#it made a certain amount of sense as a colour for overthinking

[etlu-yume]

Bullet Journal - December Spreads

First weekend means time to sit down and start churning out the monthly spreads and collections! 

1.) The Project Tracker

Pretty empty for now - mainly a tracker for ongoing or new projects, with a time key to see how much time spent on it per day.

2. Habit trackers - Cleaning tasks and TV shows

Already populated, but just a simple tracker. Been messing with this one a bit, since keeping the 4 or 5 week checklist for some tasks was a bit daunting. (I mean, this hasn’t quite taken off either but it’s less “oh my god I haven’t done the thing all month”)

[The TV Shows works as “strike out = watched this month”, and “black out = already seen (aka: watched last month)”. 

3. WIP Graveyard **NEW**

This is a new one because it dawned on me that it’s almost the end of the year and I have some outstanding projects never finished, so. (A couple of these are up on here - like the Animal Emoji Series  and the Spotify GUI concepts )

Hopefully I’ll be able to knock some of these off the list before the end of the year!

5. Music Tracking Spreads

Artists to Follow Up This one is actually new! I’ve been doing an album challenge inspired by a friend and keeping track (or trying to) of what I’ve listened to, what stuck, what didn’t, etc etc. Although since I finished my big list from 2017, I’ve been struggling working out how to keep going with the challenge. So I’ve introduced a page so I can put artists down to check out albums for, instead of letting them get lost in my daily journals!

Album Challenge Just a simple tracker with date, artist, album title, and liked songs*. *liked songs - works on the premise of what catches my eye or attention on a first listen. If more than 50% of the songs on an album achieves a like, it gets added to a month-based playlist and we see where we go from there. Pale green indicates a first pass, a darker green indicates a physical copy has been obtained. (None to show here, for now)

6. Big Bads™

My overarching Big Heckin Concerns spread. Drawn up so that it can track how the big anxiety-inducing things in my head are going and if we’re making any progress from week to week. Oooooor if it’s barely treading water.

I don’t have an example there, but this is also where I use my highlighter system to indicate progress status!

[babytarttdoodoo]

hi! I've loved all the fic's you've posted so far! could I please make a request for something where Jamie gets officially diagnosed with ADHD and the team (and Roy and Keeley) are like 'well that makes sense' and are just so supportive through the process?

This was a doozy, anon, and I hope I’ve done it justice. Sorry Keeley didn’t get a lot of screentime - it ended up being a lot more introspective.

Thanks for the prompt!

(Prompt Fill Masterpost)

—

It wasn’t like no one had ever suggested it before.

Jamie, in fact, could clearly recall those cautious, gently probing questions Simon had ventured a few months after they’d first met. He was a teacher - a genuinely brilliant one, at that - and had recognised certain behaviours in the smart-mouthed teenager he was suddenly spending an inordinate amount of time around.

Unfortunately, Jamie had been a stubborn, prideful 16-year-old with little more than vicious dismissals for his mum’s cheery new boyfriend.

Years of school report cards and conversations at parents’ evenings echoed the same things.

If Jamie could just focus…

If he really applied himself…

If he tried a bit harder…

Exasperated teachers, tutors and coaches all leaving Jamie feeling stupid and frustrated with their attempts to guide him towards being better. Towards acting normal.

He had learned to live with the fact that some things were just harder for him than they seemed to be for everyone else. He set multiple alarms and reminders on his phone for everything he could think of. He wore jewellery and clothes that he could tug or twist or pull at without drawing too much attention to himself.

He learned to hold his tongue when he was overwhelmed and irritable for reasons he couldn’t define... and tried his best to apologise when he couldn’t keep the harsh words or knee-jerk reactions under control.

He coped.

It had finally taken a suggestion from Dr Sharon, a woman who had built up such an impressive amount of Jamie’s trust in a startlingly short amount of time that he often felt like she knew him better than he did himself, before he thought about doing anything more than that.

She had referred him to a specialist. Jamie made an appointment and answered the questions as best he could. Now, weeks later, it was official. He had ADHD.

Sitting with that information was strange. Deciding what to do with it was worse.

The first person he told was his mum. Obviously. She was reassuring and supportive, like he knew she would be, and even offered to take the train down that weekend to visit. Jamie declined, but he did have another request.

“Can you tell Simon?” he managed to choke out at the end of the call. “I think he’d like to know.”

The next conversation was a bit more complicated.

In amongst the information he’d received with his letter from the clinic were recommendations for ‘workplace accommodations’ - things that could help make ADHD easier to manage in a professional environment.

Most of it was completely irrelevant. Jamie didn’t need to sit in meetings all day or focus on a computer screen - he just needed to play football and that was the one thing he’d never had any problem with. But the advice (which Dr Sharon endorsed) was to discuss options with a manager.

Problem was, his manager was now technically Roy Fucking Kent.

And Jamie had absolutely no idea how to go about saying ‘hey, apparently my brain works differently’ to him in a way that wouldn’t end in either ridicule or dismissal.

(He was aware that he was perhaps being unfair to the man who was in many ways one of his closest friends these days. But there was a long and colourful history there that shaded every new interaction between them with the potential for chaos.)

Finally, driven half demented by days of overthinking it, he printed out a copy of his letter from the clinic and tossed it more or less directly at Roy’s head while he was filling out paperwork in his office. It mercifully landed on his desk, rather than smacking him in the face.

“Well, fuck you, too.” Roy deadpanned, fixing Jamie with a half-hearted glare and making no move to open the folded paper. “What’s that?”

“You could just fucking read it.” Jamie sulked, shoving his hands deep into the pouch of his hoodie. “‘S a letter, innit? From the doctors’.”

That had Roy frowning, what Jamie recognised as concern bunching up his brow. He picked up the document and unfolded it about as aggressively as one conceivably could. Kind of impressive, actually.

Jamie pinpointed the exact moment the information sank in and averted his gaze, locking in on the one part of the desk that wasn’t covered in files or wires or photo frames.

“Right.” Not bad, as far as reactions went. In his peripherals, Jamie saw Roy nod and readjust his hold. “... thank you. For, um, letting me know.”

“Yeah, well.” Jamie shrugged, plucking at the seams inside his pocket and studiously keeping his eyes trained on the same corner of Roy’s desk. “The leaflets and that they gave me said I should tell my boss. So. Now I have.”

“Right.” Roy repeated, agreeing like that made sense. He cleared his throat. “I know fuck all about it.”

“Join the club.”

That eased some of the weird tension that had been brewing and Roy huffed a laugh.

“Fair enough. Are you alright?”

Jamie gave that due consideration and finally dragged his stare back to Roy’s face before answering. “I think so. It’s weird, being told your brain is all…” He waved a hand around. “But it’s… nice. Knowing it’s not just me.”

Roy narrowed his eyes, assessing the truth of Jamie’s words, and seemed to accept what he said. “Is it alright if I put it in your file? Nate and Beard might have some input. Higgins should know too, probably.”

“Whatever.” Jamie chewed on his lower lip, mulling the implications over. “I don’t want to have to, like, say anything about it. But, yeah, you can tell whoever.” 

“That include the team?”

Jamie sucked in air through his teeth and pursed his mouth. Why that set his teeth on edge, he didn’t know. They were good lads - not always the most sensitive but they all (Jamie included) tried extremely hard to lift each other up when a difficult topic wormed its way into the safe space of their locker room.

This wasn’t Colin coming out or Sam fighting back against racist dickheads, though. It was just Jamie and his weird fucking brain.

“Dunno. I mean. Yeah. If you want.”

If Roy noticed his hesitation, he didn’t mention it.

Not a lot changed over the next few weeks. Jamie was still Jamie, after all. His quirks hadn’t disappeared overnight or become suddenly worse.

He coped. Just a bit differently. 

And so did the people around him.

A few days after his talk with Roy, Jamie was confronted by a smiling Keeley bearing a colourful gift bag: a present of cool rings that had spinning bands and mini gears he could fidget with, for ‘no reason’ other than she’d been thinking of him.

He spotted Sam with a book on the bus after a match, the title confusing him until he looked it up later. And then it cropped up again and again: on the shelf of Isaac’s locker, in the passenger seat of Colin’s car, sticking out of Jan’s bag.

Higgins approached him with a quiet and pleasantly confident assurance that the club’s management would do everything in their power to ensure Jamie was granted approval to use any medications that became necessary to his wellbeing.

The coaching team gave him a (mildly offensive) signal to use when he needed a minute, either to stick in his airpods and tune out, or to shuffle down to the boot room and breathe. More often than not, Dani would be waiting for him afterwards, beaming and ready to provide physical contact or launch into a full discussion on any inane topic he could think of.

Everyone was careful not to get outwardly annoyed when he asked them to repeat themselves or if he lost track of time. They let him talk when he went on a tangent. They were quick to forgive when he interrupted them or spoke without thinking.

They were… brilliant. It was brilliant.

Jamie carried on his therapy and worked hard to manage his symptoms and learn new behaviours. Despite Higgins’ promises, he decided against trying any of the medications offered to him, too concerned about weight loss and what (to his mind) felt like an unfair advantage on the pitch.

Diet and exercise became about more than just his job, they were further tools he could use to keep in control. He felt calmer most days and when he didn’t, Roy was there with extra workouts and an open door if he just needed a safe space.

It wasn’t perfect, of course it wasn't. Jamie still fixated on it when he fucked up and acted impulsively, screwing over his team or friends. He still let people down sometimes and struggled to understand how or why. He still needed to be held accountable. Shame at not being better still occasionally reared its head.

But that was okay.

Jamie was coping. And he wasn’t alone.

[farahs-babe]

Always, I’ll Care

Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles

Pairing: Ava du Mortain x Detective (Elijah Robinson)

Word Count: 1675 words

Warning: None, its just fluff 

Author’s note: So this is my first time writing for TWC fandom and gosh I’m nervous lol. Here is to hoping it shows up in the tags🤞 I hope y’all like it ❤

Title Inspiration: Always, I’ll Care by Jeremy Zucker

Ava sat in the empty common room, the night shrouding around her like a cloak.

A lone night lamp was turned on in the corner of the room, which cast against the sharp and rigid lines of her body accentuating the tense muscles and the constant flexing of her arm as she clenched and unclenched her fingers around the pen in her hand.

The others had shortly retreated to their room after the detective had bid good night. She could hear their steady breaths and that helped a bit with the growing anxiety which gnawed away at her slowly and steadily, like rust eating away at iron.

After 900 years of existence, you would think that nothing could bother Ava so much it made her stay awake into the wee hours but... It might be because of a certain blue-eyed detective.

Whenever Elijah's name crossed her mind, a flux of emotions would swirl through her. Initially, it would be an intense sense of longing which tugged at her heartstrings, followed by worry for his safety and concluded by a snort of annoyance on how easily she lets him invade his thoughts.

The entire ordeal with the pack of werewolves and the new revelation of the bounty had Ava so stressed that she had dug tracks into the common room carpet as she walked in circles before finally settling into a chair.

And Elijah being the- how could she place it delicately- the joker that he is, played it off in his usual sarcasm and jest.

But she could see.

She could see everything.

The rising panic in those soft brown eyes with a swirling green... The way his fingers threaded through his ebony black curls and tugging them, a gesture he did when he was nervous... The way he rocked on his heels... Everything.

She knows how capable he is and how determined he is, like Agent Robinson but that's the very thing that could get him killed. And the very thought of living in a world where he didn't exist...

He is more capable than you give him credit for. Mason's smoky voice from earlier, floods through her head which has her sighing.

She couldn't get herself to finish that sentence.

She leaned back on her chair and her hands went to rest behind her head, clutching her tight bun. The action caused a few strands to escape the restraints of the hairband and frame her face.

She looked out of the window to stare into the inky darkness. The sky was clear and you could see the numerous stars glittering over the treeline. Wayhaven looked so peaceful at night that you would be lulled into a sense of security. 

But everyone knows, monsters come out at night.

She let out a sigh trying to relax but her muscles bunched up in tension as she heard a familiar heartbeat and the familiar set of footsteps to the common room.

The door opened slowly and the man who had enraptured her, popped in.

"Hey, isn't it late for you?" His voice rasped, which caused the hairs on the back of her neck to rise in reaction.

She cleared her throat and sat straight up. "Well, I should be asking you that question. What are you doing up at 4 am?"

He chuckled. "Fair enough. I was having trouble sleeping. Can't get my mind to calm down."

"I can relate to that."

He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. She could see his naked torso in the golden hue of the lamp and that made her gulp. He was not as built as Ava but he had a lithe and athletic build. The early morning runs which he goes for definitely benefit the detective. 

With a huge effort, she got her emerald eyes to meet his hazel ones.

"I know that you are a vampire with amazing strength but you seriously need to sleep."

A smile played on his lips as he ignored the jibe. He walked up to the table and leaned against it. She notices the closeness and she noticed how his heart thundered against his chest. 

"We don't need sleep to function, unlike you humans."

"C'mon Ava. Nat herself told me you haven't rested in a week. And I know the entire bounty thing is bothering you more than you admit to."

Guess I'm not the only one who can see everything.

She looked down at her pale hands resting on the wooden table. "It shouldn't have come to this. I was supposed to protect your identity- I am sorry I couldn't-"

His hand cupped her chin, gently bending her head backwards so that he could look down at her.

"I have said this before and I will say it again. It was not your fault. You don't have to be apologetic."

"Bu-"

"Shh…" He placed a finger on her lips and she could feel electric sparks and a steady blush rising to her cheeks. His fingers traced her cheek and continued, captivated by the feeling of Ava’s smooth skin. 

Thank the gods he is human and can't see in the dark.

“It was too big an information to be kept under the wraps and it was bound to be out at some time. All we can do not is do damage control.”

She nodded her head. “Yes. That is the approach we are taking.”

His hand dropped and the loss of contact pricked her heart. "Enough work talk. Come with me."

Her eyebrows knotted. "Pardon me?"

"Come with me. I know what can help you relax."

Uncertainty coloured her features but curiosity won the best of her. She stood up and followed him.

He opened the door to Ava's room and gestured her to go in first before following her in.

"So what is your genius plan Detective?" She asked, sarcasm lacing her sentence.

Elijah wordlessly sat at the edge of the bed and pointed at the space on the floor before him.

Ava cocked an eyebrow and Elijah sighed. "I am just going to give you a massage. The knots in your neck is giving me knots. You need to relax and that will help you sleep."

She stood hesitantly by the door, her instincts begging her to just turn and march out but the genuine look in those starry eyes made her want to stay.

"Ava, do you trust me?"

With my heart and life.

Ava nodded and sat down on the ground, in the space between his legs, facing the wall opposite her bed. She proceeded to take out the combat shoes she was wearing as Elijah got comfortable on the bed behind her.

"May I?" He asked as his hands reached for the tight bun.

"Yes."

Slowly untied her hair and the golden locks cascaded down, stopping a little below her shoulders. She let out a sigh of relief as she felt his fingers combing through her hair, freeing the tangled hair. He was so gentle and Ava couldn’t help but gulp at the intimacy, something she wasn’t familiar with.

She was so lost with the feeling of his fingers threading through her hair that she almost didn’t hear him. 

"Tina says that if you tie your hair so tight and keep stressing it, your hairline will recede and you will lose hair. It also gives a nasty headache."

"Well, I'm a vampire so I don't think that affects me."

Elijah hummed in agreeance as he pressed his fingertips into her scalp and massaged. Ava let out another breathy sigh, feeling her face heat up, her pulse race and goosebumps on her overly sensitive skin.

"I know the others don't apply to you but, I can literally feel your head pounding."

Well, it's for other reasons. Her subconscious snarked which had her mind overthinking again. And the closeness between the two had her senses on overdrive which didn’t help her cause.

"Ava, I can hear the gears in your head-turning... Relax. Focus on my hands." He chastised as his thumbs circled her temples, applying just the right amount on pressure. 

It took all her strength to not melt into a puddle before him.

The way I'm putty in his hand is frightening... But at the same time, it feels like home.

He proceeded to thoroughly knead through the taut muscles of her neck, his magical fingers releasing the knots of tension. 

These tender gestures took her back to the way her mother would run a comb through her hair before bedtime. Or how she would help Ava out when she returned from war.

"What are you thinking?" He asked softly, not wanting to break the peace.

"It's just... It's been a long while since someone has done something like this for me."

She didn't need to turn around to see the Cheshire grin on his face. The way his white teeth would contrast his dark skin. The way his eyes would ignite, a captivating mix of brown and green... As if moss were creeping on the rich soil.

"Well, I'm glad I could help you relive the experience."

She turned around and looked up at him, her eyes memorising his face and every minute detail. The freckles dusted on his nose, the curly hair falling against his forehead, the light stubble and his full lips. 

"Thank you, Eli. I really appreciate it."

He squeezed her shoulder and gave her a gentle smile, something he only showed her. He reached to tuck a rebel strand behind her ear. "It was my pleasure, Ava. Get some rest, okay? Supernaturals don't take it easy on you just because you are tired."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you mocking me?"

Elijah took a faux gasp. "I would never dare to."

Her lips tilted up in a half-smile before rearranging back into an impassive mask.

"Good night Detective. See you bright and early tomorrow morning."

"Good night." He said as he stood up and walked out of the room, leaving Ava in a haze of rushing emotions, untethered thoughts and the regret of not asking him to stay back with her.

I hope you liked it and thank you for reading❤ 

Like, comment, reblog and let me know what you think ❤

Tagging: @lilyoffandoms ; @agentrebecca ; @anotherbeingsworld ; @oshen​ ; @nathanielhsewell​ ; @starrystarrytrouble​

[bubblegumwitchswriting]

The Currency We’ve Spent Chapter Seven

Main Pairing: Will/Nico

Other Pairings: Jason/Piper; Percy/Annabeth; Hazel/Frank; Leo/Calypso

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15934799/chapters/40763918

First Chapter (Prologue): here

Previous Chapter: here

It had been approximately five minutes since the last world-changing event hit them, so they were probably due another one. Jason's statement was probably earth-shattering but neither he nor Will appreciated that and just stared at him slightly blankly. Jason sighed in relief and sank back slightly into the cushions.

"Is that bad?" Will asked.

"No," said Jason. "That's good. That's really good."

Nico wasn't sure if it was just him or whether Jason really wasn't making much sense. He glanced at Will, but Will was just surreptitiously examining Jason, in med-student and doctor to the mob mode.

"Did -" Jason paused. He looked at Will as though trying to figure out how to phrase something.

"Luke never mentioned it," Will said, acting more composed than he must have been feeling. "Nico can you get that notebook?"

Nico got up to did that, leaving Will examining a cut on Jason's arm.

"How did you get this?" Will asked, as Nico padded away. Nico stopped listening. He didn't want to know. He couldn't know.

Everywhere around him the protective bubble he'd been forming  was fracturing and cracking. The world was pushing in, reality was coming for him. But why was this his reality? Why couldn't whatever drama his father and Jason's father were involved in just leave them all alone? Why couldn't he just have a boyfriend and worry about paying the rent and who was going to wash the dishes.

Actually, that was never really a worry. They both knew who would always end up doing the dishes.

He glanced at the date jar as he picked up Will's notebook. It had been only an hour or so since they'd been happily, soppily, writing down ideas for dates like a normal - sickeningly sweet - couple. Now it felt like a lifetime away. It felt like they had two different lives, two different personas - crisis and normality.

Normality hadn't lasted long and they had more experience with crisis. In the long hours of night that stretched out into time spent in the dark reaches of dark thoughts, deep worries that he usually shoved to the back of his head, he sometimes wondered if he and Will could cope without secrets, without drama, without crisis. If he closed his eyes and thought really hard he could maybe, just about see the two of them with a house and a car and proper jobs, maybe even kids. But the picture was hazy. The picture was hard to reach.

The picture might scare him a little.

He knew Will liked him, and liked him a lot. You didn't stay with someone who's family and family friends had tried to kill you, unless you liked them a lot. He knew that Will was loyal. He knew that despite Will's habit of picking up habits - even healthier eating, going to the gym, no tv days - and dropping them a week later, Will was loyal. He stayed, come rain or shine. Will was one of those people who didn't shy away from forever.

Nico couldn't say the same for himself.

Case in point: Austin. Nico had finally managed to convince Will he wasn't overthinking the secret brother. He'd then managed to convince himself he wasn't other-thinking the secret brother. Mostly convince himself anyway.

It wasn't the secret side of it he was over thinking this time, but the family aspect. And okay maybe the secret side. But not in the same sense as before: he had changed, no matter the looks Jason might give him. But Will's loyalty to his foster brother despite not seeing him in years, how torn up Will's life had become because of the past, because of those secrets - well that was something Nico was over thinking. Will had made it clear he didn't blame Nico for the possible actions of his father, the definite actions of Jason's father, Percy's father.

But would that hold? Would Will's loyalty hold?

And if Will was so loyal would there be a time when he went back to Luke?

No. Nico was not going down that path again. He wasn't.

He picked up the notebook just as Will called out to ask what was taking so long, and for a glass of coke and a pack of cookies. He assumed the coke and the cookies were for Jason, so he picked up the remains of packet of oreos - Jason's favourite and carried it all the into the living room.

He put everything down on the coffee table and Jason took an oreo. That was good. Jason looked too thin.

Will picked up the notebook, weighing it briefly in his hands before flipping the pages over, scanning his writing as though something might job a memory, a synapse might spark and he might suddenly unlock the secrets of the universe.

"Nothing," Will said with a shrug. The notebook seemed heavy in his palms.

"Something in here might help anyway," he said, holding it out to him. Jason reached out with a certain amount of reverence. He read, quickly and his expression changed. Sympathy? Wonder? Slight suspicion. Nico couldn't read Jason as well as he used to.

He wondered if he should have stopped Will giving Jason the book, but it was too late now anyway. And anyway Jason wasn't a threat. He had to stop letting his father get to him.

They'd already eaten, but they had a second dinner because of the unspoken agreement between him and Will that Jason needed to eat. With the lights on and Will making jokes, most of them at Nico's expense (Nico didn't mind because they were drawing smiles out of Jason, and then good-natured teasing out of Jason), Jason started looking more Jason like.

Midway through the evening, Jason and Will began ganging up on Nico's relationship with vegetables. Nico quickly diverted them with a question about Thalia.

"Won't talk about what happened," Jason said with a sigh. "But doing alright. She and Piper are getting on great. Always ganging up on me though."

"Gee," Nico said and he didn't think he'd ever felt the sarcasm dripping from his tongue so venomously, "I wonder how that feels."

Will just laughed; Jason pointed out how many nutrients aubergine had in with a beatific smile.

"That may be," Nico said, poking a piece with his fork. "But I hate the texture."

"I have to sneak vegetables in," Will said. "Like you have to do for little kids."

"I seem to recall earlier you saying how much you liked my spaghetti dear," Nico said. "And I put vegetables in that. You just have terrible taste in healthy stuff."

Jason went home with a bit of colour in his cheeks. After Nico shut the door behind him, and bolted it, he looked at Will, in the kitchen and staring into space.

"You didn't have to give Jason the notebook," Nico said softly. "That was a nice thing."

Will nodded. He pressed the thumb of one hand into the palm of the other. It was a nervous habit he'd only picked up very recently.

"It'll probably help," he said with a shrug. "And besides it will probably all come out at some point anyway."

He looked resigned. Nico wanted to get rid of that look but he didn't know how, not when he himself was resigned too.

Would they even survive without secrets?

He either needed to sleep, or a distraction. He glanced at his watch, Will noticed.

"Picnic tomorrow," he said. "First day of the rest of our lives doing the important stuff and all that."

Nico nodded.

"Are you saying early night?"

"Early night for you would be about 3am given how late you woke up," Will teased.

"It wasn't that late!" Nico protested, poking him in the ribs. Will giggled, squirming. He was extremely ticklish. It gave Nico the edge in arguments when Will had the edge with his sarcastic dears and loves and sweethearts melted Nico into butter outside in a heatwave. Will had not yet worked out that Nico was equally, and possible even more, ticklish. It was one secret he intended to keep from Will until he was cold in his grave.

Still giggling Will moved back, out of reach.

"I was just going to suggest Mario Kart," he said. "I'm not tired yet and aside from our super romantic rom-com picnic, we don't have much to do tomorrow."

"I'll take you up on that," Nico said. "Providing I get to be Luigi."

"You can be Luigi if you get there first," Will offered, sprinting away to the living room as he spoke.

"Come back cheat!" Nico called, running after him.

The next day dawned fair and warm: perfect picnic weather. Will, full of visions of checked blankets and wicker baskets searched for both despite knowing full well they'd never owned either of those items. He was debating going out to find them and whether amazon could same day delivery them and whether that was even a thing, or he'd dreamt it, when the doorbell went.

Will still deep in picnic planning land, ignored it. Nico drinking coffee and eating this morning's pancakes (Will was apparently very serious about big, important breakfasts - not that Nico was complaining) had to get up. He was expecting Jason, maybe Percy or Cecil. Lou Ellen even. He certainly wasn't expecting Thalia.

"Hey," she said, quietly hands shoved deep into the pockets of her jeans. "Jason gave me your address. I wanted to bring this back."

She took Will's notebook out of her jacket pocket.

Nico nodded. Then remembered they were both standing opposite sides of the doorway.

"Right," he said. "Come in?"

Thalia picked up on his tone.

"Won't stay long," she assured him. "I know you two are probably busy. I just wanted to ask Will something."

Nico pursed his lips, sour and irritated. He tried to shove it down but it was a pressure behind his eyes, a heat in his blood.

Thalia went through into the living room where Will was still at the laptop, staring with slight horror at the prices of picnic hampers.

"Hey," she said. "Thalia. Jason's sister."

"I remember," Will said. "From the party?"

Thalia and Will hadn't interacted much. Thalia, strangely, seemed unsure and she nodded, picking at a silver thread along the hem of the jacket. She didn't sit down, just stood uncomfortable and thoughtful in the centre of the room. Will closed the laptop.

"Brought this back," Thalia said, handing the notebook to Will. "Jason copied it all out. He said you wouldn't mind?"

Will shook his head.

"I suggested it."

Thalia nodded again. The thread was getting longer as she played with it, winding it tight around her finger.

"You knew Luke fairly well?"

Will looked down at the table, quiet now too. Nico suddenly got the impression he wasn't necessarily an important part of the conversation. He faded, as unobtrusively as he could into the kitchen. He could still hear them talking, could still jump in and rescue Will or kick Thalia out if things got too much. Could still eavesdrop.

He closed his eyes and took a breath. Sometimes he really hated his inner self.

"I guess," Will said. "I mean as much as anyone. He just kept to himself really. Didn't say much to anyone or have much to do with anyone."

"No," Thalia said softly. "I knew him. He trusted you. I can tell from the things he told you."

Will looked down at his hands.

"It was a business relationship really," he said. "But he must have cared about you. I haven't seen him or contacted him in a couple of months and he still texted me the other day to make sure you were okay."

Thalia was pale, furious, upset, hurt. It was a mix of emotions Nico was intimately acquainted with and for the first time in a very long time he felt a flash of kinship to Thalia.

"See," she managed. "He trusts you."

She shrugged, pulled her jacket more closely around herself.

"He wasn't always terrible you know," she said. "Even now I'm sometimes not sure he's wrong. I just wish he -"

She broke off, shaking her head.

"Thanks for answering. I know it's probably not something you want to dwell on."

Will didn't deny that.

"Any time," he said.

Nico showed Thalia out. At the door she paused.

"I know you didn't want this," she said. "But I thought maybe now?"

Out of her pocket she pulled a mythomagic card. It was a rare version of Hades. It was the card Thalia had brought back from their road trip, the card Bianca had gotten for him.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, ignored the heat in his eyes. He managed to reach out a hand to take it.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

Thalia, didn't acknowledge it. That was fine: he didn't want her to. Acknowledging him would also mean she acknowledge how rigidly he was holding himself, how hard it had been to get the words out at all. She just turned and left.

Back in the living room Will had opened up the laptop again and was back on the hunt for picnic hampers.

"We don't need a hamper," Nico said, forcing himself back to normality, back to that persona. "I mean how often are we going to picnic?"

"We should do it every weekend," Will said. Nico have him a look.

"Yeah, yeah," he said, forestalling Nico's comment. "I know. We'll probably do it twice and then it will rain and then we'll be busy and then -"

Nico sighed. Will was right, but suddenly he realised that he'd also been picturing their picnic with a hamper. Will's stupid romanticism was rubbing off, catching like the dreaded lurgy.

"We'll go today with a boring old carrier bag," he said. "And then we can look in some junk shops. I'm sure a thrift store somewhere will have a hamper."

Will grinned at him.

"What?" Nico said.

"You are a romantic!" he said with a grin.

"It's your fault," Nico grumbled. "I'm pandering to you and some of your stupid ideals are rubbing off."

Will just grinned, not taking Nico seriously at all. Nico wondered how seriously he'd meant it. He'd never had the opportunity to be romantic before. It had been so much easier to be a cynic.

"I'll start packing the food," Will said. "See if you can find something to sit on. It doesn't have to be checked."

They had plenty of blankets. Nico folded one up on the fourth attempt and then they were out in the warm spring air. Birds sung, road rage was at a minimum. It was a lovely day.

In the park there were plenty of other picnic-ers: other couples, families with small children running happily across the grass. Nico watched them blankly. Was that his future? Or was his future darker, did his future involve an endless array of Luke's and Ares's and echoed gunshots in his head.

He honestly didn't know which he wanted, which scared him more. And that scared him.

"I'll just do all this myself shall I?" Will asked, teasingly as he shook the blanket out. Nico looked up at Will, blonde hair a bright halo on the warm day.

What are you scared about? he asked himself.

He didn't have the answer.

"I was just waiting for you to get the blanket down," Nico said, equally teasing. "Not my fault you're slow."

They talked. They watched clouds. They did everything they were supposed to do on a romantic picnic. But Will didn't seem to be as present as he might have been. Given how excited Will had been about the whole thing, his distractedness worried Nico. He got an explanation without warning, as Will stirred a pot of honey he'd been spreading on a slice of bread.

"Thalia's right," he said, watching the spoon go round and round. "Luke did trust me."

Nico had no idea what to say. He had no idea where Will's train of thought had come from, even less where it was going.

"Did you trust him?" he asked.

Will sighed.

"You know what," he said. "I did. At least to the extent that he would continue to pay me and continue to ensure I was as out of danger as possible."

"When I met him," Nico said. "He seemed okay. I think that was one of the things that really bothered me. He does all these terrible things, but he just stood there and seemed okay."

Will was quiet.

The spoon went round and round.

"You know," Will said quietly. "I sometimes wonder if he has done terrible things."

Nico really didn't know how to answer that one. He couldn't think of a single thing to say that wasn't Luke is evil!

"I mean what do we really know? Your father and Jason's father don't like him. He attacked them. But they also attack him. We don't know who is right."

"Luke's the mob," Nico said, frustrated, but he knew he was mostly frustrated with himself. Because Will was making sense. He didn't want Will to make sense. He didn't want things to get messier. He didn't want to find out just how loyal Will was.

"Yes but," Will said gently, "-and please don't take this the wrong way but - how do we know you're dad isn't. Jason's father isn't?"

If it were a gang fight, a turf war, if it was one version of a mob against another version of the mob would that make it better or worse?

If it was would Will pick Luke? Would Nico pick his own father?

"I -" Nico said. But then he shook his head. "Maybe you're right."

"I didn't mean to rock the boat," Will said. "Or ruin the picnic. But we don't know anything. I gave Jason the notebook because maybe we need to go back a bit. Figure out what happened in the past. Figure out who's right now. Maybe that's the only way we get out."

"That doesn't sound like getting out," Nico said, through gritted teeth. "That sounds like getting into it."

"Wasn't that your idea?" Will asked. "Getting into it to get out of it?"

"My idea largely involved neither of us getting hurt!" Nico snapped.

There was a beat of silence. Will put down the spoon. Nico played with the ring on his finger.

"We won't," Will said.

"You can't promise that," Nico said.

"No," Will said. "I guess I can't. But I can't promise we won't get hurt anyway. Ignoring everything, not being angry, it was okay before. But now Austin's here, and you're here and everything that goes with your dad and Jason's dad is here. I think now not being mad is making it worse. Ignoring it all is making it worse. Kayla's strong, she's doing okay. I don't have to worry about upsetting her."

"What about upsetting yourself?" Nico asked softly.

Will looked up at him, expression suddenly so much it made Nico dizzy.

"I've got you," Will said. "I know you'll be there."

Nico swallowed. He couldn't look up. It wasn't an I love you, the words weren't even close, but they carried the same tone, the same weight.

"And I've got Jason and Percy and Annabeth and Piper, and Lou Ellen and Cecil and -" Will added with a grin, completely and totally ruining the moment. Or maybe the way his eyes gleamed made it better. Either way Nico lent forward and kissed him.

"You have us," he agreed. It wasn't an I love you, but he hoped it carried the same tone, the same weight.

[rkxsicheng]

MGA4 Final | Solo Performance Song: Move by TaeminJun [0:05-2:37] Outfit/Hair/Make-up: [x] [x]

 When he learns that he’s made it through, there’s a release of pent up pressure in his chest like the crisp snap of a bottle being twist open, a sense of relief so sharp that it almost registers like pain, but the relief is washed away by a wave of anxiety, laced with anger, when the position selection process begins, and he discovers how low he’s ranked. 

 Second to last. 

 He almost spends the rest of the day upset, the anger quickly fading into a distinct sense of hurt. Was he not good enough? 

 The hurt makes it difficult for him to focus for a couple of hours, as they’re told about their schedule for the upcoming week, it only barely registers how chaotic it sounds. A solo stage and a group stage, rehearsal on your own time, appointments for costume measurements tomorrow, fittings during the week, stage effects and back-up dancers available upon request, here’s who to speak to for that, where to go, it’s a barrage of information, and it ends up being just a little too much, and he has to duck into a restroom to gather his thoughts, to find some quiet. 

 Sicheng aches for this 

 It’s a recent revelation, sparked in part by the heat of the competition, but he wants this.

 Perhaps he even needs it; he hasn’t got much in the way of prospects in South Korea at the moment, and there’s a fear that creeps further in him with each passing day that his parents will eventually see fit to cut this little adventure of his short if he doesn’t produce some kind of result soon. And the thought of having to leave behind the friends he’s made here hurts him. 

 The low ranking hangs over him like a spectre, and seems an insurmountable barrier, something hopeless, before it occurs to him that it’s something new for him in the competition. Somewhat, at least. 

 He thinks back to his first five or six weeks on this show; he’d been ranking high, second or third out of eight or nine, regardless of the amount of screentime he’d gotten, he’d been doing well, in a manner of speaking. 

 Of course, he’d been in a very different mental space at the time, this competition had seemed so light then, hadn’t felt like something he needed, it’d been easy to practice and to perform and to do his thing, and then between Donghyuck and Xuxi’s health scares and hospitalisations, Mark’s original elimination, everything, the show had become so very heavy, so very real, and it’d thrown Sicheng off of his game. 

 He had to rediscover that focus, that lightness. He had to figure out again how to rid himself of the anxiety and fear and just do his best, free of distractions.

 The first order of business, of course, is to determine what he’s even doing.

 This is the final, and that meant a lot of things. First and foremost, of course, it was the final impression the audience and the panel and the production team would all have of him, but it was also more than that, it was the first solo performance since the beginning of the competition, since there had been so few contestants. It was a proper chance to stand out, to show off his individual colour, to make a mark and prove that he had some sort of spark that warranted collection. It was an opportunity that he was going to take full advantage of. 

 He only had to decide what colour he really was. 

 Chinese traditional dance is the obvious choice. It’s what he’s trained in, for a lifetime, and he can perform a routine like it’s nothing, with the ease of an auntie idling through a shopping centre, and at first it seems like the best choice, too, until he really gives it more consideration; he’d already done it twice in this competition, three times, if one was to count his Shangri-La performance, and how he’d worked it in there, and at this rate...perhaps it was what people expected of him. They expected him to do a traditional dance routine, and the more Sicheng thought about it, the less of a good idea it seemed. It wasn’t all that relevant, truthfully, and although interesting, would be relegated to some sort of “special talent” that he showed off on variety shows if he were to actually become an idol. 

 He wanted to not only do something unexpected, something new, but he also wanted to prove that he could perform, that he could be an idol. 

 So he decides he won’t be doing his traditional dance, and although there’s a flare of anxiety in that decision, in straying from what is easy and known, he thinks that it is a choice that will serve him well in the end. 

 When it comes to the task of deciding what exactly he’ll be performing, if not traditional dance, it’s a somewhat difficult matter, and after a good twenty minutes of empty-handedness, of half-thoughts and neverminds, he tries to narrow his options down by asking himself: who does he admire?

 What kind of performer does he want to be?

 It’s an easy answer. He recalls having written it on his application form, even. Sicheng admires a complete performance; he admires artists who sing, dance, but most importantly, embody their performance. He isn’t sure what it is, exactly, more than some kind of electricity in their eyes, a measured sureness in their movements, the x factor that bridges the gap between someone merely talented, and someone noteworthy. 

 A tall order, certainly, and a challenge to his skills, he thinks, but that’s the performer he wants to grow into, and that’s the kind of performance he wants to give for the final. 

 He eventually settles on Move by Jun. The LC9 member had sprung to mind as possessing that spark that Sicheng had admired, and although other songs by him, like Press Your Number, had seemed just a little too far outside of Sicheng’s range, especially with only a week to prepare, Move’s lighter, more sensual vocals and focus on performance had seemed like the perfect choice. He thought he’d be able to handle the vocals, playing to his strengths by not going for something too intensive while still showing that he could do it, that he was easily a triple threat in the making, while also allowing him to focus on the dance itself, which had a delicacy and a grace to it that would match quite well with the inherently lyrical forms of Sicheng’s movement. 

 He talks to who he needs to talk to after this decision is made, and it’s approved, and he’s got back-up dancers, four women, and it’s a lot. He almost doesn’t even know where to start, but the ladies are professionals after all, and he arranges times to meet and rehearse with them, between this and the group rehearsals he’s not got time for much more than practice and a...passable, if not great, night’s sleep every day of the week, and Sicheng thinks that that works for him. 

 He wants to do his utmost, and he hopes the strange lump of magma, of determination and nervousness twisted round into one, would serve as some sort of fuel that he could use to push through into his best form, into his best performance. 

 Maybe his mother had helped him by driving him like some sort of dance robot; it’d made it easy for him to shut everything else out and do only dance, it’d hardened him to hours and hours in wood-floor studios, watching his reflection glide across it. 

 He can’t go into autopilot, though. He doesn’t want to let himself appear vacant, especially with a song so sensuous, he had to be present. 

 It’s something he struggles with over the course of the week: the sex appeal. 

 Sicheng isn’t blind, or stupid, or unaware; he isn’t some egomaniac, but he’s aware that he’s generally considered good-looking, although he tends to hear pretty more often than handsome, he doesn’t think that will be hindrance, that maybe it will match well with the strange, androgynous appeal of the song he’s performing. What isn’t, though, is anything close to sexually assured, and although the song isn’t explicit, its lyrics are suggestive, and the performance itself delicately sexy. It isn’t outright, in the form of hip thrusts or anything, but it’s still more than he’s accustomed to. Feeling and exuding sexy wasn’t something he was well-versed in. 

 He asks one of his dancers about it, ears red, extremely embarrassed to be asking someone how he might be a little sexier, but she’s amused by the question. 

 “You’re...adorable,” she squeals, prompting a whine from the boy that she quickly hushes, “You just...have to believe it. Or at least feel it, just then. You’re so pretty, though! I think it suits you really well, like...my advice is to not think so hard about it and think more about how you want to feel, and other people will feel it, too?” 

 Sicheng thanks her for the advice, although it doesn’t exactly reassure him. 

 He sets out on the task of discovering his own sexual self-esteem, which initially is absurd to him. Embracing that aspect of his identity isn’t something he’s done much of, but he eventually settles into some strange space where after a while, sometimes he’ll find himself blushing at the end of a practice run, at himself really, and he wonders if he’s become a megalomaniac, if it’s the confidence boost he’s felt from fan comments, or what, but he manages to convince even himself that he’s got a very definite sense of sex appeal. 

 He’s got pretty eyes that radiate intensity with a bit of smudgy make-up, a long elegant nose, and big, plump lips...and if he thinks too much about all of those things he feels a strange heat in his chest. 

 He’s very particular, he finds, making every decision available to him with a thoughtfulness that surprises even himself, although he’s always been prone to overthinking. From the cut of the song he’ll be performing, chosen to peak and fade out dramatically in the end, to the clothing him and his dancers will wear; they’ll be dressed simply in all black, and he’ll wear something a little revealing, in red and white stripes. It was something he’d once spoken to a costume designer at his old dance company about: you could use colour to draw the viewer’s eye to a certain dancer, or area of the stage, and Sicheng wanted every eye on him. 

 Perhaps it’s the amount of practicing he’s doing, or the anticipation that boils inside of him, swelling with each days until it’s oceanic, but the week passes by in a blur, and he feels like he’s had just enough time to pull his performances together, to tighten them into something worthy before the day of filming arrives, but not a second longer.

 He wonders how everyone else feels about how polished they are, about where they stand, because for him, it’s a strange cocktail of peace, of confidence, of anxiety, of need, and he tries to strangle it into some form of submission before it’s his time to film, succeeding only very narrowly before his number is called, and production staff are ushering him around, double-checking his mic, reminding him of where his cameras will be.

 It’s not as nerve-wracking as he thought it would be, standing on stage by himself, perhaps because he isn’t really, with his dancers. 

 He waits for the lights to raise, and the track to click on, a staffer off the side of the stage giving him a finger count until it does, and almost immediately he’s singing. 

 The song isn’t hard to sing, for the most part, not for Sicheng. It’s a gentle vocal performance, rooted in suggestion, the song itself all about furtive glances, strange feelings, dizzying attraction. 

  Sicheng does his best to embody the energy of quiet intensity that the song requires, rotating his hips slowly over top the beat, his arm movements, thought careful and rehearsed, move like morning mist over water, he invites his listener to smudge her carefully applied make-up, running a thumb over his lower lip as he does so. 

 It’s an intense performance, and even with the large crowd, and the cameras, Sicheng is blushing under his BB cream by the time he’s finished, something about the performance having felt strangely intimate, perhaps a combination of who he’d secretly been thinking of, largely by accident when trying to embody seduction, and the fact that he stood alone on stage this time. 

 He bows when he’s done, as the light dim and the music fades, and he makes his way backstage, where he’s told to change into something more comfortable, and updated on the schedule for the rest of the day, which he barely registers, the adrenaline still pumping through him, clouding his perception. 

 Sicheng is proud of himself, and although he knows what he wants, and that he’ll be disappointed to lose out when he’s so very close, when the prize is in nearly in grasp, he can’t help but feel a strange sense of peace, as though what is meant to happen will happen. 

 If what he’s done isn’t good enough for those judging him, he will at least have the knowledge that it was good enough for himself, that he’d challenged himself, and rose to it.

 He’ll be fine either way, he knows, but he hopes that someone on that panel sees the spark he’d found in himself, and saw fit to give him another challenge to rise to. 

[wavesofinkdrops]

A Very Commie Christmas

A/N: Pure fluff. Alfred has Seen Too Many Things(TM). And fluff again. Enjoy.

Notes: vesnushki = freckles in russian. @derevosky wonderful idea for a cute nickname, thank you for letting me use it and give it the acknowledgement it deserves! Merry Christmas to all!

“Alfred.”

“A minute!”

“I thought you wanted this to be “quick and painless”?” Ivan shot up the stairs.

There was a soft curse before Alfred appeared at the top of the stairs, wrapped in probably all the winter clothing he had packed - a scarf, a long and thick coat (Ivan knew he was wearing at least two shirts and a jumper underneath), jeans (and probably tights under, but Ivan doubted Alfred would admit to them), his favourite and only pair of earmuffs and the mittens Ivan had bought him the year before. “Yeah, but I couldn’t find my scarf. And it’s friggin’ freezing. Arthur always rearranges my stuff when I unpack, blame him.” He fumbled through his coat pockets, the mittens making his movements clumsier than usual.

Ivan reached over to dig through Alfred’s pockets, found his key and unlocked the door.

Alfred huffed, already miffed at the cold weather. “Let’s go,” he said, before stepping out. Ivan caught the umbrella from the doorway, knowing that they’d been promised rain or hail or snow - or a combination of all. They hurried their way to the metro station under the grey sky (Alfred wanted to sprint, Ivan was leisurely walking behind him), and from there went to the city centre.

After Ivan managed to convince Alfred to leave the warmth of the Underground, because we have business to tend to, Alfred, they came out into the cold London winter - and rain. Actually, it wasn’t even proper rain - it was an annoying wet mixture of snow and rain. Ivan managed to get the umbrella over them before Alfred could begin moaning. Ivan would never understand how despite Alfred having areas in the north (not mentioning Alaska, where Alfred was known to usually spend a week in during winter), the man would whine at the first hint of cold weather - be it in Russia or Britain or anywhere.

Brompton Road was hellishly busy, and the more they navigated through the crowd of bustling people, the more the both of them dreaded their day’s plan. They’d only arrived in London the day before for Arthur’s annual Christmas party (dubbed by Alfred and Matthew as their “ex-Empire dad’s yearly where-have-my-colonies-gone gathering”), and now had to go Christmas shopping. Neither had had the foresight to do it in their respective countries, and now were forced to settle for the Sunday rush of Christmas shoppers in Harrods.

Alfred had began going on and on, most likely about things they needed to buy - although when Ivan listened closer, after distinguishing the sentence, “Matthew’s a complete dick with his whole Bombardier deal, he keeps bitching about the tariffs he brought onto himself!” he really had no idea what Alfred was speaking of.

It wasn’t long before they arrived to the grand and lavish department store Harrods, and Ivan felt an immediate sense of being overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people and light and things there were. Alfred was already halfway through taking off nearly every layer of warm clothing he had on himself, having removed his coat, his jumper, his gloves, his earmuffs and his scarf.

“Okay, we’re here. Where do we start?” Alfred asked, and Ivan dug into his pocket for the list Alfred had made of presents and things they needed to find. Ivan handed the list to Alfred, who began reading off it and explaining where they’d find things. At one point, he paused. “I’ve been here too many times if I can list off every floor this easily. C’mon, let’s go, let’s start from the top and go down from there.”

Of course, it was a journey in itself, navigating the ground floor between the different islands of makeup and beauty products, Ivan somewhat astonished at the sheer number of different shades of lipstick and blush that were there - there was no way that many colours could even exist. (Once he saw the first hint of blue lipstick, however, he gave up trying to understand people’s tastes - if that colour had been produced and marketed, it had to sell.)

“Ivan, come on!” Alfred ushered, trying not to go too fast for fear of losing Ivan - though losing a six-foot-too-many-inches-tall Russian guy in the middle of a sea of Brits wasn’t too easy a task. They reached the elevators, by which point Ivan seemed somewhat out of breath already.

“Is this all really necessary?” he asked Alfred in the over-crowded lift.

“What do you mean?” Alfred’s eyebrows had that small confused arch that was so very characteristic of him. “What’s necessary?” Ivan shrugged. “Merely that this all seems… rather excessive.”

Alfred paused. “Uhm… sure? I don’t know, seems normal to me. It’s a bit busy here today, that’s all.”

“I meant the amount of… things here. Products. How many shades of lipstick do they need?”

Alfred laughed. “The people who come here are usually pretty stinkin’ rich, and British. They need seven shades a day, and another one for special occasions.”

Ivan smiled, and they rode the elevator in silence to the fifth floor. Alfred deemed Matthew in need of some new sportswear, and Ivan was finally told the relationship between Matthew’s Christmas present and the US tariffs on Canada.

“Matthew’s bitchy over the stupid planes or whatever, so I’ll bet it’s because he broke his favourite hockey stick or something,” Alfred explained.

Though they didn’t get a hockey stick, they managed to find a nice hoodie for Matthew - even though Alfred claimed Matthew already had too many, but he’d been once told by the Canadian: “What does too many hoodies mean? That sentence doesn’t exist.”

“Ok, now we can skip the fourth and go straight to the third floor - that’s where all the cool stuff is. Trust me, Britain doesn’t get much cooler than the toy kingdom or the tech section here,” Alfred told Ivan, before grabbing his hand and dragging him to the escalators.

The thing was, it wasn’t just any escalators in any random department store - this was Harrods. Alfred said it was called the ‘Egyptian room,’ but Ivan was confused as to what part exactly he was supposed to look at. When he focused, he could make out the Ancient Egypt-like diagrams, patterns and hieroglyphs on the beige “stone” walls, but it was rather confusing - the colourful artwork was crowded by Christmas lighting, white frivolous decorations serving as support for bright yellows, blues, reds, purples and greens. It was colours galore, and having never been to Harrods before, the extravagance of it was rather off-putting. Combined with the crowd of upper-class Englishmen and women, the overall effect it had on Ivan was… perhaps not the best he could have had.

Alfred went on about their next steps. “First we’ll stop at Toy Kingdom, because there’s always the coolest things ever there, and also I’m pretty Jett and James want something from there - oh, and Peter too, and then we’ll walk around the furniture place if we can find something nice… Even if Arthur probably just wants tea, he also really needs a new couch-”

“You are not buying him a new couch, are you?”

Alfred laughed. “No, but I might just buy him a new carpet or small table or pillows that doesn’t match his couch and Francis will force him to change it. Francis hates that couch more than I do.”

They got off the escalator, and Alfred steered them to the furniture section. There were more couches, more tables, more random decorations than Ivan cared to count - and the place seemed to continue for multiple hallways. Alfred continued speaking, happily drifting through the different displays and pointing out things that caught his attention (granted, many things managed to catch his attention).

“Oh, and Francis is coming too, I forgot - I guess we gotta get him something too, seeing as he’s, like, a second dad to me or something, so d’you think he’d like incense? Or maybe some  cologne. Although he probably has loads of those. Or a new tie, which is a classic - oh, hey! He had that new fancy suit, I’ll bet he wants a new tie, wasn’t it a kinda blue-kinda-grey shade? I think he’d like a nice tie with that - how ridiculous ties d’you reckon we can find?”

A rather nice coffee table caught Ivan’s attention, but when he turned the tag to show its price, his eyebrows shot up. “Isn’t this place somewhat… expensive?”

Alfred turned to him. “Well, yeah. That’s the point. It’s the most famous department store in this entire country - okay, actually, in probably the entire world? Also the stuff they have here is like prime quality,” Alfred explained.

Ivan looked at the price tag again with an almost - could Alfred call it disdainful? - look on his face. There was a very distinct pause in Alfred’s mind, and a few select memories of his decided to appear right then and there.

He knew that look, and if it was anything to go by, he would be haunted by a ghost and today would not be enjoyable.

No, that was irrational. He was overthinking it.

However, as predicted, the trip didn’t turn out much better than it had started.

It didn’t matter whether it was in the toy section, where Alfred showed Ivan the cool robots and other toys that were there, or whether it was in the tech section, or in the artwork section, or the menswear, but everywhere they went Ivan threw around certain questions that made Alfred doubt the entirety of his life for the past twenty or so years.

“Have you looked at this price?”

“I could have a suit tailor-made at home and it would cost a quarter of this.”

He could swear he heard Ivan mutter, “Bourgeoisie,” with an exasperated look on his face, at one point. Alfred had half a mind to tell him to let the rich people be.

The look of amusement, confusion and (dare Alfred say it?) derision at the number of people, the number and variety of products, and especially at their prices never left Ivan’s face.

Ivan was, as far as Alfred was aware, still a goddamn capitalist country, yet he had to make a scene about the place the likes of which Alfred hadn’t seen Ivan pull before. And he was not appreciating the flashbacks he was getting.

And the moment Ivan scoffed at the price of a golden bluetooth speaker in the shape of a bulldog with sunglasses, Alfred decided he was glad they were in Europe and that he was legally allowed to drink, based on his ID. He felt in need of a strong Guinness right then and there. Ivan turned to Alfred, and his face turned to outright confusion.

“Alfred, are you alright?”

Alfred blinked. “What?”

“You look rather pallid,” Ivan stated, and Alfred tried to squash the memories of a certain communist scoffing at the “decadent capitalist society” from popping up again.

“I’m fine,” Alfred huffed. He did a quick mental checklist, and upon realising that they had everything they needed and came here for, he announced, “We’re going to a pub.” Alfred had seen enough capitalism for one day.

It was a small problem to get their coats and scarves and other winter clothing back on before going outside, but they managed it. Alfred had been silent pretty much the entire time after leaving the building, with a look as if he’d seen a ghost (which Ivan recognised easily from their horror movie evenings).

As they made their way out and through the streets, the fresh air seemed to help Alfred recover somewhat. “Arthur told me about this place down a few streets that’s pretty good or well-known,” Alfred explained as they drew away from the busy Brompton Road. “It has this really English name too, something like Lion’s Mane or Head or something.”

They turned another corner, and arrived in front of the place.

Warm air wafted onto and around them when Alfred opened the door, bustling in with his shopping bags and all. Ivan followed him, until Alfred paused and huffed. “It’s completely packed. Let’s try that other place along the way.”

It turned out that, in the end, every single pub managed to be completely overloaded, and they resigned themselves to returning to Arthur’s home.

When they walked in, the house was still empty - Matthew hadn’t landed yet, and Arthur (and by extension, Francis) were probably still at Downing Street - Francis had decided to tag along solely to “irritate” Arthur (Arthur claimed that was Francis’ aim, despite everyone knowing that was a blatant lie, but no one deemed it necessary to call him out on it).

After having shed every single additional layer of clothing and dropping off their bags in their respective - separate - rooms (Arthur had made precise and careful arrangements - ‘no international scandals under my bleeding roof’, to which Francis had choked on his wine while stifling a laugh), they went back downstairs and Alfred promptly beelined for and crashed on the couch, Ivan following suit.

“Boy, was that an experience,” Alfred sighed.

Ivan readjusted himself, and so did Alfred. He was now fit snugly under Ivan’s arm and against his chest, his body sprawled along the couch’s length and his legs hanging over the armrest, while Ivan sat at the other end.

“What do you mean?” Ivan asked. “That was not so horrible as I imagined, just somewhat excessive for my tastes.”

“Somewhat?” Alfred craned his neck to look Ivan in the eyes with disbelief. “Dude, I literally saw a ghost walking right up alongside me in there!”

“A ghost?” Ivan’s voice was laced with amusement, the same kind a parent would use at a child’s fantastic adventure stories.

“Hi, yeah, throwback Thursday to the Soviet Union - dude, you’re a capitalist now, you’re supposed to live in places like these!”

Ivan laughed. “I do not think that’s quite how everyone else perceives capitalism.”

“Whatever, man, that was a scare you gave me right there.” Alfred paused. “A red scare, actually.”

He felt Ivan momentarily stop moving, barely breathing. Then there was a shift, and Alfred was shoved off of Ivan and left to drop back onto the couch.

“That was terrible, Alfred,” Ivan huffed, but there was a clear hint of a smile on his lips as he went to the small, old chest in the corner of the room, where Arthur kept all his blankets folded up neatly.

“That was a great pun! And you totally deserved that!” For that, he earned a blanket to his face, and Ivan then came back to the couch.

“I ‘totally’ did not,” he countered as he began poking Alfred to shift aside to let him fit. Alfred refused to sit up, so Ivan settled instead for lying next to Alfred on the couch. It was rather a tight fit, what with two grown men on a normal-sized couch, but neither seemed to care.

“Totally did, for scaring me like that. I don’t like ghosts.” Alfred yawned, and Ivan flicked his nose gently.

“We all know that, vesnushki,” Ivan said, laughing softly at Alfred look of affrontment.

“Whatever. I’m dead tired right now, so maybe we can just chill here for a bit until they come back or til Mattie arrives,” Alfred suggested. “You’re real warm and comfy and this is nice,” he continued, melding his body next to Ivan’s and nuzzling into his chest. The blanket managed to mostly cover them both, especially when Alfred tangled his legs with Ivan’s and hugged him closer.

“That is a very attractive idea.” Ivan began stroking Alfred’s hair, before removing Alfred’s glasses, reaching behind and placing them on the coffee table. Alfred let out an appreciative hum, and he sighed in content.

There was a moment of silence. Alfred interrupted it. “I hate this couch.”

Ivan chuckled, before petting Alfred’s hair. “Shush. I thought you wanted to take a nap.”

“Well I didn’t say that, but now you mention it that sounds great.”

“OI, ALFRED!”

“Sometimes I do wonder how you are not already deaf, with the amount if yelling you do,” Francis sniffed, brushing snow off his coat before hanging it into the hallway.

“He was supposed to get the ham, and I want to make sure that I didn’t buy this ham,” Arthur said, lifting the bag in his hand, “for nothing. He would be forgetful enough to not do what I specifically asked him to.”

They heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and in came Matthew.

“Oh, Matthew, you’re he-”

“Matthieu, mon fils!” Francis interjected, giving him the customary French cheek kisses.

“Yeah, arrived an hour or so ago.”

Francis turned to Arthur. “Alfred must still be out with Ivan-”

“Oh no,” Matthew smiled, a cheeky and devious grin that both Europeans knew bode nothing good. It was the same smile Alfred had worn before his Easter prank (also known as the reason why rabbits and screwdrivers - both tool and drink - were no longer allowed at meetings). “He’s here all right. Both are.”

“That lad needs to learn how to respond-”

“Don’t think he heard you,” Matthew stated.

“I think Paris heard him,” Francis said with a confused tone.

“He’s sleeping on your couch - well, more like on Ivan on your couch. It’s sweet. I have a lot of blackmail and prank material now.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and stomped to the living room. Sure enough, Alfred had mostly climbed on top of Ivan, huddled under the blanket. Ivan’s arms were holding Alfred tight, one hand around his body and the other in his hair.

Arthur leaned on the couch armchair. “MR. JONES AND MR. BRAGINSKY!”

Alfred jerked up, simultaneously somehow managing to shove Ivan off the couch. And seeing as he had been on Ivan, he ended up on the floor too. There was a panicked screech and a groan, before Alfred stumbled up from the floor.

He turned around, and seeing Ivan rubbing his back where he’d landed with Alfred on him, Alfred offered his hand to help him up. He only then seemed to realise he’d been woken up, and turned to see Arthur’s deadpan expression.

“Did you get the ham?” Arthur asked.

Alfred blanched. “I… uh - I mean, I meant to?”

Matthew was laughing in the background, while Arthur rolled his eyes. “Thank God I knew I could trust you to be that forgetful,” he muttered, before going to the kitchen.

“It’s Ivan’s fault! He scared me with his whole the-Soviet-Union’s-back act!”

“Al, please, that’s sad even from you.”

“I was scared!”

“Well I can believe that, seeing as you needed your Russian bear to comfort you, eh?” Matthew asked, pulling up a photo on his phone and showing it to Alfred.

“That’s - no - what is that-”

“It is a picture of you and me, sleeping on the couch,” Ivan explained. “Have I told you you look adorable when you sleep?”

“Let them be, Matthieu,” Francis interjected before Alfred could begin sputtering. He swung an arm around Matthew and directing him away from the other two. “L’amour is sweet, and should be allowed to have its course. That includes naps,” Francis concluded.

And as Alfred whirled around to huff at Ivan, Ivan simply wrapped his arms and himself around Alfred, and pulled them both back onto the couch.

Ivan sighed contentedly as Alfred wriggled around. “Shush, now, it is Christmas and the both of us should just enjoy the peace and quiet-”

“Francis get your bloody hands off that!”

“- of the holidays.” He felt Alfred snicker in his arms, and he smiled.

“You’re a big sap, you know?”

“Only for you, vesnushki,” Ivan smiled and kissed Alfred’s hair, and felt him burrow deeper into his arms. It was set to be a wonderful and lovely Christmas.

[jorjathomas]

Aesthetic Research

At the beginning of this project, I was heavily inspired by the first two artists and wanted to base my zine around them. As I've progress with research, my style plan has changed slightly which is why there is two versions of this post. This is the original aesthetic I wished to use.

Originally, I wanted to have majority of my work made digitally as this was my strong point however, as I began to research other artists, combining some of this work with physical art would help my zine feel nostalgic and personal to the reader. This zine will be playful and humorous to remind the viewer not to take things to seriously. I will also be adding personal imagery alongside these inspirational work techniques. At first, I was fairly worried as I knew I wanted to cover a lot of different subjects within and I felt as though I had to keep the overall aesthetic layout similar on every page but a tutor advised me to do as I please as the more different each page would look the more engaging it would be to read. Below are some inspiring artists who may spark some of my layout ideas.

Florence Given- Women don't owe you pretty

I had read Florence Givens book last year, ‘Women don't owe you pretty’ which actually sparked this idea and learning more about feminism in the first place. She not only wrote this book but she also created all the visual identity behind her work. I love her aesthetic which reminds me a lot of the 70s because of her common curved typography. I enjoy her colour palette also as of course there is pink within her book but she also uses orange, red and yellow to add a fiery and informal side to her art. I've previously talked about colour phycology in our group project and I love the combination of pink and red in visual art. The light pink symbolises the generic stereotypes behind a woman and is very feminine just like we are told to be. The red conveys the opposite despite being close on the colour wheel. The primary colour symbolises the fiery presence and confidence that should be the representation for women. I am most definitely will be using this combination throughout this zine as I think the red alongside doesn’t make it look as girly and soft as the light pink alone will be. When creating a zine around this matter, it is hard not use the stereotypical colours that everyone would know and is associated with a women. Although this would catch attention quicker, feminism doesn't like this attachment which is why I will be aiming to use a lot more colours along side pink to wash out this opinion. I think I will use pinks, red and oranges like Florence but also add blues, greens and purples to add as much euphoria as I can.

Natasha Ahmed- Illustrated Wardrobe

Natasha Ahmed is a social influencer and illustrator. She has recently collaborated with a clothing brand with her motivating art which is what inspired me prior to researching more artists. All of her work is drawn digitally which is was sparked my inspiration originally. As I progress, I think I will use digital illustrations to an extent with typography but I have decided to rely on my collaging ideas to provide the main aesthetic for the zine. I will add digital art over the top of existing work to add personality and a ‘diary like’ feel. For example adding pieces like Natasha's or drawing over a image. Nevertheless, I love Natasha's work as it highlights normal life. A lot of her work consists of trendy objects or pictures of her room. She has made a magazine full of illustrations of famous musicians which I was drawn to. The first image above is what inspired me the most as I like the idea of the cluttered objects placed behind a patterned background. This ignited my idea of making it more personal by adding certain objects and imagery that could make the zine look as though it has been placed on a table without any thought. What I mean by this is imagery within the page such as tea-stains, nail polish, eyelashes, jewellery etc.

Below is some artists I began to research after I knew I wanted to add some collaging techniques into my zine. I was given this book by a tutor. The book is called Cute and Paste.

Julian Pacauld- escapism

I had always liked this persons art as I had found them on Pinterest a few projects ago however, the book helped be find the artists name and look further into his work. I always love the abnormality behind collage work like this and wanted to include it into my work some way. Originally, when you look at Julian's work it feels humorous as he places certain images in particular ways that aren't common .He plays around with size and proportions which is where this personality of art comes from. His pieces remind me a lot about escapism and the functions behind a persons mind. It requires a lot of imagination and playfulness to form this which is why I love it so much. I didn't know how I could tie this sort of technique into my work however, the more I thought about my original message behind the zine, I think Julian work fits in quite well. I’d like readers to feel eased when reading the zine as a lot of my content would involve the importance of living present and not overthinking certain life situations. I will use this technique when I try to explain the small severity behind a persons problem. For example; I have recently stressed about silly problems and I have made a conscious effort to remind myself how amazing life is as a tiny human on a floating rock in space. I could portray this message with abnormal collaging imagery as this could help get my message across better than heavy amounts of confusing text.

James Dawe-  adding  new stories into existing imagery to help portray messages

I believe James has used collaging digitally as this work seems fairly flat. I am unsure yet whether it would be easier to create my collage this way or to print pictures off. Nevertheless James is another piece of art which has inspired me greatly. What I enjoy so much is the layers within the pieces. I believe he only uses one or two pieces of art but multiple copies of them so he is able to get different outcomes with different cut outs. This is a interesting technique to add a new narrative within a image. I hope to do this slightly to some of my images. I may do this with my own personal images to again add a sense of playful into my work or combine two contrasting images together to create a different aesthetic. I am excited to start this process and see what outcomes I could create with James inspiration.

Craig Atkinson- personal touches

This was the final artist which I liked from the book Cut and Paste. Although Craig's background work is fairly simplistic, what adds character is the additional pen lines and mixed media. This is exactly the aesthetic I am going for. Just like Craig, I hope to create the a narrative that makes the reader feel as though they are snooping through someone's diary yet becoming educated at the same time. Using this sort of technique will make a big impact on particular pages and help portray my fun message for a female's life. I am unsure yet how to execute this process perfectly as I've previously tried this technique with the trend lookbook however, there is a difference between physical lines and digital lines. It would be easier to do this digitally on top of pre-existing collaging work however I don't want it to look too clean and pristine and I think digital sketches give off that look.

To conclude, all of these artist have inspired my visual idea. Despite changing my original aesthetic idea, all of these artists has contributed to my new visual layout of my zine and I will make an conscious effort to keep referring to these artists pieces for inspiration when I finally begin to speak these ideas into creative existence.

[thepurpleyogacat-blog]

Ahimsa from the mindset of an ex self-harmer. (TRIGGER WARNING)

This post is being uploaded on March 1st, 2017. Self Harm Awareness Day. I think we’re all aware of what self harm is, we may have experience of it ourselves, we may know someone who has. Before you continue reading this post, please make sure you are safe, you are not triggered in any way, and you are okay. I have put a trigger warning on this post, purely because I want you to be safe. There are details within this post that may be triggering to individuals, and I don’t want anyone to be at risk. I trust that if you continue reading, you’re aware of what may follow.

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Ahimsa itself, is the practice of non violence, including physical, mental, or emotional violence towards yourself, others, and the world around us. It incorporates the idea of compassion, which I’m learning is so important in life.

So I hear you asking now, how can someone who’s spent a large chunk of their life harming themselves, possibly be talking about not being violent towards yourself. What a hypocritical post this is going to be. But please, stick with it. Keep reading.

I spent potentially 6 years of my life as a self-harming individual. The time frame itself is vague, I don’t remember the day I started or the day I stopped. I just know that it’s no longer worth it. It’s a pointless activity that achieves nothing. I was once told by a medical professional that the self-harming part of myself would always be there, but I needed to learn new coping mechanisms, and then that part of myself would quieten. It would stop becoming my first response to a negative situation.

Self-harm takes over your life. It isn’t just there at the bad times. Smaller and smaller things would trigger that response. It becomes your “go-to”, your “safety net” that you could fall through at any time. The mind of a self harmer, is being bought a colouring set, and your first thought is wondering how sharp the blade in the sharpener would be, and when you’d get the chance to find out. It’s going into a chemist for an eyeliner and coming out with £10, £15 worth of First Aid supplies. It’s learning how and when to steri-strip a wound, when you need stitches. Knowing how to take apart a razor. This became my life at age 15. No matter how bad things became, I was okay. I had my “safety net” because I had my way of coping with the situation.

For me, self-harm became a vicious cycle. Once that act had been done, I then had the anxiety of hiding it, constantly overanalysing every outfit to make sure everything was covered. Wearing 12 bracelets over my wrists like it was normal. If I didn’t go to this effort to hide it, I had the anxiety of either admitting what I’d done, or people finding out. It was never, ever for attention.

No matter how superficial the harm is, does not and will not ever diminish the mental side of it. The fact you’ve felt low enough, or a level of anguish that you felt the need to physically harm your body, is serious. A Dr once told me that my mental health issues weren’t serious, they were a phase, because I was only harming superficially. That word is so, so dangerous. In my head, it said I wasn’t ill “enough” to warrant support. I wasn’t doing enough damage. It taught me that minor harm was okay, an “okay” way to deal and to cope with how I felt and the world around me. And so if I felt I needed support, I would have to do more. But as with any addiction, the minimum amount needed to feel an impact increases. They had to be deeper, longer, harsher, angrier.

Self harm doesn’t just happen in a situation and then it’s over. You don’t get that rush of endorphins your brain has been craving, and continue as normal.  You’ll spend the days and weeks afterwards having stinging showers, every drop of water making you wince. Peeling plasters off and seeing the damage you’ve done to yourself. Of limiting movement, of wearing seasonally inappropriate clothing and overheating in order to hide what you’ve done and to avoid the questions. It’s waking up in the middle of the night, in pain. It’s waking up the next morning and remembering what you’ve done, when the situation itself has passed. It’s not even a permanent “solution” to a temporary problem, because it’s not a solution at all. It doesn’t make the triggering situation go away.

The thing with self injury, is that it is not logical. There is no thought process, it’s not a planned attack. It’s a quick, impulsive reaction, and so retraining your brain to not immediately need that endorphin rush in a moment of panic, is not an easy feat.

Scars never disappear. They fade, sure. But they will always exist, and so will the comments. Hurtful, hateful comments, that teach you to hate yourself for what you’ve done, even more than you already do. Comments that come from a lack of knowledge, a lack of education and understanding.

Those years were spent on and off various antidepressants, various anti-anxiety medications, various referrals and refusals to speak to counselling services, because speaking about this vocally is something I don’t do. Especially to someone I don’t know. It causes more anxiety. It makes things worse, not better. I also realised that stopping this was something I needed to do by myself, for myself, when I felt it was right. It needed to be my recovery.

I’m now 23 years old. I wake up every morning to arms covered with scars. Thin, flat white ones, and deep, wide purple ones coming up to 3 years old that should probably have been stitched. I don’t hide them in public anymore. I hide them around children. I hide them around people I know will be uncomfortable, and if I do ever get the slightest sense that I’m making someone uncomfortable, - or if I’m uncomfortable with the situation, I will absolutely cover them up. But at the end of the day, regardless of the hows and the whys, they’re part of my body. They’re there, I can’t do anything about that. But were they worth it - absolutely not! Did they change anything, did they improve any situation? Did they bollocks. I accept them. I accept them because I refuse to hate myself anymore. I refuse the idea of hate full stop. I accept their reasons and their existence, and I’ve allowed myself this idea of acceptance through my yoga practice.

This has been partly through the physical side of yoga itself. When your body is craving a forward fold, but your hips are covered with plasters and bending over makes them sting, you physically can’t do that movement without being in pain - which is the opposite of what your body is wanting and needing from the movement! You can’t do the Cat posture when you can’t bend your wrists due to 3 inches of bracelets digging into bandages. I realised that if I wanted to continue yoga, I had to let go of my “safety net” that was never safe in the first place. Yoga changed something within me, in the way I see myself, and the way I see the world. I don’t know what, but whatever it was, I’m so grateful.

When I began yoga in 2015, I was an anxious mess. I quite often didn’t even make it through the 90 minute class without having to walk out and calm down - pacing the floor, counting, breathing. Overthinking. Thinking that everyone in the session will want to know why I ran out. Why I just left. Thinking that everyone in there will be thinking to themselves “What a rude bitch!” But I slowly learnt to trust myself, to see my yoga mat as a safe space, and my classmates and teachers as friends. People who understand what I can deal with and what I can’t. No matter what was going on in the world around me, in my life off the mat, that’s not important in that time. That time is for me. To listen to my mind and my body. To trust in myself. To allow my mind to speak to me. And that’s not saying that it’s always pleasant, but it’s taught me to accept it. Good or bad, I accept it. But that world and those emotions will still exist and there’s nothing I can do to change them. What I can do is have that time to reflect, to think, to feel - with no consequences at all. That job application will still be there after my relaxation session. That shopping will still need to be done. That war will still be raging. So why not allow yourself that little bit of peace beforehand. Show yourself a little bit of self care and love in a world where there seems to be so little.

I never set out to accomplish all this, when I first set foot on a yoga mat. I was a recent graduate, working unsociable hours, and wanting a new focus and activity where I could meet people. The idea of yoga intrigued me.

Two years later, the anxiety is still there, but nowhere near the level it was at previously. Through the practice of being mindful, I have learnt ways of controlling it. There are still certain things I mentally cannot do in a session. I absolutely cannot do partner work, or work that involves physical contact with a person I don’t know well, or consider a friend, and that’s okay. If something isn’t right, the reason isn’t vitally important. It may be something you need to address within yourself, but it’s not something to overthink. It’s not a constant. Something that was right for you, your physical, emotional, and mental state yesterday, may be absolutely off the cards today. That is okay. Your body and brain will be different. The chemical levels in your brain will be different. Every day will be different. The idea of worrying what other people would be thinking - they’re so much more likely to be worrying about what they’re doing, and if they’re doing it right, than what you’re doing on the other side of the class. Chances are, they’re paying absolutely no attention to you in the slightest.

I’m so glad I stuck with my yoga. It would have been so easy to quit after the anxiety became too much and I was walking out of classes. But the support of my teachers, my friends, and the fight I was prepared to put up against myself, made it worth it. I am so much stronger within myself now - and that’s not down to being on any medication. That’s down to me. I did that.

Yoga has taught me to breathe. To relax. To allow myself that moment of calm. To reassure myself that I am important. I am a warrior. But it’s also allowed me to see that harming myself is a pointless activity. It doesn’t change the situation. The situation will be there whether I’ve sliced through my skin or left it intact. It’s allowed my brain that moment to assess and to think, and to slow down. In that hectic moment of chaos, slowing down the breath allows more oxygen to reach the brain. Slowing down the brain allows it to focus. To relax, realise there is a reason to continue.

What good can come from causing harm? From violent thoughts? From hate? The practice of ahimsa is so important to me, it stops myself from mentally beating myself up. It stops me getting myself into a cycle of overthinking. It allows my brain to focus on finding a solution to a situation, rather than being angry at the fact the situation has arisen. It allows me to live.

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that." - Martin Luther King, Jr.