#i think its an unmovable constant of my art and the way i draw and the way my hands move. the untrained eye doesnt seem to be as aware

[bmpmp3]

dysgraphic artiƨts risɘ UP!!!!!

[jlemonster]

rant i hope nobody that knows me irl ever sees bc I'm trying my best to be nice but at heart im. a bitch

(hi this is future me after writing it all: it turned into a longass ramble, someday I'll make an essay about it xoxo)

context, im studying at an Visual Arts school to be a Professor.

so

i have this teacher, who's a gay balding fat man (listed here as all positive traits), that had the potential to be one of the best kind of people, and a immensely good reference point for me as a young queer, but terribly ruined his chance of having a great personality by being Such A Cunt- he's pedantic in a way that's extremely clear he's upper class? his connection to art is so, academic, sterile, rehearsed, unmoving.

his view of art sucks so much ass, his politics are lame as hell, he doesn't like me bc I'm too outwardly queer. I feel like that's where we differ.

He's a cis gay man and I'm a fag.

He's a contemporary artist, his work is up in museums, for the 2001 crisis he was in Spain, his husband owns a restaurant, his art costs him millions of Pesos to make. The mediocrity of an upper class privileged white man transcends barriers.

It feels as if he came to teach us, at our public, falling-apart school just so he could be Better? bc back in his social circles, of high-paid artists and museum curators, he's just, another artist. But here he can come and talk about being in chapels and museums, and getting private tours and whatnot. And still not get it.

We had a debate in class, which i accidentally started by asking him if he tought the things that little kids made were art. as in, finger painting, spontaneous scribbles and doodles and so on.

He said no. He then went on a hour long explanation about his perspective and i hated every second of it.

In his eyes, for something to be art, and somebody to be an artist, there has to be extensive studies. of the medium, of the message, of the materials, of their meaning and associations and history. and a longass etcétera

so i asked a bunch of questions, one of them being- if i sing to a baby while holding them, rocking them to sleep with a lullaby, am i not singing? isn't it music? well, not for him!

at my core, the structural belief that paints everything i ever feel, is the intrinsic, base perspective that Art is an extension of humanity. that it is inevitable, that it is a beautiful thing and simultaneously, the most mundane. you cannot have humanity without art, it will always be a consequence of Us.

I've always struggled to feel human, to connect with my peers under the label. but there is not a single thing that brings me so close to it as art- as the footprints of billions of no-longer beating hearts that needed to exteriorize that impulse. to me art is a necessity, it is a heritage, its culture, its a language, a constant part of our lives, the best thing we will ever have. its the medium in which we trust to connect with ourselves and others and transcend tongue, reach across it and feel-

i tear up with cave paintings, with the sheer humanity of reading about how we can discern somebody was being taught to paint. Inmensurable lifetimes ago, a kid was held up on a caretaker's shoulders to reach up the wall, and they left a little drawing by which they're remembered here, now.

across everything we've been, we've had this beautiful thing- and to hear a pedantic fuck categorize it with the most, eurocentristic language possible BOILED MY BLOOD SO MUCH STFU DUDE

I tried my autistic best to be respectful and have A Conversation, but ultimately i caved in and confessed in a murmur: "that's so sad". the idea that you'd look at a child's painting and think its not art. the idea that you have to be Good to be considered an artist while you sing, dance, perform, create.

he obviously didn't like that i said that, and took it personally.

the day after this, i learned this info that he, the snake, said to one of my friends the Ever So Old discourse of being One of the Good Gays, that doesn't have to Shove It into People's Faces. That he doesn't need to validate his identity in front of others (bullshit. you do nothing besides seeking a public to which profess how great of an artist you are). so i feel less bad for dunking on him so hard :] as i said to my class while we were complaining and gossiping about it: sad that the 12 years he spent in therapy trying to convince himself he was a good enough artist didn't leave any room for him to work on being a better person.

so yeah. im making the 7 pieces for next class all about me being a faggy lil tranny, and about the inherent nature of art and humanity as a symbiotic conversation. and present them while wearing a skirt n thigh highs- maybe get a facefull of make-up while im at it! idk the night's young and im full of queer and artistic rage

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

Heyyyy! SO as a local comteologist- okay sorry lmao 😂 I was wondering! Could you maybe write about an mc that is very affectionate? Because I am like that and I would give my ALL and just everything for someone I love. So, maybe the guys are pretending to be asleep and they hear mc admitting her undying love for them? I don't want to burden you! So, I think Will, Jean, Leo and Napoleon would be fine :D

I love you! And please take care of your self cuz corona is a hondje- sorry lmao

Have all of my uwus my lovely, I relate HIGHKEY I’m ungodly affectionate irl~

You take care of yourself too! Tyty 💖💖💖 nothing to apologize for I love a good clowning, esp if Theo gets clowned in the process 😂😂

And never apologize for using my esteemed title I will die on this Comte-thirsting hill (☆｀• ω •´)ｂ

I hope these attempts bring you joy! 

William Shookspeare:

Our v creative playwright boy was just vibin’. He had a long day at the (obnoxious thespian voice) theater and while he loves the art with all of his being, the man is t i r e d. MC was late to bed and while he prefers to wait for her to join him no he is not horny perish the thought he just started dozing off from the exhaustion. He’s not sure when the lights go out, but he feels an immeasurable warmth around him. Faintly, he can make out a voice murmured at his ear, a gentle hand running through his hair. (I s2g if this bih says “Puck?” I’m gonna smack him for MC)

“Had a long day, hm?” He’s only just coming to, and can’t muster the energy to reply or open his eyes. “I’m sure this next performance will be the best one yet! You surprise me every day, Will...”

“Try not to work yourself too hard, sweetheart. Your work may one day be the world’s greatest marvel.”

He wasn’t sure what it was about the words that made his lips tremble. Was it the praise that always seemed to flow forth at a moment’s notice, the real kind he was so unaccustomed to? Or was it that unshakeable calm; her faith in him unmoved by any fear or doubt--the kind that made him wonder briefly if she was dull all those years ago. Now he was just thankful it was still here, no matter how undeserving he may be.

“But you will always be my entire world, my greatest marvel. I love you too much to let the world have you.”

Jeanne D’Arc (REEEEEE MY GOODEST BOY OTL):

It was early one morning, frost blossoming in fractals along the transparent surface of the bedside window. An inevitable, biting chill lingers in the room while the sun is fighting to climb past the horizon, its time so limited in these winter months. She watches as the light casts a gentle gray over the bare walls--something she promised to remedy soon--so reminiscent of how he appeared to her at first. Pure and bright, but still fighting off a darkness she knew so little about.

The thought made her draw him to her protectively, careful not to wake him up as she tucked him close to her heart. He was so warm, even despite the frigid weather. A product of his time as a soldier? She was never sure, but she was always touched by how often he used that warmth in service to her. 

She remembered earlier the other day, when she returned home from some grocery shopping with Sebas. Concern was overflowing from his stoic face--it was there if you knew where to look for it; his eyes a little more narrow, the line of his mouth closer to a frown. All at once his hands were reaching for hers, relieving her of whatever she allowed him to carry while walking into the kitchen alongside her. When Sebas stepped out again he took her hands in his, pressing them along his face. She had cried out, knowing her hands were freezing--it had to be painful to warm them in such a way. But he only smiled that beautiful smile to quell her distress, the one that always took her breath away, and insisted he could do no less.

“The same goes for me too, though, Jeanne.” she looked at the fierce mark on his face, so unworthy of someone so gentle. She resisted every urge to soothe her fingers across it, loathe to wake him up. She didn’t notice the fingers that twitched at her hip, his signs of stirring subtle. “Whenever you need me, whenever you can’t think of a good reason to walk out of this room. All you need to do is find me, okay? I love you so, so much.”

Leonardo Da Binchi (no i will not apologize. he deserves to be clowned, glorious moron):

Once again her lover was gloriously strewn across the library floor, arms crossed and fast asleep. An exasperated smile found her face at the sight. Perhaps it would have been a surprise at first, but nowadays she would just roll her eyes and walk past. Sometimes, if she was feeling forlorn or a little reckless, she would climb into his lap just as he was. He seemed to enjoy being woken up that way though, so of course she couldn’t give him the satisfaction every time; a woman likes to change things up. And sometimes she was too busy to spare the time.

Even so, the slowly dimming shadows under his eyes were a relief to see. While the celebration of his birthday could only be a blessing, she knew what a double-edged blade it could be. It invoked so many wounds that hadn’t yet healed. While she wished he would share that burden with her--however heavy it may be--she slapped her own cheeks lightly at the impatient thought. Give him time...

“I know you think you have to carry everything alone. And in some ways, it’s something I admire so much about you--the way you always seem to know just how to move forward. Like nothing can shake you.”

She leaned down close to him, bracing herself against the bookshelf as she pressed a kiss gently against his temple. “But know that whenever you find yourself wavering, or even if you just need a place to rest, I’m right here. I’ll always be right here. I love you so much more than you think, Leonardo...”

She stopped herself before she could finish the thought, knowing it wasn’t what he wanted to hear: “more than my own life.”

Napoleon Bonaparte (oh my little lion man...):

They were spending a nice afternoon in the courtyard, as a lovey-dovey couple do, and they went under the veranda to find some relief from the midday sun. Surprising literally no one, our sweet emperor started to doze after some yummy tea time snackies--drifting asleep against MC’s shoulder. She adjusted a bit to change the angle of the lean, making sure he wasn’t putting too much pressure on his neck. Little puffs of air made her bangs flutter as he breathed low and even, and she smiled.

He’d had a guard jobs back to back recently, which meant precious little time to spend with him. Restless and quieter than usual, she had suggested a little stroll together around the courtyard; admiring the flowers and telling him about the books she’d been reading to fill the silence of those lonely nights. It wasn’t long before he started to smile more, snickering when she gave ludicrous summaries of the characters and plot. 

Early that morning she had taken the time to make perfect tea time sweets, fully anticipating--and hoping--it would encourage him to rest. So often he would be worried about her missing out on things or trying to plan more elaborate dates, but if she were honest she didn’t care much for extravagance or constant excitement. These tender moments where he could trust her (and the mansion’s perimeter) enough to fall fast asleep, no nightmares in sight, was enough to fill her heart with so much joy.

“I know you can’t help but want to do everything you can for the people around you; protecting and serving others is your life. I never want to be a reason you feel you need to stop doing that.” She murmured in the silence, playing with the buttons on his coat with a faint smile. “But even so, remember you always have a home to return to. More than that, no matter how powerful or skilled; you’re also one man. A man I love more than anything else in this world, a man I always want by my side--if he’ll have me, that is.”

She took the hand that was entwined with her own, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of his palm as his lashes trembled. “I love you, Leon. Whether I see you every moment of every day, or only in stolen moments between assignments. That will never change. There will be times where you belong to the whole world, but this” she placed a hand gently over his heart “will always belong to me. Let it lead you home to me, sweetheart.”

And because I can’t help myself, I added Comte, Mozart and Vincent:

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (he’s the melody I can’t get out of my head DON’T LOOK AT ME):

Despite all of his promises to quit his bad habits, she opened the door later that evening to find him fast asleep against the covered keys of the piano. His shock of white hair was nestled comfortably against his arms, piled together as a makeshift pillow. The sight made her think of those long, long nights in college; thinking you’d close your eyes for a minute--only to be adrift in seconds. 

Smiling wryly, she reached into a nearby closet to retrieve a blanket before draping it gently across his shoulders. Torn between waking him up and guiding him to bed or leaving him be, she decided on the latter. She got the feeling that waking him up would only mean “a few more minor edits” to the composition he was working on, leaving sleep an afterthought. While she knew he often couldn’t help himself, she didn’t want him neglecting his health all the same. 

She’d be back with some hot chocolate in a few hours, just how he liked it.

As she was about to slip back out of the room, the hand at his elbow clumsily grasped for hers resting on the covered keys. Heat bloomed across her face, ears burning as he clung to her warmth. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.” She sat down on the piano bench carefully, trying not to jostle him awake. “Your music will never stop being the most beautiful and soulful sound I’ve ever heard. But even a mind as impressive as yours needs plenty of rest--even more so, I’d wager. You work yourself too hard sometimes, Wolfie.” She leaned until her shoulder brushed his, “But I’ll always be here to make sure you don’t overdo it too much. Sweet dreams my only love.”

Vincent van Gogh (he’s babie your honor):

MC was on her laundry rounds, Vincent’s aprons now thoroughly washed and folded for his use once again. She knocked on the door murmuring a greeting--though fully anticipated he might not respond. While he was usually so sweet and attentive, it was almost like he became an entirely different person when painting. Utterly serious, intensely focused; any attempts at speaking to him would require many tries before he came back to himself with a beaming smile. 

She sighed dreamily, easily picturing it. His eyes would always be stunning, a cerulean to rival the calm waters of the Mediterranean Sea. But in the midst of his greatest passion? They burned bright enough to make her forget the rest of the world existed.

Trying not to embarrass herself on unsteady feet, she opened the door cautiously to find his easel abandoned. Shocked, she scanned the rest of the room until she found him strewn across the couch; a blanket haphazard in its provision of cover. With a gentle smile she stored away the fresh aprons in the dresser before she approached him, kneeling close to the couch so that she could tuck him in properly.

He let out a pleased little huff before shifting slightly in his sleep, body angled in her direction. There was a faint smile on his lips, evidence of what was likely a pleasant dream or peaceful rest. She traced the outline of his ear cuff with insatiable fingers, eyes glistening a little when he nuzzled into the faint touch--trapping her between his cheek and his arm. 

“You’re more precious to me than anything else in this world, Vince,” the murmur was barely audible, he didn’t stir. “I can’t imagine my life without you, and if I’m honest--no part of me really wants to imagine it. This warmth is the greatest gift I’ve ever known; thank you for choosing to share it with me. I love you so much, sweetheart.”

Le Comte de Saint Germain (SAN GERUMAN HAKKSHAKKU):

Every day is a long ass day when you have 10+ children (yes, Leonardo, you are in that child count I hope you’re happy >:| ). For all his half-hearted complaints about the exhaustion and noisiness though, he loves his bubs, and wouldn’t have things any other way.

Even so, it doesn’t stop the delighted giggling that shakes her shoulders when she finds him fast asleep in his favorite armchair. His tie is undone and askew, head lolling to the side--any attempt at his usual poise long forgotten. While she most often found him to be charming and delightful, she loved it even more when he felt comfortable sharing these parts of himself too. 

She set aside the tea she would always have prepared at this hour and reached for the coat he had draped across the opposite chair, settling it carefully over his form. Resisting every urge to join him--Sebas would need her help preparing dinner--she carded a hand through his hair, tucking it behind his ear so it wouldn’t tickle him while he was asleep.

He was so lovely like this, face unmarred by the weight of several lifetimes that found him when he was awake. No matter how early she rose when they were together, she rarely ever got the privilege of seeing him a little drowsy, lost to rest as he was now. She brushed light kisses to his eyelids, smiling when he half-sighed her name.

“Tuckered yourself out did you? You big worrywart.” She resisted the urge to find his hand and entwine it with hers. “I promise to watch over them, so rest easy, my dearest love.” She played with the collar, tucking him in further. “I know everyone here is precious to you. But remember that you’re the most important person in my life too,” she leaned her forehead gently against his. “While I love to see everyone get along, I love to see you happy and well-rested even more. You’ll always be the only one for me, [insert Comte’s real name].” 

Bonus continuation because I still can’t help myself apparently, somebody please take my laptop away from me:

Arms like steel bands enclosed her in his embrace, a sleepy exhale washing over her ear as she shivered a little at the sudden warmth.

“Mm, ma cherie, surely you didn’t think you’d get away with that kind of teasing...”

“But I wasn’t teasing you! I was completely serious.”

Laughter shook his chest and hers too, making her melt at the undisguised affection in the hands that settled her close to his heart.

“Then you must be punished for such foul play. To think you would ruthlessly attack me while asleep, bien-aime.”

“And how might I atone for this egregious indiscretion?”

She could feel him smile against her shoulder, the rascal. “Stay here a little while longer with me.” As if he had any intention of letting her go. Not that she minded, honestly.

“Threaten me with a good time.” she mumbled, stroking a hand soothingly along his back as they closed their eyes for a while.

A few more minutes couldn’t do any harm, could it?

[stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale]

with you [chapter four]

Summary: Clementine pops the question, Louis has nightmares, Violet can’t let go of the past, Mitch doesn’t know how to handle gross feelings, Ruby’s a goddamn sweetheart, Willy doesn’t ever remember to knock, Aasim can’t dance, and James is here, too.

Nothing like a wedding to bring this family together.

Note: tbh working on this story at night is the only thing holding my sanity together while I’m taking care of my grams. But also this chapter was a huge pain in the ass to fix and I’m 0.02 seconds away from punching a hole in the wall. But it’s fine because it’s finished and I ran all the way home just to quickly post this. 

Anyway, thank you for reading and your constant support. It truly means a lot to me. I hope you enjoy ch4. ❤️

Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4

Read on: AO3

---

The page remains blank.

No matter how much Violet wills the pen to move on its own, to put all thoughts both known and unconscious to paper, it remains beside the open notebook. As outrageous as it sounds, a small part of her hopes one day the pen will magically come to life and solve all of her problems with its problem-solving ink. Then everything will be okay. 

Though she has a feeling the walkers will go extinct before her pen develops a sentient personality or therapeutic skills. 

And she’ll be dead by then, so it wouldn’t matter anyway. 

“It helps if you pick up the pen,” Aasim said, not bothering to look up from his own work. “Just saying.”

She knows even by his deadpan tone that he’s trying to joke with her, even if he’s not good at it. Laying bait for her to bite back with a sarcastic remark of her own. 

“But then I’d actually have to write something down.”

“Oh no,” Aasim smirks, paying her a brief glance. “Effort.”

That cracks a small smile out of her, and for a fleeting moment, they’re smiling at each other as if that’s a normal thing. It’s hard to maintain that connection, so damn hard, so Violet hides her smile from him by turning away to look towards the gates.

The very same gates that Clementine, AJ, and Rosie pass through. Back from patrol, if she overheard correctly. Even from a distance, Violet can see the delighted grin Clementine wears, a grin only matched by AJ’s. Far brighter than Violet’s. 

AJ hugs her tightly before breaking away and bolting towards Louis, James, and Tenn. Clementine remains, though, arms folded over her chest as she watches the group of boys with such fondness that it damn near makes Violet want to scream.

Shit, just…. Shit . 

“Hey,” Aasim reaches over, tapping on the blank page of her journal with his own worn-out pen to grab her attention. “Lucy had her babies this morning. Seven of them. Well, eight, but one of them didn’t make it.”

Violet tears her glare away from Clementine to instead glare at Aasim. 

“Who the hell is Lucy?”

“One of the pregnant rabbits, remember? Not the one that had babies last week, the other one.”

“We’re still naming them?” Violet asks. Aasim made it very clear that no names were to be used when they started up the rabbit farm by the greenhouse. 

“They’re food, not pets. No names. No attachments.” 

That didn’t last long.

“ I didn’t name her,” Aasim corrects. “Willy did, even though I’ve told him again and again not to. Now when it comes time for us to put Lucy down, he’s not going to talk to me for another two weeks, as if I’m the only one at fault. Remember Albert?”

“Ah, Prince Albert,” Violet nods. “He sure was delicious.”

Everyone agreed that the lovely Prince Albert was one of the handsomest rabbits they had with his snow white fur offset by brown feet and ears. They also agreed that he made one of the best rabbit stews Omar’s ever created. 

Including Willy. That is until Omar offered him one of Prince Albert’s lucky feet and Willy realized just who he had consumed. 

The boy didn’t speak to Aasim or Omar for a week, but Violet believes that he still carries around one of Prince Albert’s feet for good luck, despite everything. 

“Yeah, anyway, did you want to come with me to check on them? Ruby’s out there now. Maybe you could stay with her and help out?”

Violet scoffs. 

“Look, I’ll take your night shift, too,” Aasim adds. “That way you don’t spend all day out there and then have to do a night shift.” 

“I like having the night shift.”

“Every night?”

“Sure.”

“Well,” Aasim taps his pen against the table, thinking loudly to himself. “I’m giving you the night off anyway. Ruby would appreciate your company.”

Oh, would she, now…?

It’s not that Violet minds Ruby. She’s the only girl Violet has left to talk to at this place- the only girl she’s willing to talk to, actually. 

Violet would say that she enjoys evenings spent with Ruby… most of the time. 

The problem with talking to or spending time with Ruby is she’s a lot. Not in the same way Louis is, but more in an overbearing mother sort of way. Always asking her how she’s feeling, asking about her day, if there’s anything she can do to help Violet out or if she wants to do this or that. She’s far too pushy sometimes, especially when it comes to shit she doesn’t understand. 

“Clem’s tryin’, Vi.”

As if Ruby has all the answers to make her happy. She always makes it sound so damn easy. 

“Why can’t ya just talk to each other?”

The problem is that Ruby tries to take care of everyone so that she doesn’t have to think about how to make herself happy. Why focus on your problems when you can bury your pains and wishes beneath fairy tales and other people’s problems?

At least, that’s Violet’s assumption. 

Maybe Ruby is happy. 

Maybe Violet just wishes she wasn’t. 

Fucking hell. 

Just when she thought she couldn’t be any more fucked...

“My company or yours?” Violet mumbles, finally picking up her pen, putting it to paper. 

“What? My company- oh, I see.” Aasim rolls his eyes, dropping his pen in the book before shutting it. “Ha ha, very funny. I get it.”

Violet nearly rolls her eyes, too. Speaking of those who don’t bother with their own shit-

“I was thinking that it’d be good for you to go out there and help her, that’s all,” Aasim says, tucking his notebook under his arm and standing from the table. He means to walk away on that annoying note but hesitates. Then, lowering his voice to one of disquiet, he says, “I’m worried about you. So is everyone else.”

“I’m fine, Aasim.”

“...Right,” he sighs heavily. “Please go help Ruby with the rabbits. I’m only going to be there for a little bit before heading out to check the traps with Louis, and she could really use the help. Please?”

“Fine.”

Aasim lingers, shifting his weight as he gives her a chance to say something more, a chance she refuses. 

“Thank you.”

With that, he’s walking away, leaving her by herself to finish a doodle of a pen with curly hair and fire for eyes with a speech bubble. 

“Why are ya still here?”

---

“Is my neck supposed to feel this stiff?”

“Yes. It’s a sign of a good, unmoving model.”

“Well, good to hear that my career is off to a good start.”

Louis is still sitting there at the table, cracking jokes and trying his best not to move while James and Tenn draw. James points to various parts of Louis’ face before motioning to Tenn’s paper, something that brings a grin to Clementine’s face. 

“Don’t worry, Clem,” says AJ as he hugs her. “I won’t say anything. Can I go draw now?”

“Have fun, kiddo.”

She can safely leave AJ to catch up on art lessons with James. He promised her he wouldn’t breathe a word of this to anyone- even Tenn- until she had everything all planned out.

Now that Mitch has the measurements, the ring is- hopefully- being taken care of, so all that leaves is how she plans on doing this. Several lingering thoughts follow her as she spends most of the day helping around the school, doing usual repairs to the gate and their walls. 

She would’ve checked on Lucy and the other rabbits, but Aasim warned her that Violet was there with Ruby and Louis. She almost pushed him aside and went in anyway, but damn it, she knows better by this point. 

Instead, she and AJ help Omar clean out the fire pit and gather fresh wood, briefly considering letting him in on her intentions. Omar’s a trustworthy friend and while she appreciates his opinion, she decides against telling anyone else until she has the ring. She’s found that battling her eagerness to be growing more difficult with every passing day. 

So much so that she also considers asking about the progress on said ring when she finds Mitch and James near the library’s entrance, speaking in hushed whispers that she couldn’t make out. All talk stopped when she approached them, and began again when Mitch became snappy with her before dragging James away. 

Odd, and not boding well for her, but she firmly believes that if there were any issues she should know about, Mitch would tell her.

When the sky finally turns a lovely mixture of pink and orange, AJ gives her a hug goodnight before making his way over to Tenn’s room for another sleepover. 

Before retiring to her dorm for the night, Clementine pokes her head into the music room to find it empty. A slight disappointment falls over her as she hoped Louis would be up for some piano lessons, but that dissipates when she finds Louis kneeling on AJ’s desk with a roll of duct tape hanging from his mouth when she walks in, a stack of drawings placed beside him. He’s taping up one of the portraits of himself on the wall.

“Ey!” He waves at her before spitting the tape out. “Look at these!” He hops off the desk and points at the one he just hung up. “That’s the one James drew. Charming, isn’t it?”

The amount of detail in the portrait is startling, a fully shaded-in head portrait of Louis that seemingly stares right at her. Even the little details, like his freckles and the scar on his chin, are noticeable.

“It’s way weirder than I thought it’d be,” he says, “having someone stare and dissect every part of your face. Did you know I have a very angular jawline?” He tilts his head up to prove his point. “And James said I have a nice eye shape.”

“He did do you justice,” she says, still admiring the picture. “Very handsome.”

His chuckle comes out loud and anxious, not having expected her to say that. 

“Hah, yeah, except,” then Louis pushes his jacket back to place his hands on his hips, “uhm, do you think my nose is big?”

“What?”

“James said I have a wider nose. He drew it bigger than it actually is, right?”  

“You have a very cute nose.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Clementine giggles. “Your nose is perfectly fine, Louis.”

He eyes the portrait, still uncertain, only to then gasp as if just remembering something. 

“Oh, wait though, ready for this?” He searches through the pile before plucking the one he wants out. “ This is the one Tenn drew.” He proudly holds it up.

She can’t say she’s not impressed. It’s nowhere near as proportional or advanced as James’, but Clementine can see the effort and charm within the lines. Definitely Tenn’s work.

“Wow,” Clementine smirks, nudging him. “I see it now. James is right, you do have a big nose.”

“ Hey ,” Louis reaches up and playfully pinches her nose, “big talk from little button nose over here.” Louis sticks Tenn’s portrait on the wall, next to James’. “There! We’re getting quite the art gallery.”

“One’s missing, though.” Clementine grabs Louis’ picture of Rosie off the desk and tapes it up with the others.

“Seriously?” he asks sheepishly.

“Oh yeah. We’re never taking that one down.”

“Terrific.”

Louis continues to look through the rest of the drawings. He hums to himself lightly, a tune she recognizes. He sticks more drawings on the wall; ones that AJ drew of him and Tenn, one he drew of Disco Broccoli.

He pauses when he comes across the one of AJ, Clementine, and him. The one with the beach ball. He smiles fondly at it before sticking it up there with the rest.

She sits on AJ’s bed, leaning against the frame to close her eyes and listen to his cheerful humming. 

One of the few things she loves in this world is the comfort she has when he’s around. 

It’s a comfort she never thought she’d find again. Before Ericson, she and AJ never had time for comfortable peace. When it was just them, there was always that lurking feeling, that bitterness, that lingered in her thoughts. 

Now, they have a place they call home. 

Clementine can’t imagine where they would’ve ended up had she not crashed the car. They’d still be out in the world, scavenging every little bit they could to survive. They never would’ve met the people she now considered family.

She and Louis would’ve never met, where she and AJ never met anyone at Ericson. 

That’s a really shitty thing to think about.

Finding this place, their home, was the best thing that happened to them. Meeting everyone here- Louis, Violet, Mitch, Ruby, Aasim, everyone - has done so much for them. For years, she worried about her and AJ, about always being on the road in a car that constantly ran on fumes, about running across assholes who wanted to hurt them, about the dead finally getting the best of them. Nowhere to go, no direction. A neverending search. 

 She sneaks a glance at Louis. He has no idea. 

He finishes up, shoving the duct tape in a drawer. Leaning against the desk with arms crossed over his chest, he looks at her with a tired grin, but says nothing. 

She raises a brow. 

“What?”

He shrugs.

It’s like the weariness of their previous night has caught up to him, like something triggered a sinking reality that weighs him down. The shadows along his face from the setting light do nothing to hide the sadness betraying his eyes.

She slowly approaches him and reaches out to grab his hand, tugging him closer to her.

“Hey,” she murmurs.

“Hey.”

“You feeling any better?”

“Of course.”

“Really?” Clementine locks their fingers together. “It’s been a long time since you’ve had one that bad.”

He keeps his stare focused on their hands. “...It wasn’t that bad.”

“Louis.”

“Clementine.”

“It was about that woman, wasn’t it?”

He says nothing, but she can see the answer clear in his eyes.

Yes, Clem, you know it was. It always is.

The first and only living person Louis ever personally killed, and it was purely accidental. It frustrates her that it still haunts him, and even more so that it’ll always haunt him. Even when he expressed the relief of “having it in him” to protect those he loves, there’s always a suffocating weight that comes with the first. If anyone knew that, it’s Clementine. 

That kind of guilt, no matter how irrational, never stops. 

“Dorian.”

“Hm?”

Louis closes his eyes and leans forward to press his forehead to hers.

“Her name was Dorian.”

“Lou-”

“I know.” He pulls back, forcing a smile. “I know.” 

His gaze falls on her nose. He pinches it again. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it right now. Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” she smiles sincerely. “Just… want to make sure you’re alright.”

“You don’t have to worry about me so much, Clem. There are more important ways to spend your time.”

More important? 

She supposes that’s a good way to put it. 

“Y’know, I was thinking about what you said this morning,” Clementine smiles. “AJ’s having another sleepover with Tenn tonight, so we have the whole room to ourselves.” 

Louis raises a brow, a slow smirk spreading across his lips. 

“Wanna build a pillow fort?”

“You read my mind.”

Without any hesitation, she kisses him. It’s a quick, soft, comforting peck that catches him off guard.

Another kiss to his lips, and then another. Clementine holds onto the nape of his neck and moves to his chin, his cheek, placing soft, intimate kisses against his warm skin. 

He looks at her with lidded eyes before his hands caress her cheeks, his thumb brushing just below her eye.

He kisses her, eager for every press of her mouth. He doesn’t stop kissing her, even when she tightens her grip on his jacket and pulls him back with her. The desk hits her hip and he’s quick to lift her up onto the surface, almost knocking over her venus fly trap plant.  

A pleased sigh escapes her lungs as she desperately moves to his jaw, down his neck. Her hands move beneath his jacket, trailing down to the hem of his shirt before bunching the material up. His skin is warm. His breathing is quick, shallow.  

“Clem! Clem!”

Louis yanks back, their lips parting quickly with a loud smack as she nearly topples over from the force of him ripping away. 

The bedroom door slams open and in barges Willy. 

She’s disoriented, lightheaded, blinking rapidly and frantically searching for any sign of danger. All she finds is Louis, who’s now over at AJ’s desk, humming incredibly loud, and Willy hurrying in with a triumphant smile.

“Clem, guess wha-!” The second he sees Louis, he stops and gasps. “Oh no!”

“Oh, look, darling!” Louis stops pretending to look at the pictures and glares at the young boy. “It’s Willy, the boy who doesn’t know how to knock! Nice of you to pop in unannounced this late in the evening !”

Willy’s face flushes a scarlet red as his gaze darts between the two, falling down to Louis’ shirt, which remains lifted to reveal part of his stomach. 

Louis yanks the material down, fake coughing.  

Willy’s face is reminiscent of a fresh tomato at this point. It seems that even he got the sense of what was happening before he ran in. 

Clementine slips down from the desk and tries to casually straighten out her own jacket and adjust her hat with an unfazed face, even though she’s positive that her skin is blotchy and red, too. 

“I’m sorry!” Willy blurts out, covering his eyes. “I didn’t see anything! I’ll knock next time! I swear!”

“Uh-huh,” Louis frowns. “Said that last time, didn’t you?”

Now she’s not sure who’s redder, her or Willy.

“Willy, what do you want?’ Clementine sighs. She composes herself and approaches the boy.

His eyes went to Louis before meeting hers. That’s all she needs.

“Is it Mitch?” 

Willy nods.

Clementine’s heart flutters. Choosing her words carefully, she asks, “Is he done?”

Willy nods once more. 

“Done with what?” Louis asks. 

“Uh-”

“Watch,” Clementine interrupts. “I completely forgot that I have watch.”

“Seriously?” Louis asks, confused. “Wait, I thought Ruby had watch tonight.”

“I switched her,” she lies, moving towards Willy and adding, “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Willy leaves without another word, staring down at the floor. Clementine holds back an annoyed sigh. The previous mood is completely gone and now she’s made a mess of lies that she’s gotta detangle before Louis gets suspicious. 

Damn it, Willy. 

Couldn’t have waited until morning. 

Louis gives a thoughtful frown. 

“I’m a little worried about him,” he says, “about Mitch, I mean.”

“Oh, uh, really?”

"Something weird’s going on with him,” Louis nods. “He’s been down in the basement every day for the past week and- ...Well, I went to check on him this morning before breakfast.”

Panic shoots through her stomach and into her heart.

Louis pauses, unsure if he should continue. 

“And?” Clementine presses.

 “...Well, when I tried going down the stairs, I think- well, it was probably nothing. I probably didn’t see what I thought I saw because I could’ve sworn I saw James down there, too-”

Clementine’s stomach drops.

“-and I don’t know what they were doing but before I could even get down the stairs, Mitch threw a shoe at me.”

“A shoe?”

Oh, goddamn it, Mitch-

“Yeah, right at my face! He about hit me in my big nose!”

Clementine rolls her eyes. “Again with the nose thing?”

“I’ve accepted its abnormally monstrous size,” he says. “Anyway, then I saw him again on my way to the greenhouse and he wouldn’t even look at me. Not that he’s one for conversation or anything, but it’s like… I don’t know. It felt weird. I don’t know what he’s doing down in the basement or what they’re doing if that really was James I saw. I’m not sure I want to know.”

“I’m sure it was nothing.”

“Probably… I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone shout ‘no!’ and ‘out!’ that many times in a ten-second time frame before hurling shoes at me. It was pretty terrifying.”

“Mitch is…” Clementine’s at a loss. While she’s thankful for Mitch’s ability to think on his feet so quickly, she wasn’t sure if she approved of the shoe method. “...Hard to understand sometimes, and he and James are friends so it’s not that weird that they’re hanging out together.”

Louis considers this, though she can tell he’s not completely convinced. 

“...Do you think they’re… I mean, it’s none of my business but if there was something going on between them-”

Oh boy.

Louis then shakes his head, changing his mind. 

“Y’know what? I’m sure it was nothing.”

She sighs. So much for not making Louis suspicious of anything. Then again, maybe this is her fault. She did tell James that Mitch was working on fixing the ring, and she should’ve known that would lead to him trying to help. 

“He’s working on a project,” she says lamely. “He probably wants a second opinion on it from James. ”

“A bomb project? I didn’t think James was a fan of explosions.”

“Firecrackers work as a great distraction for the walkers,” says Clementine, which isn’t a total lie. Mitch brought up the suggestion to James a while ago. They spent a long time discussing the idea if she remembers correctly. 

Well, better not let sweet Ruby know,” Louis says. “She’s still got a personal grudge towards Mitch’s bombs ever since that thing in the greenhouse, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” she smirks. “ ‘A bomb? I will whip his ass!’ ”

Her Ruby impression gets a chuckle out of him. “Hope he knows a shoe won’t be enough to stop her. If anything, that’s just provoking the beast.”

“He’ll have to learn that for himself,” she smiles. Clementine approaches him again, fixing the collar of his jacket and apologizing, “Sorry I can't stay and help you build an amazing, comfortable pillow fort. Will you be okay?”

“Don’t worry about me, darling.” He grabs her hand and kisses her cheek. “We can always build a pillow fort another night, or, uhm, finish what we started. Maybe I’ll go tickle the ivories for a while before bed, so if I don’t see you before your finished or if I’m not awake, goodnight and stay warm.”

She gives him a long kiss goodbye before she leaves. 

One the door’s shut, she takes a moment to take a deep breath. 

Her face still feels warm after all the excitement. She’s still a little annoyed at the interruption, but if she’s right about what Willy was trying to imply, then she has to hurry. She can only hope that Mitch found a way to fix the ring.

The wait is starting to make her anxious.

[fyfaenfrancesca-blog]

Remember: a Lucas x Eliott reunion

Inspired by the song “Remember” by Seinabo Sey, on a rainy Friday evening Lucas feels compelled to return to de Petite Ceinture, and finally face his fears. Or: Lucas No. 1 and Eliott No. 1 are pas peur anymore. Length: 3,288 words

Vendredi, 19H47

 “Show me a place… where I could ease my mind…” Lucas could distantly hear a soothing voice singing from the computer somewhere in the darkened living room. He was lying on his side on the couch-turned-bed, face buried so deep into the pillow that one of his ears was currently being deprived of hearing.

It was a step closer to what he wanted, however. To block out the constant noise in his head, to find some relief somehow. He’d been there for the better part of two hours, thankful for the rare treat that the emptiness of the flat he shared with Manon, Mika, and Lisa was. As well-meaning as they were, sometimes their constant presence was suffocating.

Especially now. A week had passed since that distressing night on the barge, and yet Eliott’s delighted face, smiling at him from across the table, was still at the forefront of his mind every waking moment. How blessed he’d felt, seeing that brilliant smile directed at himself…

Lucas turned onto his back, massaging the crick in his neck that had developed from the somewhat uncomfortable position. The ache felt strangely good. Sometimes, he felt like feeling too much made him feel completely desensitized, as counter-intuitive as that sounded.

Without his permission, memories of their intimate moments together, the shared dreams and secrets, light teasing, and loving touches washed over him, as he lay there looking up at the crack in the ceiling. The crack had been slowly growing for weeks now. He wondered when it would finally give. Why couldn’t it make up its mind? Why string yourself along endlessly? It wasn’t something that could just be painted over and forgotten. Once it had started to grow, there was no turning back.

Soon enough the pleasant memories began to mix with feelings of betrayal for being kept in the dark, with disbelief at Eliott’s sudden change in demeanor, with quiet acceptance at just not being good enough for someone to stay, to truly love him. It hadn’t helped to hear his biggest insecurities being reaffirmed by Lucille, who knew Eliott much better than he did, who could surely tell when his feelings were genuine or an expression of mania…

Lucas pursed his lips in thought, absentmindedly noting how horribly dry they felt after all the silent crying he’d been doing.  Basile’s unintentional words of wisdom on Monday had changed his perspective somewhat. Apparently, being bipolar did not mean Eliott’s feelings were not genuine, that he couldn’t love, as Lucille had said that night. Was it possible Eliott was feeling everything Lucas was feeling?

An overpowering force within him pushed away this ray of hope, however. Perhaps he was being self-absorbed, but he just couldn’t imagine anyone else feeling things to the same intensity that he himself was at the moment. There was an overwhelming sense of helplessness, of loss. If brokenness is a work of art, surely this must be my masterpiece…

He’d taken Mika’s advice, let himself wallow in the pain by hitting shuffle play on a random Sad Song playlist on Spotify, and just lying there, unmoving. What he wouldn’t do to stop this endless stream of consciousness… Even alcohol hadn’t helped on Sunday; Eliott had still been there, haunting him. At the same time, he knew deep within that it was better to just let the emotions flow through him. It didn’t mean he was ready for it, however.

“Take me to a space… Show me a place...Where I could ease my mind...I will remember you…” the lyrics drew Lucas’ attention all of a sudden. Bizarrely, they seemed to reflect his inner state – the need for some peace, someplace to really quiet his thoughts, to forget the person he always seemed to remember.

‘It’s a haven here. This is where I come when I want to be alone,’ he recalled Eliott saying, as he shared his favourite place in Paris with him. De Petite Ceinture. Lucas was reminded of his past self, a more naïve and hopelessly romantic Lucas, but for once he welcomed the memory. It had just provided him with a potential solution to his internal dilemma, after all.  

With some reluctance Lucas got up from his well slept-in place on the couch. How was it that lying around just made him more tired? Through the semi-darkness in the room he carefully padded over to the window. Pressing his hot cheek to the cool glass, he saw that it was night-time in Paris, the street lanterns were on, and rain was softly drizzling outside the living room window. It was a shame, since something inside was calling him to go to the secret spot now, to face his fears and his longing, to free himself of these incessant thoughts and feelings. But apparently it was not to be; he didn’t feel like going out in the rain.

“When the morning comes,” a male voice had joined the woman’s in the background, and with that Lucas resolved to visit the bridge the next day, when the sun was out. It was better that way, he didn’t particularly feel like going there by himself at night anyway. It was a different thing being with there with Eliott; the pure adrenaline of exploring together with someone he wanted to know more about had been enough to quell any fear. But Eliott wasn’t here this time…

A single ding penetrated the quiet of the room, a pause between songs making his own shuffling feet audible as he returned to his resting place to look at his notifications. It was a dark image of some sort, framed by the white of sketchbook paper in a way he’d come to recognise as Eliott’s signature style. Intrigued, as he had not received any contact from Eliott in days (not since kindly asking to be left alone), Lucas turned the brightness of his screen up, in order to better decipher the content of the drawing.

Zooming in, he first noticed an arching structure at the top of the image. The surrounding tree branches, illuminated by far off lights, made it appear the lightest part of the picture, and almost immediately it became recognisable as the place he’d been thinking of moments ago. Scrolling down, he took in a black mass of space underneath the bridge, until, upon further inspection he could make out the faint outline of a racoon sitting underneath it. It looked alone, swallowed by the darkness surrounding it, with no source of light in sight.

Underneath in small, almost unnoticeable handwriting it said, “Eliott No. 1 is afraid.”

As he took in the sad scene, trying desperately to feel indifferent to it, Lucas’ screen lit up again. Another message. It was a drawing of the same scene, and yet now the racoon appeared to be joined by a hedgehog who had his back to the painter. The hedgehog was obviously holding a flashlight, as it fully illuminated the now hopeful-looking racoon sitting a few paces ahead, its ears perked up. The comment underneath read simply, “Lucas No. 1 is not afraid.”

Letting his phone screen grow dark, Lucas fell onto the couch with a heavy sigh. Several songs passed until the same woman’s voice sounded again, this time singing, “Surely, I did not go through all of this for nothing.” For some reason, the following words “Nothing can be loved into something” sounded so monumental, that Lucas suddenly felt compelled to act. It was like he’d just had an energy drink, so renewed was his motivation to visit de Petite Ceinture.

A sense of excitement and trepidation mixed inside his stomach, his heartbeat felt erratic, and before he knew it, he’d texted Manon asking if they had a flashlight somewhere in the flat. He simply needed to return to the place where it had all started, where the secret fascination had blossomed into something tangible and so, so real under the cleansing rivulets of rain.

Lucas waited impatiently, his right foot tapping the wooden floor, running his hands through his hair until it stuck up in all directions. After what felt like forever (but was really two minutes later), Manon replied.

‘Kitchen. Cupboard underneath the sink. Do I want to know?’

 Now we moving forward ever, backwards never… And when the going gets rough and life gets tough… Don’t forget to breathe...

 Vendredi, 20H27

 Some time later Lucas arrived at the gate. His hair was a mess from the rain, and he was out of breath, having ran there, guided by some unknown force. Eliott had given no real indication he was at the Little Belt, and yet Lucas was confident in his intuition. He had to be, otherwise why would all the signs in the universe have aligned to lead him to this moment?

Perhaps a bit too late Lucas realised he had no idea how to get past the gate and onto the path. It had been locked last time, hadn’t it? Had Eliott picked the lock or did he have keys? Either way, Lucas was helpless.

Had he really come this far just to be stopped by a gate? Frustrated with himself he leant back against the entrance gate, only to find himself sprawled on his back. It was open! That had to mean Eliott had been here earlier, and was most probably there now, sitting where the racoon had been in his drawing!

Encouraged by his luck, Lucas let the flashlight illuminate the path, which would otherwise be obscured by the trees. The crescent moon overhead wasn’t providing much illumination either.

As soon as the gate closed behind him, a strange serenity overtook his person. It truly was as though he’d left all the nagging thoughts, the worries that had plagued him for days on end, if not weeks, behind him. Under the safe haven of the trees the rest of the world seemed to slip away. There were no traffic sounds, no nagging voices, only the soft squelch of his footsteps and the gentle breeze rustling the leaves. It may have been eerily quiet for some, but for Lucas these were welcome sensations.

Just meters ahead of him, he could see the bridge illuminated by his flashlight. As he entered the clearing, it felt as though he’d never left, even though it had been five weeks since his first and last visit to the little sanctuary. Taking a moment to breathe in the fresh air, he smiled to himself, recalling with amusement the way he’d thrown himself into their first kiss with all of the restraint of a starved animal.

After his brief moment of peaceful recollection, he quickly scanned his surroundings. A glance towards the spot where he’d expected to see Eliott showed no signs of him. Disappointed but undeterred, Lucas moved towards the bridge knowing that, Eliott or no Eliott, he would face his demons in the dark tonight. Braving himself, he was ready to step into the world of his fears, his unknown future with Eliott being part of that.

Once underneath the bridge he tentatively called out, ‘Eliott?’

Receiving no response he let the yellow tunnel of light rest first upon his right, then his left, seeing nothing but haphazard graffiti. Moments later, having looked at every nook and cranny of the place, with no sign of Eliott, Lucas simply stood still. He took it all in, perhaps for the first time in a really long time. The breeze, the silence where moments before there had been rainfall, the crisp March air, and, finally, the darkness, as he intentionally turned off his flashlight.

For a moment, the darkness was frightening, as his eyes played tricks on him, adjusting to the change in lighting. In the dark on his own, he was taken back to a significant night from his childhood, the moment he’d become truly fearful.  

He’d been in his room playing, when the electricity had cut. Alone and frightened of the creatures hiding in the dark, as any child would be, Lucas sought out his mother. Slowly feeling his way towards the living room, where he expected to find his mum, he could feel his heart racing, palms sweating. He’d never had to be this brave before. But it was okay, he’d told himself, soon he would be with mum, and she’d hold him close until the light came back.

But when he finally saw the hunched up form of his mother, and called out to her, she didn’t respond. Lucas was confused. Why was she muttering to herself so strangely? She would occasionally pray, yes, but she’d never ignored him in favour of talking to herself. Plus, wasn’t it weird for grown-ups to talk to themselves? Yann had said so, when their class had passed a homeless man on the street on their way to the museum that one time. The old man had been muttering under his breath, and the other boys had said he must be crazy. Because that’s what crazy people did.

But this was his mum. Surely, she just hadn’t heard him. Stepping closer, he whispered, ‘Mummy, I’m scared. Can you make the dark go away?’ But she had just stared through him with lifeless eyes, as if he wasn’t even there. And so Lucas had had to sit there, afraid, alone, unloved and unprotected in the dark until his father returned from the business dinner he’d been at.

He would later overhear his father shouting at Lucas’ mother about how irresponsible she’d been, how she didn’t care about Lucas. And when his mother replied, saying the Lord had sent her a dream about how darkness would help her see the light, Lucas felt angry. Darkness had only turned out to be a lonely, cruel, scary place and his mother didn’t even love him enough to recognise that. And years later, when he learned she was attending therapy, Lucas had begun associating mental illness with selfishness, with a darkness that would consume the person and everyone around them. A darkness that was resistant to light.

But now Lucas didn’t feel afraid anymore. In fact, the more his eyes adjusted to his surroundings, the better his overall vision was; the more attentive he was forced to be, the more grateful he felt. Images of his mother, who despite the challenges she faced with her mental health, had always tried her best to nurture him… Her being the only person to take him seriously when he’d insisted on wanting to learn piano after hearing “Let It Be” by the Beatles… Her patiently teaching him and crying when he’d performed it for the family…

A lump formed in his throat. After months of avoiding his mother, rejecting her communications, believing her incapable of genuinely caring for him, Lucas felt a tear of relief slide off his cheek. She did love him. How could she not, if she had taken such care with him? She could love him, and so could Eliott, if Lucas would only let him. The light of day and the dark of night were natural parts of life. They were opposites, but neither was intrinsically good or bad. Fear is. Love is. Dark is. Light is. If they went into each other’s world, Eliott and Lucas could brave them together.

“And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me…Shine on till tomorrow, let it be…” he hummed, letting a smile grace his features. He had no idea how long he stood in the darkness underneath that bridge for, but feeling his resentment disappear left Lucas feeling light. He had faced his fears, and tomorrow he would call Eliott. He was not afraid anymore.

Turning back towards the clearing he turned the flashlight on, but let it hang by his side. He had to make it out of the tunnel on his own. Just as he passed the threshold into the clearing, however, he tripped over something. Or rather: somebody.

‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there,’ he apologised instinctively. Weirdly, he wasn’t spooked coming across somebody else by the bridge at night-time. Casting his light towards the side allowed him to view the hunched up form of a boy, a boy he knew intimately. That explained his irrational feeling of calmness.

Eliott had come after all, and consciously or not, sat down in the exact spot he’d drawn his spirit animal in. Despite his sudden courage, at the sight of Eliott’s cheeks wet with silent tears, Lucas felt weak again. They just had so much to say to each other; Lucas had so much to say, and yet, standing before the boy he’d fallen in love with so quickly and unexpectedly, words escaped him. After all they’d been through, what could possibly be good enough?

Sitting there on the wet grass, his knees pulled towards himself, with arms hanging over them, fingers intertwined and nervously shaking, Eliott almost appeared unaware of Lucas’ presence. But that couldn’t be true, since there was a flashlight being shined upon him.  

Dropping the flashlight to the ground, Lucas squatted down in front of Eliott. After a moment of stillness, Lucas tentatively reached forward to cup the sides of Eliott’s face, and started tenderly brushing away the tears that marked his skin.

‘You don’t have to be afraid anymore,’ he whispered, resting his forehead against Eliott’s. The other boy remained silent, but Lucas could tell that he was taking in every word.

So he continued, ‘Because as different as the Lucases in all the parallel universes may be, there is not a single one that did not fall completely in love with their Eliott…’ he trailed off. ‘That’s what I believe, anyway.’

At length, Eliott tugged him forward to pull him into an embrace. ‘Je t’aime,’ he heard whispered in his ear. For a moment he almost convinced himself he’d imagined it. But when he pulled back, the brightness in Eliott’s eyes was all the confirmation he needed.

They sat there looking at each other for a moment or two until Lucas let himself drop backwards onto the wet grass, groaning as he did so. ‘My knees,’ he moaned, breaking the silence again. It couldn’t all be like the movies.

Eliott seemed to find this amusing, which secretly pleased Lucas. ‘When you find the man of your dreams, and it turns out he’s secretly an old lady,’ Eliott muttered under his breath, but Lucas could hear him clearly in the silence around them.

‘Excuse me, did you just say I was the man of your dreams?’ Lucas teased, relieved to have revealed the depth of his feelings for Eliott. ‘Was it me you were talking about?’ he asked, shining the flashlight upon his own face.  

Eliott was silently watching him, the affection in his eyes undeniable. Lucas couldn’t resist leaning forward, the flashlight still shining upon him from underneath. He closed the distance between them slowly, teasingly, a mirror of what Eliott had done to him in the build-up to their first kiss. Only this time, as the light went off and their lips met lovingly, neither boy had reason to be scared anymore.

 Vendredi, 21H27

 ‘Say it again,’ Lucas whispered into Eliott’s side as they walked back home.

‘What?’

‘Say I’m the man of your dreams.’

‘I’m the man of your dreams,’ Eliott repeated simply.

Lucas sent him a no-nonsense look. ‘True,’ he shrugged, ‘but you know what I meant.’

Eliott stopped walking, and pulled Lucas to stand in front of him. Lucas thought it was fair to say that under the warm street lights his boyfriend looked like an angel.  

Letting their noses brush, and foreheads touch, Eliott whispered, ‘You are the man of my dreams, mon petit hérisson.’

[the-house-of-the-nine]

The Damned Never Die: Haunted, Part 1

  ] Greetings friends and followers.  The return of one of our founding authors and writers is poised to return to our collective group.   Keeping with the canonized theme; Lazarius takes this time to meet with the council one by one, going consecutively through his trusted advisors to weigh in on the dilemma he now faces.  Thank you to Poeta’s Mun who helped to write this scene.  Everyone please enjoy! and Thank you for the support! [

“The younger students have developed a little rhyme about you… it seems they realize that the further they stretch down this hall the colder, darker and more terrifying it feels…. “Fear the darkness, cry and cower … Avoid the halls of Magus De’Mour.” I find it…charming.”.

[ L.K ]   Lazarius calmly trudged down the long since abandoned halls of the great chamber within their sanctum. The crystalline decor and magnificent tapestries were long since neglected since both the Grand Magus and Blood Magus who both used them were missing. More the later had vanished completely.

As he recalled latent memories and past events he would come to the magnificent double doors. A ward had thusly been put across it just Incase any of the wandering students or members of the order would be curious about what was in here. Lazarius placed his hand across the translucent energy barrier and began to scribe insignia after insignia, and before long it was deactivated.

“You’re a fool Kashebahl. You trust that woman, look what we’ve become, look what she has done to you.. stop pretending and do something about it.”.

Lazarius peered around the huge sanitarium that was once the home of one of the most powerful magi to ever live and certainly the most dangerous to ever grace these halls, save for her predecessors. Lazarius looked over the room and recounted once more on the various levels of interaction that took place here.

Fond memories accompanied by a hurtful scorn that was a constant reminder of not only his failure as a leader, but as a companion. To the writing desk with a pile of books; unmoved and unshaken since the former resident had pulled them.

“Mind sheering: Volume six… Developing A Ghost Image…. what is that you were working on… Time Reversal and Dangers therein. Interesting stuff…”.

Lazarius thumbed his deep violet wrapped digit across the spine of the text. His own jet black eyes would dart back across the table top and notice the smudge where the oils from a hand once rested. It was so intense on the fatigued wood of the desk that the dust that had formed around it appeared to give it a ghostly visage. Nothing had moved since it was haunted many years ago. 

As he made his way to the swirling clock like gizmo in the center of the sanctum he would notice how it was frozen. The wheels badly needing tuning and oil, the winding device locked firmly in place. How odd that on the greater scale of things; the planets that were revolving around the large star had actually lined up in the same galactic waypoints that point Azeroth toward its run in with Argus and the Legion. Perhaps the Nathrezim knew all along?

He was glad they had abolished that creature. Hopefully it felt pain even in death within the Nether. Lazarius would turn and begin making his way toward the various cabinets, cupboards and shelves with concoctions. She was a busy little bee, stockpiling whatever she could. So many nights they had spent tirelessly researching and creating.

The final memory to flood his mind was that night he and Pyravari went to her manor in the Ghostlands. They’d purged the demon, freed the mind of their former ally and she vowed to return one day. Lazarius smiled thinking about it. Despite what had transpired from then to now, at least; if she was still alive, she was free and not a slave to that curse any longer. Such a brilliant mind deserved it’s own will.

He plucked a text from the table top, just the one he was looking for. Something to do a bit of light research on his newest plot. Combustion Magic’s we’re not easily ready within the order, he would need some knowledge. And thus he would stand there for a brief moment alone, in the silence of the dead quarters of the once illustrious Grand Magus.

[ P.D ]   As if sensing the authoritative presence of Lazarius Kash’ebahl, the tainted, intoxicating shadows of the sanctum wafted forwards, enveloping his frame in a warm embrace. Almost as if this long-abandoned chamber was crying out for a soul to occupy its walls once again.

An echo lingered beside the towering bookcase not too far off from Lazarius, where a silver scepter had clattered down upon the cold, stone floor. An effigy spirit slowly materialized, roused from a prolonged slumber, but, do not fret! The spirit was merely a fragment of a memory attached to the fallen scepter. This remnant began to pace back and forth, circling the same dusty, limping desk over and over again.

The spirit retained a vacant stare, offering no acknowledgement towards the Kash’ebahl, but despite the air of silence, was there a clue to be offered? The slanted desk of the once-great Magus offered an array of tomes and parchments scattered across its surface.

Upon closer examination one may see: The Liturgy of Death, The Journey of the Perished, A Harvester’s Perspective on Immortality, and Conceptions of the Soul: The Realm of Shadows. A torn, wine-stained parchment was delicately draped over one of the books and contained the scattered notes of the Magus De’Mour—But, the chaotic handwriting was nearly indecipherable, only a few phrases were able to be read:

“…build the bridge to immorta-… shattered pieces of another’s s-… The Nine . . . to eternity…”

Click-Clack. Abruptly, there was a faint tapping that echoed throughout the chamber. The memorable sounds of the Lady De’Mour’s typical shoe preference… heels? Or was that the sound of a faint… knocking? In the far corner of the chamber an obscure light pulsated gently from the dust-covered, glass surface gracing the wall. Click-Clack. Click-Clack. CLICK-CLACK – The impatience is… palpable.

[ L.K ]   The spirit like ether would cause the dark eyed man to slowly rouse his attention from the book and it’s contents. My how he had recalled all of her little Knick knacks and enchantments. The spiders that would carry little messages. A brilliant wicked mind. But as he followed the spirit like mist toward the writings and texts he could not help but peruse them. Yes of course. He remembered.

“Oh Poeta… I knew we would find it eventually…we worked so hard.”.

Immortality. The last true hunt they had gone on. The two were not obsessed with it by any means. But they were interested and highly motivated to seek a means and way to do so. As his wrapped finger tip began to flip through the contents he would be reminded of the night they obliterated those two bottles of Cindervine Red, laughing and channeling their magnificent minds to find an answer. Sadly they had never gotten close.

Click-Clack

He was far too focused on the writings, even locating a few penned notes of his own, mostly just little things.

Click-Clack, Click-Clack. CLICK-CLACK.

Lazarius broke from his attentive gathering of his past and followed the sound. His perked ears twitching; the pair of Shal’dorei sterling ear covers twitching as well and the soft clack of the marching hoops in his ears resonated around the clacking of the noise. The mirror.

Lazarius calmly began padding his way toward the decorative accessory, the black eyes fully focused on it. A lofted brow would raise as he got closer. He thought for a moment that it may have been another memory latched to the room. The activity and his overall presence here may have been enough to rouse the decaying thoughts here.

As he grew closer; several meters away, his fingers raised and he would flick them aside. A pair of voided claw like tendrils lurched from the shadows and yanked cloth covering from the preserved, unkept mirror. And in the silence and shadows, the black eyed inquisitor looked on.

[ P.D ]   “Hello…”

The whisper of an alluring voice danced among the shadows of the Sanctum.

“I see you…”

Another inviting whisper licked the ear of Lazarius.  Such a voice would have been unforgettable. Peering into the cracked mirror one would see nothing be a shadowed figure, however the silhouette pounced forwards like a vindictive ghost or ravenous lioness.

“Do you see me…”

A pair of fel-misted eyes nearly filled the whole expanse of the scrying glass.

“Oh, Kash’ebahl…” The voice flickered faintly, a hint of grief enveloped the spoken name… “Won’t you let me in?” She cooed, “Just a flick of those slender digits… It’ll be like the good old days.”

[ L.K ]   The hairs on the back of his neck feathered outward like quills ready to protect the flesh. The sight of something within the mirror was not exactly something he expected but was not something to alarm him either; the mystic arts were not anything new .

“Lady De’Mour.”.

He sang back in the same draw, his tongue slowly pressing against the roof of his mouth and back of his teeth as he sneered. As if just the simple speaking of the name reacted like a bad taste of something eaten.

“Letting you in would certainly be a favorable choice.”.

He crept ever closer, at this point the shadowed appendages were gone and he slowly leaned forward to gauge her reaction when he went to go touch the mirror but stopped well short of any shenanigans.

“But… since reworking the defenses of our sanctum … the mere presence of you standing here would instantaneously vaporize you. The Bastille truly hates unwanted pests boring holes in its walls and scurrying about where they are unwanted.”

[ P.D ]   “Psssshaa, you’re always no fun.”

An indecipherable phrase was gently spoken, and the listless frame of the once-great Magus came into view. The tiny, petite frame of the Lady Poeta Idril De’Mour… and her usual duplicitous grin to match.

The bewitching creature slipped a velvet glove from her hand and ran her fingers along the glass barrier between them. Snow-white locks fell from the loose bun atop her head, draping gently over her pale shoulders.

“I even have our old favorite…” with a snap of her fingers a bottle materialized in her grasp… Cindervine Red.

“I have something you may wish to know…” The Lady De’Mour sung the words like a sultry tune. “You wouldn’t pass up a chance at …immortality, would you?”

[ L.K ]   His jet black, shark like eyes rolled over white when he heard her sing song voice tempt him with olden days, wine and the topping on the cake; immortality.

When he looked back toward the mirror, the eyes of the dark lord were yet again stone cold and black as night, like a creepy doll peering back.

“It pains me to say this but in my naivety of youth, more than likely would have lunged at the chance to sample such a veritable buffet of goodness droplets. But…”. He waved the coiled, void wrapped fingers as if neglecting the invitation. “You see, I have found a way to bypass that. Amazing thing really.”

As he spoke, his other hand was calmly twitching and crawling back and forth. A small wisp of violet energy poised at the tip, leaving a faint trail behind it as it motioned about.

[ P.D ]   The elven woman slumped back upon a velvet sofa, exhaling a heavy, playful sigh. Unfurling her arm from its folded place at her chest, she reached a pale hand towards the bottle of red wine. “

I can’t say I’m entirely surprised by your reaction, I suppose it’s quite understandable—having been a few years and all. But I was hoping you’d be more… pleased, about my studies.”

The dark contents of the bottle were slowly poured into a wine glass…or two, with her free hand resting upon her red-stained lips. Deep in thought the tiny illusionist appeared to be, her calculating, fel-green gaze was dancing with an array of emotions far too difficult to pin down.

[ L.K ]   “Given what I know about your experimentation’s. I can only gather that this is some sort of gateway. Or a time loop?”. As his hand rose, he would suddenly begin to scribble energy into the air between them. A series of Shath’yari written notes holding there like a suspended chalk board.

[ P.D ]  “You know, I miss the beginning. I miss the ways things used to be before it got so… muddied. It was hard to try and be a part of a cause when the disdain was so. . evident.”

But, with the wave of a dismissive hand the guise of such vulnerability quickly evaporated. Playfully wiggling her fingers at the surface of the mirror, shadows of minuscule spiders began to accumulate against the cracked plane.

[ L.K ]   “Analysis doesn’t show a curse. Not a possession either So what is it? A doorway through time to a specific version of yourself locked in there? If I was going to be sure I was well preserved I would do it that way, that is for certain. Freeze a version of myself in a suspended animation… wait for the right person and use them to free me after my death… leave little bread crumbs to my former self and my notes… walla… instant resurrection and retaining knowledge.”.

Lazarius suddenly waved his hand through the image of his notes and peered back toward the mirror.

[ P.D ]    “And No. No, time loop.” She stated, as the minuscule spiders faded into shadows.

“Although, curious little idea you’ve proposed I’ll admit.” A devilish smirk lightly tugged upon the sides of her striking features.

[ L.K ]   “Well into two years now, if you are the current, real, living De’Mour, you know well enough that I cannot trust a word you say, especially not cryptic invitations and plays on my greed for power. What is it YOU really want Image.”

[ P.D ] “Lazarius…” The enticing voice fell to a whisper once more, “Haven’t you missed me?” she purred. “You restored my mind. I told you I’d return to you… and the Nine…But, I never said -when-. I had to do some…soul-searching.”

The final two words dripped off her tongue with a curious amount of amusement, even a little giggle escaped her petite frame—an inside joke? Perhaps.

“I met those that named themselves the perished—an organization devoted to walking the shadowlands, step in step with death like a fantastic dance. . .” Her tongue dipped out from between red-stained lips with a playful flick. “I could tell you more… But you hardly seem receptive to my presence…”

The Lady De’Mour leaned back within her velvet couch, a pale leg having darted out from beneath golden silk and was delicately crossed over her lap.

[ L.K ]   So many things to reflect on during that amount of her talking and trying to communicate through the mirror. As she was dressed to the hilt, the lord of the keep was hardly looking any more than half as smashing. He wore a plain white tunic, tucked lightly into a pair of silken black slacks. The sleeves were cut short about mid bicep and from his elbow down, a pair of violet ethereal bands coiled around his flesh. Some sort of magical makeshift bandage.

“Gods only know that you are correct on so many levels De’Mour. About the past, about the world we live in. I’ve seen so much and we’ve all toiled through so many tests of our resolve. Yet the Nine stands firm, full, and if I must say… stronger than ever.”

His hand stretched outward and a large shadowed appendage shot forth and lurched across the room. It would grab a large cushioned chair and drag it across the room; a job for easier two men. And plopped it down in front of the mirror. He would collapse into it and calmly crossed his leg over the knee of its mate and peered back at her.

The sunken in black eyes were reflected beautifully against his ghostly pale face and spider black veins around the sockets and lips. “Receptive…”. He would say with a sigh.

“My apologies Poeta. You , and I… well you should understand that it is nothing personal. I would think that the preservation of your sanctum here and all you stood for remaining in tact should at least be a testament to my devotion and hope that you would one day return as you were before you lost your will. You were; after all next to my sister, my most devote and trustworthy advisor. Even after your slip and fall backward… you were never once thought to have been a lost cause.”.

His hand rose upward and just gently massaged his brow. “I mean nothing by it in the offensive… just most unsure of you… I hope you’ve found what you need? Gotten back to yourself?”

[ P.D ]   The fel-green gaze of the Magus had metaphorical stars in them as she regarded the Kash’bahl’s change of demeanor. The devilish grin shifted into a small smile, lighting up the Sin’dorei woman’s face. The golden silk of her gown pooled around her and she playfully kicked off her long black heels, allowing them to fall noisily upon the ground.

“I knew you couldn’t be -so- cold for -so- long,” she murmured, “I’ve made many mistakes, but I’ve vowed to set them right—you saved me from a lost mind, Kash’ebahl… I needed time to fully recover and to find myself again, so I engrossed myself in studies pertaining to a topic that would benefit us all… And I’m much better for it.”

She pounced upon her delicate, bare feet with a sly wink towards the sitting Lazarius. Twisting and turning on her toes, her feet traced about in a playful dance, long golden silk shimmering about her frame. Red-stained lips parted for a teasing whisper as she leaned closer into the mirror.

“Can you still deny me?” Biting softly upon her lower lip, she fluttered her long lashes, “Into the Bastille, I do mean. Don’t get -too- excited.” Her laugh echoed throughout the Sanctum, and she lazily plopped back into her velvet couch.

“I do appreciate you having preserved my sanctum, so don’t think I haven’t noticed. Furthermore, I do have the best intentions at heart… I wouldn’t have come knocking otherwise. What I have learned isn’t perfect, but you’re the only person who could match my ideas—or even out-smart them. You and the Nine were my greatest allies…my only allies to be honest.”

She cocked her head to a side, snow-white locks falling gracefully over her exposed, bare shoulder. Her inquisitive gaze lingered over his form, noting the magical make-shift bandage.

“What can I do to persuade you?” She queried, “And why do you appear…injured?”

To be continued in… The Damned Never Die: Haunted, Part 2

[jojo-lity]

I'd like a scenario where a female scientist from the speedwagon foundation discovers that santana is alive (and perhaps has already awoken before she found him) at some time in the far distant future and she finds that the last living pillar man is the most interesting person she's ever met, and he finds that he feels similarly towards her.

here we are, sorry for the wait!

ao3 link

Heavy, exhausted eyes stared up at the dark ceiling. The flight to her new home had been rough, but she couldn’t bring herself to risk oversleeping. After a successful internship, she had been offered a position in one of the Speedwagon Foundation’s most top-secret facilities, and the last thing she wanted to do was compromise a good first impression by showing up late.

Showing up in a state of sleep deprivation might not have been much better. Sighing, she slipped out of bed, trudging to the disorganised kitchen. If she wasn’t going back to sleep, maybe some early breakfast would make her feel a little more prepared for the day ahead.

It proved a good decision, perhaps more for the accompanying cup of coffee than the food itself. While she still couldn’t say she was at her brightest, it was enough to get her out the door on time.

On the surface, the facility looked exactly the same as the place she had worked before. The building’s structure was identical, and it was full of busy people in the familiar uniform, carrying various artifacts of interest to the organisation. The only notable difference was the battalion of guards surrounding every entrance, giving her and her ID a stern stare before parting to let her in.

She had been assigned to the study of a particular project. She hadn’t been told very much about it, only that it had been going on for a long time, and even in the building where everything was secret, any information about it was to be kept strictly under wraps. Apparently, there would be catastrophic consequences if anything got out. It made her nervous, but there was a certain kind of pride to be taken from it, if she was being trusted with such a sensitive matter. Nothing could possibly make her let her employers down.

“There you are.” Her direct supervisor didn’t seem like one for greetings, but at least she wasn’t unfriendly. “Right now, you just have to watch. Let us know if anything changes.” Was there a trace of pity on her face? “Do a good job, and you’ll be able to do something else soon.” From there, there was little left to do but show her to her station- a single chair and small desk, overlooking a large glass case.

The glass was thick enough to appear bulletproof, and harsh light was shining on it from every direction. It seemed strange, when all she could see in there was a rock. It was a bit larger than a human, and beautifully carved- Hang on. Looking closer, it appeared that there was a human face etched into the stone. She was no art student, but was it really possible for human hands to bring out such breathtaking detail? If not for the rocky texture, she almost could have sworn that the full, delicate lips were about to take a breath.

“Santana.” She jumped a little. Had she really been so absorbed that she had forgotten her supervisor was standing behind her? “That’s what we call him. Not sure who thought of it, but…” She shifted a little, almost uncomfortably. “Calling him “it” didn’t really sit right.” She might have been about to say more, but a machine on the other side of the room beeped, and she left the new employee to her work.

—

On the first few days, the sheer novelty of her new workplace, and her growing curiosity about exactly who or what “Santana” was, had been more than enough to get her through the hours of watching absolutely nothing happen. But as the week reached its end, she had to admit…

It was getting extremely boring.

At least her colleagues seemed to trust her, since they were leaving her alone in the room more and more often, especially during the later hours. Having no friends or family in the area, she had no reason to keep a regular schedule, so she had gone ahead and taken on most of the night shifts. In the middle of the night, the lab was a tranquil place, enough that her focus had slipped once or twice.

As luck would have it, it was in one of those moments that her lifeless, unmoving responsibility began to stir.

Body finally strong enough to withstand the constant ultraviolet assault for a short time, the protective hardness of Santana’s skin started to recede, allowing him to move and take in his surroundings. He wasn’t in the well, and Joseph was nowhere to be seen. He only saw one human, who was turning towards him with an expression of horror.

“I have to call someone!” Shocked enough to exclaim out loud, she grabbed her phone, dialling the number she had been given. It went to voicemail, prompting her to speak. “Hey, I…”

Her phone fell from her hand, the call spontaneously ending as it hit the floor. But she never dropped her phone. In the few seconds between that moment and the last time she had looked his way, Santana had escaped from the impenetrable glass, and was towering over her with a vaguely unimpressed look. “Don’t call anyone.”

Apparently satisfied with her timid nod, he turned away from her, eyes scanning every machine in the room. “Humanity has advanced yet further,” he muttered, lifting a computer monitor from its place on the table. In a few deft movements, it was in pieces in his hands, each individual component carefully turned over and examined.

He clearly wasn’t human, if he could move so quickly and effortlessly. But what was he? Why had he been in what was essentially a cage? Why was it so imperative that he didn’t escape? All he was doing was inspecting the rest of the computers, tapping at their keys and intently watching the results on the screens.

“You’ve created minds to think for you.” He turned back around to look at her. Or rather, only his upper half turned. It was a bit unsettling, even with the chiselled perfection of his face in full view. “A creative method to surpass your limits.”

“Thank you… I mean, I didn’t make these! It wasn’t even my idea.” The nocturnal schedule must have been taking its toll, since her stomach flipped at the idea of potentially being complimented by him. Maybe she needed more regular meals.

“Then whose was it?” With one last hit of a button, every ultraviolet light in the room shut off, leaving only a dim fluorescent glow. “Perhaps they’re worth meeting.”

“Well, they’re probably dead now… or most of them, anyway.”

“Hm. Really.” He blinked, drawing her attention to the gear-like symbol below his eye. “Human lives are… perhaps too short. Though I’m sure that’s the next problem you intend to solve.”

“It’s… one of them?” She wasn’t sure just how active the rest of the building was at this time of night, but someone was bound to notice soon that most of the room’s functions had shut off. She didn’t know why Santana had been held captive. All she knew was that as long as he walked and talked and reasoned like any living person, she couldn’t see him back in that position.

“We need to go.” It wasn’t easy to maintain any kind of authority, especially when he stared down at her as if she was interrupting something. When her voice wavered a little, she repeated her statement with more force behind it. “Or else we’re both in for it. Who knows what they might do?”

Thankfully, he seemed to accept it. “I’m taking these with me.” That was all he said before lifting a table that carried most of the equipment, holding it steady in his hands and walking right out. All she could do was struggle to keep up, watching as he effortlessly swept aside any obstacle between himself and the outside world.

—

“I can’t believe we did that.”

“There’s no reason not to believe what I did. It wasn’t even the first time.” After breezing out the door, Santana had continued out into the desert. Feeling somewhat responsible for what she had allowed to escape into the world, and still full of curiosity about his existence, she had seen no reason not to follow. She probably wouldn’t be able to show her face at the Speedwagon Foundation again.

After dismantling all his takings, he was in the process of reassembling them into a single machine. She knew a thing or two about computers, but he worked so quickly that it made her head spin. And he claimed to have never heard of computers? 

“Well, I can’t believe what I did. I worked so hard for that job, and now here I am…” She swiped at the ground, collecting a handful of sand and letting it slip between her fingers. “Maybe I’ll get arrested.”

“Arrested?”

“Yeah, uh… guys with guns will come get me, and put me in a room, and I’ll probably have to stay there for a bunch of years. And it’ll suck… I mean, it’ll be the worst thing ever.” The more she talked about it, the more of a certainty it seemed.

“But you already live such short lives.” She was surprised to find that his attention was fully on her, his voice signalling a faint interest that it had been completely devoid of before. “Why would you be deprived of any of it?”

“I don’t know, it’s… just how we do things?” Now that she thought about it, it did seem odd. “Seriously, though, it wasn’t my idea. And whoever came up with it? Long gone.”

He shook his head in a short, tight motion. “And they told me nothing would change in two thousand years.”

“Two… thousand? Who’s “they”?” Was there any use in asking questions? Everything either of them said only seemed to raise more questions, more than they could answer even if they wanted to. “Never mind.” She fell silent, trying to listen for police sirens.

Some time passed, anywhere from a few minutes to an hour, until the structure Santana had built made a booting-up sound. It was followed by the familiar glow of several monitors, each displaying something different. He seemed to be paying special attention to the one rigged up to what resembled a small radio tower.

“Nothing mechanical is approaching us,” he informed her. “And I would sense the presence of anything biological.”

She nodded, seeing no reason to argue. Even if it was just an extremely convincing fake, she wanted to believe that he knew what he was doing. There was something fascinating about his absolute command over what he knew, and even what he didn’t. It made her wonder… “Why are you helping me?”

“You helped me.” Of course his answer was simple, and made perfect sense. “It seems that it was important for you to keep me in there. And yet you never asked that of me. It’s… interesting.”

There was no reason for him to lie. She was interesting to him, and not just as a curiosity, a representative of an unknown species. It made her feel a little less authentic, but rather than give up, she found within herself the determination to get to know him as a person. He had revealed enough to prove himself more than interesting.

“So, now that you’re out… where were you planning on heading?”

He blinked again. “Nowhere, just yet.” He gestured to his computer, now displaying words and images from all over the Internet. “I have a lot to learn.”

Waiting for the objection that never came, she moved herself closer, eventually settling herself next to him. “I think I do too.”