it would look really bad for him to attack the kidnapped, defenseless friend of ‘his’ ward. In the meantime, poor Silver is confused about why a talking mouse is fretting over him in his dreams, and why that mouse FaceTimes his magicless friend through a mirror.

IDK. I just want MC to be able to thank Silver for protecting Grim and them from Malleus and his Lotus-Eater machine. I blame this brain rot on your delicious angst and that promotional line where Silver says he feels as though he has met the MC before.

TLDR: Silver is best boy so Prefect joins the save Silver team and uses their magiclessness to help him.

Thank you for listening to my ramblings, and have a great day!

(ok first things first, thank you so much for enjoying my little au??? so much so that you took the time to provide all of these wonderful thoughts and divergent possibilities??? i was so giddy when i saw this come in while i was on my work trip this week, i couldn't wait to answer it <3)

oh my goodness— i've never really considered a 'timeline' for when the potion!au would take place, but the way it would be even more heartbreaking after the events of chapter 7, ESPECIALLY with these hints that are being built up about silver's ancestors and their potential relation to lilia and malleus' own unhappy pasts??? could you imagine how raw it would feel to have silver be stolen away from them by the guards of his royal family, after he had sacrificed and suffered through so much just to bring the diasomnia family back together?? how fresh the memories of loss must be for malleus and lilia regarding the humans that they were fighting against in briar valley and the devastation and destruction they caused both to their land and to the royal family— now they must contend with the fact that silver is possibly descended from that same family, and they've all of a sudden emerged to whisk him away from the very fae that love him for who he is, not what he represents? aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

but to your point about MC!!!! so you may notice that my fics don't really address the mc/yuu, and that's mainly because i really don't feel personally involved when i play the game, i'm mostly invested for the characters— but you bring up an excellent perspective that i've never considered! based on their journey together so far in ch7 and what we can expect to continue, i definitely think that yuu grows very close and extremely fond of silver, especially once they understand his relationship to the diasomnia clan and being part of how that plays out in real time over lilia's decision to leave their side. and i fully agree that they'd probably be one of the first to catch on to what's happened to silver, that something about him has been deliberately altered by an external force, because there's simply no way he'd abandon his family after all that he went through to protect them.

i love the idea of yuu using andrei's perception of the situation against him in order to regain silver's trust and confidence— it's beginning to play out so very similarly to how silver had to wake everyone up in the dreamworld, only this time, the tables have been drastically turned. and oh, how it hurts yuu to see him this way, to know how desperate and impassioned he was to save his father and sebek from such similar fates in malleus' dreamworld. they would certainly do anything and everything in their power to jog his memory, even trying their best to convince him to stop taking the potion that's suppressing his true memories from returning.

silver truly is Best Boy and he really does deserve a true friend in yuu after ch7 is over— who would have guessed that they would face such trials together, and bond as two humans out of place and time, struggling to realize their role in the world that they've found themselves in?

[tomorrowxtogether]

Mini Moments: Backstage With TOMORROW X TOGETHER

The boys of TXT take us backstage as they prepare to perform for their fans, MOA (meaning “Moments of Alwaysness”)

In the next installation of our MINI MOMENTS series, where the world’s biggest stars give us an exclusive, behind-the-scenes glimpse at their career milestones, MINI V caught up with none other than the boys of TOMORROW X TOGETHER, as YEONJUN, SOOBIN, BEOMGYU, TAEHYUN, AND HUENINGKAI chatted about the world of Neverland, their collaboration with Coi Leray, and their recent tour.

MINI V: After listening to The Name Chapter: Temptation, I realized the EP’s concept seems to revolve around the theme of “Neverland.” How would you define Neverland?

SOOBIN: In theory, Neverland can be a sort of paradise for children, where kids are free from worry and responsibility. But our take on Neverland within our EP takes a different perspective. It says that Neverland stunts your growth and prevents you from following your dreams.

TAEHYUN: Neverland, for us, represents moments of temptation. We’ve all experienced, at one point, the feeling of wanting to prolong our childhood. Growing up comes with great things but also pains, and sometimes we don’t want to worry about all that in the moment. But what we all understand is that we keep going because there is so much more to experience down the road and we’ve still got a long way to go. We’re very eager to live and experience our youth to its full potential.

MV: How does this EP reflect and take inspiration from your own personal lives and individual journeys, especially after being in this industry for a few years?

BEOMGYU: Our music is one continued narrative of growth. We’ve depicted different stages of our youth through each song and album—we’ve discussed friendships, love, and heartbreak, which are all common experiences of our generation. Right now, we’re at the cusp of adulthood, or a much bigger world. We wanted to be genuine about this point in our lives because we know there are many youths who feel something similar and are stepping out into the world.

MV: What inspired you guys to work with Coi Leray on the track “Happy Fools (feat. Coi Leray)”? Can we expect to see some performances with Coi?

YEONJUN: Coi is truly special. We love the bright energy that her voice brings to the track. “Happy Fools (feat. Coi Leray)” is a very special song for me, and I’m very thankful that it came together as it did. I wouldn’t change a thing about it.

HUENING KAI: “Happy Fools (feat. Coi Leray)” is the perfect combination of Coi’s rap lines, YEONJUN’s melody, and all our lyrics. We’d love to have Coi hop on stage with us. Let’s see.

MV: How are you feeling in these moments just before kicking off your second world tour?

H: It’s been a few months [since we last toured] and we know how long our fans have been waiting. We can confidently say that we carry just as much, if not more, excitement. We can’t wait to jump on stage and per- form for our fans all over the world. This second tour is a lot bigger than our first, so I’m glad we can meet up with even more of our lovely MOA.

MV: What can we expect from this tour, especially when it comes to the choreography, stage visuals, or setlist?

Y: Our newest setlist of course includes tracks from our newest EP. The Name Chapter: Temptation has been met with so much love, and I’m really glad we can finally bring the tracks on tour. The EP also definitely carries the group’s unique musical color, and the choreography and stage visuals also strongly reflect our identity.

T: I also want to say the fans can expect the best because that’s what we hope to give them. We want our MOA to have an incredible time and enjoy our music with us. Being on stage is our favorite part [of the process], and I’m very happy we can share such a special thing with so many of our fans.

MV: What advice would you offer MOA, or even youth in general, about how to conquer the challenges of transitioning to adulthood?

S: There’s no one set path and sometimes you may feel like you’re circling around the same place without prevailing. But every step has a piece of thought or effort that counts. It may feel obscure, but you’re already getting there.

B: Also, it may help to know that there are others who feel the same way you do. If you think about the fact that we can all relate to and empathize with one another, maybe it will all feel easier.

[checkoutmybookshelf]

"You're a 15-Year-Old in a Bespoke Suit and Nobody Died!"

Well...it wasn't quite that nobody died, Angeline (honestly it's a miracle that Holly doesn't have a complex about beloved CO/mentors dying on her watch), but based on Artemis's reaction to you buying him jeans and a t-shirt, it's fair to say that we might need to recalibrate expectations. Let's talk Artemis Fowl and the Atlantis Complex.

If this is your first time with us, please be aware that THIS IS A SPOILERIFIC ZONE below the break!

Headings worked so well for me the last time that we're going to keep going with them here, because there is a lot to talk about for this book!

Turnball Root

They say that every good villain is the hero of their own story. You flip the perspective on Turnball's story, and it's a twisted version of Romeo and Juliet surviving to become Anthony and Cleopatra. Just with more black magic runes.

Turnball makes me so, so sad as an antagonist, because you don't fall in love and enthrall the object of your affection while hanging on to the signs of your glory days if you have any level of self-worth and self-respect. Opal Koboi revels in her own inflated sense of self-worth, but everything about Turnball screams that he has some deep unresolved issues with himself as a person. That makes it really hard to enjoy him as a villain the same way I enjoy Opal, but I appreciate the nuance and weight and depth to his character that the massive red flags herald. If something had gone just a little bit different, if Turnball had been confident in his worth and his value, he could have been much more like his little brother. Julius Root was not perfect, but self-worth was not an issue he dealt with.

Artemis says it himself at the end of the book: Nobody wins when Turnball is "defeated." Anthony and Cleopatra have died by their own hands, and neither Rome nor Egypt are better for it.

Leonore talking Turnball down and basically saying he can help her or stop her is also heartbreaking, because it's so, so clear that she would have loved him without the thrall rune and--again--if Turnball had had the confidence to let her love him on her own, they could have been happy without the evil schemes and separation while Turnball was in jail. Leonore doesn't get a whole lot of character development in her own right, which makes sense for a middle-grade/YA-ish book that just doesn't have the space to develop yet another secondary character, but she's compelling in the sketch we do get, and I believe that Turnball would actually throw everything over for her. His last words in the book are in service to Leonore and Leonore's well-being as he helps her. He couldn't have done anything else, and that choice says so, so much about what could have been.

For me, Turnball is ultimately a tragic figure who was covering his own insecurities and self-loathing with sheer drama and villainy. He absolutely does bad things, and I'd even go so far as to say that he's a bad guy, but the tragedy is that he simply did not have to be.

The Atlantis Complex: Artemis and Orion

Ok, so my book is literally about representations of physical and mental disability in Shakespeare, but this freaking book manages to be more nuanced and more real in terms of the fact that mental health is COMPLICATED. Experiencing it is complicated. People's reactions to signs and symptoms of mental illness is complicated (and often objectively ableist and shitty). Everyone involved is often trying their best, and often it's just not enough. Sometimes it is.

While I was conceptualizing this review, I spent so much time going back and forth on minutiae: What was a positive representation, what was a negative representation, who said what and was it hurtful or not, the nuances of having symptoms in life-or-death situations. It got to the point where I could have written an entire post just about this, but then it occurred to me: I don't have to do that, because if I'm going back and forth this much and if there is so much evidence for both positive and negative representation, then the book isn't trying to do one or the other: it's simply allowing Artemis's mental illness to exist in the story. Which is MIND BOGGLING since so many stories--if they deign to mention disability at all--make the disability the whole thing. Frankly, Colfer pulled off a story where Artemis experiencing psychosis during a life-or-death situation was just...part of the story. It wasn't the main focus, it didn't warp the rest of the world and the plot around it, and it acknowledged the complicated peice where it can be both a help and a detriment in the situation.

Basically, it was allowed to be messy. And it was allowed to be complicated. And it was allowed to be emotional. But nothing derailed the plot.

There was also something really interesting that I'm not going to articulate terribly well here because I'm still processing it, but I want to at least nod to it. In terms of negative and harmful stereotypes about mental illness, Colfer manages to do this thing where he acknowledges that they exist, and there are moments where characters lean into them, but almost as soon as they do, another character pops up to call bullshit on it. For example, at one point Foaly makes a (totally in-character) crack about Dr. J. Argon strapping Artemis into "the crazy chair," and then immediately calls himself out on having said something absolutely shitty. "Crazy" is an ableist term, but it gets tossed around all the time in the real world. For Foaly to make the crack and then immediately walk it back isn't something you see often, but I think showing the crack, immediate self-correct, and then improved behavior going forward is critical. Humans are imperfect, but to self-correct and change for the better is important, and showing that is rare and I really appreciate it.

Ok, I'm going to stop ramling in circles about something I'm still processing, and move on to talking about Orion. I'm going to treat Orion as a separate character here, partly because the book does and partly because I am a) not an expert in mental illnesses and b) do not personally experience any and I don't want to speak from experience I don't possess. What I do want to say is that writing Orion as a blatant charicature of a fantasy medieval hero is AMAZING and HILARIOUS and holy cow I loved it so much. The contrast with Artemis is excellent, and the fact that ORION took Butler's lessons to heart was fabulous.

Artemis and Angeline

The other amazing relationship in this book is Artemis and an Angeline who knows exactly what Artemis's deal is. Between telling Artemis that girls are frightened of him because he's "a 15-year-old in a bespoke suit and nobody died" and her insistence on him spending at least two days a week in the jeans and t-shirt she's bought him, Angeline is absolutely fabulous.

Artemis and the Butlers

Oh Butler...dear heart, you get done so dirty by the son of your heart in this book. You were hired to be a bodyguard and what Artemis needs more than anything in this book is mental health support. You've done well with his mental health so far, but this is so, so far outside your wheelhouse. And then Artemis is one of perhaps three people on earth who know how to actually hurt you, and he DOES. He pushes you away, he invents a threat to Juliet, and then worst of all, he takes away your trust in him. Butler needs therapy almost as much as Artemis does in this book, and it's just crushing to see their relationship take this pounding. When the bullet is your principle's brain, a bodyguard cannot stand between bullet and principle.

On top of all that, Butler has to make the phonecall to Angeline explaining that Artemis has Atlantis Complex. That is one of the worst possible phonecalls to make, but he does it and he does it with grace and compassion. Domovoi Butler is objectively too good for this world.

Juliet Butler is out here living her best life, and frankly we love her for that. She's loving the hell out of her professional wrestling career, and she's found her own feet to stand on, not only with Butler but also with Artemis. She quite rightfully calls out his bullshit a couple of times, which is just delightful. She marries the girly/feminine stuff with the totally badass (and traditionally coded masculine) beautifully in a way that finds joy in both. So many "strong female characters" are strong because they reject everything girly/feminine, but Juliet gets BOTH. It's my favorite thing.

And her match against a dickhead gnome at the end is A+ no notes.

Holly and That One Time She Dated Her CO???

Ok, so I don't actually have a whole ton to say about this except...OMG OMG OMG HOLLY AND TROUBLE WENT ON A DATE!!!!! Which has to be immediately followed up with "Is this how Holly's complex around beloved and respected commanding officers dying horribly on her watch manifests?" And then naturally we have to side eye the absolute hell out of Trouble Kelp because dating subordinates has got to violate workplace ethics. Not that either Holly or Trouble have a great relationship with the rulebook, but Trouble is in charge now, so....Broski. Meet rulebook.

Now, all of that said...I am so mad that this date happened off-page. I would have killed to see it. Especially if Grub showed up at any point in the evening.

Finally: Artemis asking if Holly and Trouble have any plans to bivouac in the near future is INCREDIBLE and deserves both a slow clap and a slap.

A Brief Moment to Hate on Ark Sool

Ark Goddamn Sool full-on went to the dark side. He is MERC-ING for Turnball Root. He doesn't even have the scrap of integrity or loyalty to join the crew properly, he's in it for the goddamn money. We HATE Ark Sool. So. Freaking. Much.

Butler crushing him to death is better than he deserves, but it is IMMENSELY satisfying.

Concluding Thoughts

Overall, I have a lot of affection for this entry in the Artemis Fowl series. It has a complexity and a humor to it that I actually don't think any other book in the series has ("I'm the nut!" anyone?). It does sort of bring the arc of the series as a whole to a grinding halt to have a tragedy about Turnball Root and give Artemis Atlantis Complex, but I'm not mad about it. There is some really damn good character work here, and it paces quickly enough that the book really rocks on by as you read.

[citrus-cactus]

Oof.

So, here’s a big ol’ braindump of thoughts now that I’ve finished the Digimon Survive Wrathful route…

(MAJOR SPOILERS under the cut!!)

So I’ll admit, the only thing I knew for sure going into this route was something bad happens to Saki and something something Aoi something something Plutomon. That’s it. I did NOT expect Aoi and Labramon to become one entity (Plutomon) and that Plutomon would speak with Aoi’s voice. That was INCREDIBLY rough (not to mention the fact that she could not ultimately be reasoned with, that she leaves your party early in the route and goes through this incredibly destructive thought process as a way to process her trauma. That the remaining kids would eventually say—multiple times— “That’s not Aoi. Aoi is gone. That’s a monster.”

Aoi’s journey to becoming Plutomon was interesting (and heartbreaking… wow, everything from the Library on was just so rough). What really surprised me was how much Aoi/Plutomon talked about harmony and togetherness (the irony!! The Wrathful and Harmony routes seem so wrapped up in each other). Kaito’s position as the character with the most significant connection to Aoi was also a huge surprise. He was the real MVP of the Wrathful route, and his self-awareness (having full understanding that if Miu had died instead of Saki, he would be going through the exact same thing) was giving me multiple head-exploding moments. I have not played Harmony. I know, roughly, what happens (about the same for that route as I did going into Wrathful), so like… yeah. I kind of know what happens to Kaito, and those parallels are powerful. It stings, even without me experiencing it first-hand. I am curious if there is a similar connection between Kaito and Aoi in Harmonious, and if Aoi ever admits she understands what Kaito is going through. I really can’t bring myself to play that route though. Wrathful was rough, but somehow I picture Harmonious being so much worse. I’m gonna read full spoilers for that one, and then move on to Truthful.

The other thing I found interesting from a story-telling perspective was just the choice of making Aoi the final boss, and what became her very… toxic maternity, I guess I’ll call it? The absolutism by which she wanted to rule, saying it was in everyone’s best interest to be absorbed, being “benevolent” to Takuma and co. by giving them warnings about opposing her (treating them as misbehaving children, essentially), and finally tricking them so they would weaken the Master for her so she could finally absorb him completely… just, whoa. I can’t say I’ve ever seen a piece of media that has gone there, and showed the whole journey of that sort of “my-way-or-the-highway” thinking from a character who is not only very sympathetic and relatable, but suffers so much from low self-esteem and the expectations placed on her—and is, ultimately, a high-school girl. I can kind of understand why this route is some people’s favorite. It’s dark, surprising, and challenging, and it gives me a lot to think about…but it’s just. Too sad. When Aoi stopped appearing on the start screen, it kind of broke me. To say nothing of Labramon. The fact that we only get Plutomon’s assurance (who always speaks in a distorted version of Aoi’s voice) that Labramon agrees with Aoi’s methods, when Aoi never really confided these thoughts to her partner… I wonder.

I am beside myself to unlock Anubismon on the next playthrough. I have to see these two get the happy ending they deserve.

Also, WHAT HAPPENED TO GARURUMON??!?! He just disappears. I can guess, but… AAAAAAUGH!

And in this route, it all comes back to Saki. What Saki thought (or didn’t think) what Saki felt (or didn’t feel), and Aoi spiraling over what she could have done to prevent Saki’s death (while somewhat disregarding Saki’s agency in the matter, interpreting Saki letting go of her hand as a REJECTION of Aoi, and not as an accident or a choice made in order to save Aoi’s life). Absolutely obsessed with the mythological themes surrounding these two: the pull between life and death, the fact that Floramon evolves into Ceresmon (goddess of grain, Earth and life) and Aoi becomes Plutomon (god of the Underworld). The liminal seasons (spring and autumn) represented by the flowers we see in the game (cherry blossoms and red spider lilies), and within the Professor’s own name (Aki=autumn, Haru=spring). Life beginning. Life ending. I was obsessed with these themes just from playing the Moral route and getting vague spoilers that Plutomon was associated with Aoi. This route both solidified my thoughts about them and made me reconsider some assumptions I had made before I played it!

The other interesting thing (I told you there was a lot to think about!) is how thematic the Wrathful route is to the choice you make at the branch. If I’m remembering correctly, the trigger for the Wrathful ending is “I want to stay with Agumon.” Between what happens to Aoi and Labramon (becoming one), what Plutomon’s ultimate goal is (merging all human and kemonogami consciousness into herself, so they can ALL “become one”), and the epilogue (where Takuma and co., alongside their partners, are essentially freedom fighters in a world where both humans and kemonogami coexist, NOT PEACEFULLY, I might add)… yeah. Much like Moral emphasizes getting everyone remaining out alive, Wrathful’s narrative really embraces “together with your partner” in every sense, through all permutations of what is and could have been.

OOF.

[dent-de-leon]

just some personal thoughts on Mollymauk comic and his relationships that I kinda wanted to put out there somewhere:

I don’t know. In those early days, Molly just feels so young and innocent and impressionable, and…I feel bad, because there was something kind of offputting to me about him falling for someone much older with all this worldly experience? Which I think is a shame, because she's such a fascinating character that I'd love to see more? (I also can't really tell if the relationship is intended to feel uncomfortable, or if that's just my own personal feelings on it, it might just be that.)

They're at very different stages in life though, and I wonder if the relationship is more so meant to represent Molly falling in love with life in spite of how brief and full of loss it can be. But anyway, it just struck me as heartbreaking that he immediately falls for one of the first people who was ever kind to him. Like he couldn’t help immediately latching onto her and getting so attached. Feeling so empty and craving any sense of connection and intimacy.

I wonder if he falls in love with Lestera partially because it feels like he’s experiencing life and relationships for the very first time, and to him the lines between an apprentice and student relationship and platonic love and romantic love all kind of just blur into one. And he just knows he feels very strongly for her, and longs for a sense of connection to drown out the clawing emptiness. "Bond" is one of his very first words, and he says it on the first night he meets her.

There's a sense of him kind of trailing after her like a lost puppy in the beginning. And even as he starts to regain his sense of self and finds peace and confidence in his identity, it's very clear that this feels like the first time he's ever been in love. There's very much a young foolishness to his romantic heart that just hurts--he's so optimistic and earnest in how he loves. Like he thought they would be together forever. Like she becomes this constant in his life he was once so dependent on--until he experiences his first real loss.

It hurts so much to lose her, but. At least--probably because she's lived such a full, happy life--he's not entirely consumed by that grief, and is able to celebrate the time they had together and look back on it fondly. Not the way Lucien is so broken up over Brevyn that he shuts down completely, tries so hard to forget about her and never so much as speak her name again. But Molly weaves aspects of Lestera's memory into his own identity, carries her cards and his coat and makes them both his own. Is able to still find happiness and joy even after losing someone so important in his life.

But it's nevertheless so tragic, that both Lucien and Molly are shaped by someone they loved--someone they lost. What does Mollymauk learn about love then? When he grows so dependent on someone and is willing to dedicate his whole life to them, only to have to lose them in the end? Both relationships end in Molly having to watch them die, alone and left behind.

Molly and Yasha are family, kindred spirits. Platonic soulmates. But I think there is a bit of truth to that moment early on when Molly is playfully teasing her, lets himself be a bit more honest and tries to brush it off as a joke. That moment when Yasha says she won't let him risk his life for others all alone, and he giver her a wink and says, "Suppose I could use the company. I am recently out of a relationship the hard way..."

He's teasing, smiling. But it betrays a core truth--he doesn't want to be alone. Taleisin said that Mollymauk being a romantic is an intrinsic aspect to all his lives, the one constant he always builds his identity around. It's so tragic, that Molly is perhaps the most hopeless romantic of all the Nein, and yet he's the only one aside from Caducues (who has no interest in romance and no desire for it), that never gets a happy end with a loving partner.

It's sad, seeing the Reunion, and how everyone else has found a love to build a life with, except for him. He's alone. Again. And I can't help thinking of how Molly falls fast and hard in every life. How he's swept up in his feelings for both Lestera and Brevyn so quickly. How he wakes as Kingsley and takes one look at Caleb and it's, "Oh. You're cute, Magic Man." "Magic Man--looking good." Biting his lip and fond teasing and letting his gaze linger on a someone his heart still remembers.

Thinking of Molly calling out to Yasha first when he's resurrected, to his dearest friend and the angelic soul he sees as Love--but it's still Caleb he turns to immediately after, the second person he tries to reach for. The one who fought so hard to save him in that final fight, who poured his whole heart and soul into that resurrection ritual, desperately hoping to see him again. Magician. Thinking of Lucien's last memory of his lover, and how it immediately bleeds into Molly's memory of kissing Caleb.

How he never got the chance to tell his magician how he really feels. That even in the end, he thought of him as "softness and light" and held onto the sensation of kissing him like a lifeline--knowing that their time together was very brief, but it still meant something dear to him. Like how he he still treasures his time with Lestera even after he's begun to move on.

Thinking of how Caleb still longed to save Molly throughout the entire final arc. How gutting it is that he still loses him in the end. Molly never got to say goodbye to Lestera, and when he kisses her for the last time, she's already gone. Caleb never got to say his farewell to Mollymauk either. And when all his magic and hope has failed him, when he has nothing left to give, he offers Molly one last forehead kiss, even though he's already cold and gone, lying lifeless in his arms.

And I can't help but believe that those feelings Molly carried for Caleb in multiple lives still linger, the way they did in that final episode of the campaign. And it makes me so sad--especially in light of that conversation where Orym says he doesn't have anyone--that there is no one waiting for Molly. That he falls hard and fast. Once, twice, thrice, and it ends in death every time. The fact that he never even got a chance to tell Caleb how he feels. And I just want to see a moment where Kingsley and Caleb explore those lingering feelings, where King is ready to let someone back into his heart again. Even if it's just for a moment, for one more forehead kiss. I just want this Circus man to find happiness.

[heliads]

All By Design Chapter Ten: how'd you turn it back around?

Y/N L/N is Icarus incarnate, a falling star of a singer who only feels bliss when she’s burning down. Nikolai Lantsov is what becomes of golden youth when finally forced into harsh reality. Both of them need something to save their reputations. The solution? A relationship to turn the tide of the tabloids. The only problem is that they really, really can’t stand each other, and that makes faking endless love impossible to bear.

this chapter's song: labyrinth

chapter nine / series masterlist / chapter eleven

You wake, and for the first time in a very long time, everything is alright. There are no hounds baying at your door, no bullies screaming for you to give in and become some treacherous person that everyone will finally have permission to hate. All there is left to do is live, breathe, and cleanse yourself of every scrap of hatred that had once taken root in your heart.

The reason for the bright feeling between your ribs, the lifting of an unbearable weight from your shoulders, happens to come in the form of one golden young man. Nobody knows that he has tied himself to you again, not right now. At some point, you’ll have to let the public know that their favorite toxic couple has finally laid down their weapons and decided to stop the war. You’re living in the fragile peace of no one knowing quite yet, though, and that’s enough to let your stress ease away for the time being.

The sunlight is warm, filtering into your apartment in delicate swathes of white. You clean up your space and take stock of your fragile heart. You do your best to mend what you can and remove the worst parts with heavy metal shears. Your hopes are pinned up high, kept in place with barrettes and bandaids from a girl who used to be you. You’re getting back to her, you think. You’re getting back to who you want to be.

Nikolai is part of that, but not all of it. Yes, he made you realize that you don’t have to be the divisive personality that the world seems to see you as, and him coming back to you was a blessing like nothing you’ve ever experienced before, but you’ve been doing some of the heavy lifting yourself, too. You did your revenge album, but it’s good from here on out. Catharsis is quiet, it always has been. The loud sounds and dark lipstick never last forever.

Even if everybody just expects you to bounce back after every heartbreak and setback and wrong turn, it hasn’t always been easy for you. For once, though, you’re making your peace. Instead of planting seeds of conflict and treason, your gardens are blooming over with the sweet blossoms of contentment. You are doing fine. That is the best revenge of all.

A knock at your door makes you smile. Nikolai reclaimed his key with all the delight of a school child on Christmas morning, but he still waits for you to let him in every time. Part of him still believes that you haven’t quite forgiven him, that at some point you’ll grow tired of the charade and stop letting him come around. You want to tell him that your ruses are up, and so you do. You don’t think he’ll ever tire of hearing it.

Nikolai’s grin is bright when you open the door. “Lovely to see you,” he beams.

You laugh as he sweeps inside. “It’s a little early for that much charm.”

“Nonsense,” Nikolai says, reaching for a vase from one of your cabinets so he can place some freshly brought flowers inside, “Charm has no limitation for early mornings. If anything, it should just make it even more exciting.”

You walk over to examine the bouquet. “Is there a reason you’re plying me with bribes such as these?”

Nikolai pretends to pout. “I can’t just give flowers to the girl I love? Can’t I be happy that I recently got you back and leave it at that?”

At your raised eyebrow, he sighs. “Alright, maybe there’s a motive.”

“Isn’t there always?” You comment with a wry smile.

Nikolai gives you a look. “Your confidence in me is overwhelming. It’s not a bad favor to ask, all things considered. I was just wondering if you’d like to attend a premiere for my new film in two weeks’ time.”

“We’d go together?” You ask.

The rest of the question goes unanswered. The two of you have been flying under the radar ever since that night at the charity gala when you finally confessed again. It’s been wonderful, but the hiding has admittedly been hard. If you show up with Nikolai to his premiere, the paparazzi will capture the final proof that you’ve gotten back together in all the glory of a thousand different camera angles and far too much flash photography.

At first, the idea of your newly reborn relationship being under that much scrutiny makes you flinch, but you suppose it would be nice to stop running from the idea of being caught. Nikolai had to take a multitude of side streets to even reach your apartment so he wouldn’t be spotted coming up here. Even if you had to be on the receiving end of more media attention as another frenzy was cooked up, being able to stop looking over your shoulder whenever you tried to kiss your boyfriend wouldn’t be all that bad.

So, after one last moment of pondering, you nod. “I’ll go.”

Nikolai’s smile widens, if possible. “Really?”

“Really,” you confirm, “I can face the world, Nikolai. I’ll have you there with me.”

He kisses your cheek to seal the deal. “Tell me what color you’re wearing, I’ll pick a matching tie.”

You laugh at that. “Now, if that isn’t the pinnacle of romance, I’ve been living a lie this whole time.”

Nikolai snorts. “I try my hardest. Only the best for you, my love.”

By your side, your phone comes to life with the buzz of an attempted call. You deny it without a second thought.

Nikolai notices the movement. “Do you need to get that?”

You shake your head. “It’s just Aleksander, not a concern. He’s been trying to set up a meeting for a few days now. I’ve been bothering him because I simply refuse to show up.”

His brow furrows. “That sounds like a concern.”

You wave your hand dismissively. “It’s not a big deal. I released the album, I’ve been keeping up with press conferences. He doesn’t have anything on me that I really need to do. I get to ignore him as much as I see fit.”

Nikolai smiles, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Well, I won’t argue if you’re fine with it. I happen to be perfectly alright with being the sole focus of your attention.”

You decide that you’re perfectly alright with it, too. The rest of the world disappears when you’re with Nikolai, you can’t help it. After so many months of back and forth, finally having him here to stay feels better than anything. Who could focus on business at a time like this?

Although your attachment to Nikolai remains as strong as ever, you can’t deny that your nerves grow more and more tense as the day of Nikolai’s film premier grows closer. You’ve faced the media storms before, but the relentless surge of questions once they see you with him isn’t going to be easy.

The two of you are in a car right now, being driven to the premiere under the light of the crescent moon overhead. Nikolai squeezes your hand once, twice, as if he can tell exactly what you’re thinking. You wouldn’t be surprised if he could.

“Are you sure it’s alright that we’re doing this?” You ask, “your director won’t be mad that we’re causing a scene at his premiere?”

Nikolai shakes his head decisively as the car comes to a stop outside the red carpet. “He has a fondness for drama when it comes to public events like this one. Trust me, he’s just fine with it.”

Then he’s stepping out of the car and walking around to open your door as well. Although the cameras were already starting to capture him by the time Nikolai arrived, you swear the shutter speeds triple when you reveal yourself as well. The collective jaws of everybody at the premiere drops, and you can practically read the thoughts racing through their heads. Y/N’s here? With him? They’re together again?

You can’t linger by the car forever, and you take Nikolai’s offered arm. He’s the perfect gentleman as always, and although your acts have never been anything but stellar as well, you can’t deny that you’re growing steadily more unsure of yourself on the inside.

The camera flashes go off constantly, blending the outside world into an endless smear of blinding white. You can study your reflection in the massive lenses of the paparazzi, and although you look completely unconcerned, Nikolai is just as able to see through you as always.

“It’s going to be alright,” he whispers as the flares pulse around you, “just keep your eyes on me.”

“When do I not?” You murmur back.

He grins at you. “Perfect answer.”

A few minutes more and the two of you are walking away from the cameras. You don’t know that you’ve ever been happier to descend into the mouth of the beast and face the interviewers and the rest of the film cast, but at least now you can see decently. You went to a few press events with Nikolai before the breakup, but nothing so severe as this. You wonder how he puts up with it, being so exposed before the world. Then again, you suppose he thinks the same thing about you.

Eventually, the two of you are seated with the other celebrities in attendance to begin the film. Although you swear you try to pay attention, you can’t seem to focus on the movie when Nikolai is sitting there beside you. Neither of you have to talk, you just exist in the quiet peace of knowing that the person you love is with you at last. The darkness surrounds you, cutting you off from the eyes of the world, but Nikolai’s hand is intertwined with yours and you are not alone. If you play your cards right, perhaps you never will be. It is such a wonderful dream that you never want to let it go.

The media response to the sight of you together with Nikolai is strong but thankfully mostly positive. Although the two of you swore that you’d love each other no matter what, the ugly truth is that a public downfall would be more than either of you could bear. At this stage in your careers, a lack of media support spells certain failure.

Just in case, the two of you reached for advice before taking things public. You and Nikolai had briefed Zoya, Tolya, and Tamar before the event. Although both of you might have been lost on each other, you hadn’t completely gone insane, so your PR officers were made aware of what would go down.

You hadn’t known what to expect from Zoya when you told her you were getting back together with Nikolai, but you had thought that she would have some sharper words to say. Instead, she almost seemed pleased. If you didn’t know better, you’d think that she had been waiting for it to happen.

Zoya may have been aware of your change in relationship status, but the rest of your team wasn’t. That night, you went home to about half a dozen missed calls and many confused text messages. Your coworkers were stunned by the news, but those who knew you best seemed more accepting of it. A few said that you were so much happier when Nikolai was around that it was more surprising that you would ever break up with him in the first place.

In all honesty, you think they’re right. Although you’ve spent weeks and months certain that Nikolai didn’t love you in the way that you loved him, coming back to him felt more right than anything before. In the end, was there really any way that you could let him go? Nikolai, the one man who truly tried to understand you, who could understand you because he went through the same damn things as you did. As if you could ever be apart from him for long.

He does check in frequently after the premiere, just to make sure that you’re both handling the increase in media attention as best you can. On one of such visits, the words of your coworkers must still be resonating with you, because you find yourself turning to him for answers.

“How’d we get so lucky?” You muse, “of everyone in this world, all the duplicitous fakes and self-righteous backstabbers, how’d we manage to find each other?”

Nikolai smiles. “Don’t say you’re getting philosophical on me already. I thought we’d have at least a month or two until that point.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll try to refrain from it again. I’m just curious, that’s all.”

Nikolai nods slowly, then chuckles to himself. “I think the universe has a way of connecting us. Do you remember the first time we met?”

“The party?” You ask, confused as to why he’s bringing it up.

During the initial relationship ruse, you and Nikolai had gotten to talking, and you happened to get onto the topic of that first gathering of celebs and stars. You didn’t even think he remembered it was you there at all. You only kept that memory around as a way of hating him in the beginning– he stepped on your heel, you wanted proof that he wasn’t as perfect as he always pretended to be, and it served as a good enough reason to justify your own dislike of him.

Nikolai had remembered, as it turned out, but he isn’t thinking about that moment now.

“No,” he says, “earlier than that.”

Your brow furrows. “That was the first time we ever spoke. What, did we both show up to an awards show at the same time or something?”

Nikolai laughs to himself. “No, we actually spoke this time. I didn’t think you remembered. It was a very long time ago.”

You lean closer to him, perplexed. “When was this? I really thought the first time we met was at that party.”

“The first time you met me was at that party,” Nikolai comments, “I was someone different before that.”

You frown. “I’m not sure I follow.”

A self-satisfied grin spreads across his face as Nikolai remembers. “Let me do a better job of explaining. Do you remember doing the press tour for your first solo album? One of your stops was in this small coastal town in the middle of nowhere. No one important usually stopped by that city, but for some reason you did anyway. Maybe Aleksander was trying to make a point, who knows. Regardless, you were there. You were trying to navigate your way back to your hotel but you got lost in the process.”

Your eyes go wide as you start to put together the pieces. It has been a long time since then, Nikolai was right about that. You were a teenager, barely getting started with music, hardly used to the idea that she could go out on the street and have total strangers recognize her face. You took a few wrong turns on the way back after an interview and ended up completely confused.

That situation could have gone quite badly, but instead you ran into a boy about your age. Time has long since dulled most of the details from his face, but you still remember the flash of his eyes, half hidden under strands of copper hair that had been needing a trim for far too long. He’d cruised through the streets and alleys as if he knew each of them like the back of his hand. 

When you arrived at the door of your hotel, you had turned around to thank him, but the boy was long gone, disappeared into the darkness like he was part shadow himself. You’ve long since forgotten the encounter due to the stress of the rest of the press tour, but now that Nikolai mentions it, the memories come flooding back all at once.

You laugh aloud. “That was you? That can’t be. Your hair was red and you were in the middle of nowhere. How the hell did you get there?”

Only the boy from that waterfront city could possibly know about that incident, which is why he has to be Nikolai, but that’s the only clue you have that they could ever be the same person. For one thing, their appearances seem totally different. The boy from the water’s edge had a certain roughness to him that Nikolai lacks. You remember an outlandish teal coat that completely clashes with the manicured suits Nikolai wears today. They have the same sense of humor, though, snappish and quick like flashing blades. You swear you can still detect the scent of seawater.

Nikolai smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “That was a, uh, different time in my life. I tried to run. I got sick of all the rules that come with being my parents’ son and I left. I dyed my hair and did my best to change my appearance so I couldn’t be found. Took up a life with the convicts and criminals, all the sorts of people that you’ll never find here. The worst part is that I still miss it.”

He has a nostalgic look on his face, staring past the walls of your apartment as if he could reach the sea by just searching for it enough. You know enough of attempted escapes to tell him that he’ll never be able to find it again, though. Once left, any normal life is gone forever. If Nikolai was able to have it for even the span of a few months, that’s impressive enough, but it is lost to him for all time.

You exhale slowly. “So you had what everyone wanted, a chance to get out. Why would you ever return?”

Nikolai sighs. “This world wasn’t done with me yet. Tolya and Tamar found me and gave me enough reasons to leave my hideaway. My family needed me. They were making more mistakes than usual and the sharks were closing in. I didn’t want to ever come back here, but sometimes duty outweighs any dream.”

You reach out and squeeze his hand. “But you had it. Maybe, when we get old and the world forgets our names, we can go back. You can dye your hair again, we’ll live a life that no one knows about.”

Nikolai chuckles. “You promise?”

“I do,” you swear, “once our work is done, we’ll leave. No more of this.”

He pulls you to him, and you stand there with him quietly. You can hear the beating of his heart, relentless of the tide, and you wonder why the Saints seem so keen on weaving your stories together again and again and again. You certainly don’t hold it against them, but most people don’t get this lucky. They only get one chance, but by now you’ve had several. You can only hope that you’ll be able to make good use of them.

You could have stood there forever, head tucked into the curve of his shoulder into his throat, but Nikolai’s phone goes off with an alarming buzz. He groans and tries to ignore it, but a second message comes in mere seconds later, then another, then another.

You straighten up when, down the hall, your phone starts vibrating frantically with an incoming call. Locking eyes with Nikolai, you can feel your pulse start to race. “What’s going on?” You ask.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know, but if we’re both being contacted, it can’t be good.”

Nikolai takes a few steps away, grabs his phone. You can see him scrolling through dozens of messages even as more roll in by the second. Your phone is in the other room and you feel paralyzed with fear, so all you can do is just stand there and wait to hear his verdict.

It comes soon enough, with all the deep terror of feeling the end of days finally arrive. In all likelihood, Nikolai probably spends only thirty seconds or so collecting his thoughts before he manages to speak, but it feels like years. You know before he so much as opens his mouth that all is not well, not anymore.

Nikolai’s face is pale as he stares from the bright light of his phone screen back to you. His eyes raise slowly, and when he finally dares to voice this terrible realization aloud, he does it with the slow horror of someone who knows their entire life is about to end.

“Y/N?” He says slowly, “Something is wrong.”

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