Text
I dreamt of my former best friend today and woke up crying. She froze me out of her life 2 years ago and I still don't understand why. I can take emotional distance from anything else yet this creeps up on me once in a while to ruin my day.
#idk man I'm just feeling sad and lonely#like i didn't even do anything like wallowing while awake this time i just woke up with my brain being like#Yeah wasn't it nice when you still hung out with someone you basically wanted to platonically marry? Sucks that doesn't happen anymore huh.#Like Yeah does is actually? fuck you too?#i mean there's still our other friend who's been studying abroad for a few years. she should be back for good this summer#but her family moved across the country in the main time so she's not even near me#and it was always the three of us against the world. it feels like something broke there with her too. that's unfair to her ik#but i used to base part of my mental health on the solid base knowledge that my friends loved me and that pillar crumbled under my feet#like i think she loves me. but do i know? i thought so but apparently sometimes people you love *do* just get tired of you and leave#like huh who knew. seems my social distrust was right all along!#like there's no trust there anymore and i can't mister up the same strong feelings even if she *literally didn't do anything*#it's genuinely not her fault and I'd never tell her that either#it's just... every time i think about this for a moment i understand how people must feel when their partner of a decade cheats on them#it just fundamentally changes your ability to depend on other people and it isn't fair to anyone involved
1 note
·
View note
Note
[ taste ] for (Mikasa) to cook for (Eren) :''^)
“... Huh ? What’s all this for ?”
THERE’S NO special occasion he can convince himself of: no significant date he recognizes as belonging to an important anniversary / a holiday / a reason why that would offer up a substantial enough explanation to excuse his rampant paranoia. Not that he distrusts Mikasa, necessarily, not in the way of cooking - she carries a familiarity with her into the kitchen that is indicative of a quiet childhood spent at her mother’s elbow, watching her work ( the both of them ). A far cry from the days of his careless youth, when the retort to his own mother’s asking for assistance in preparing dinner had been something along the lines of “but that’s a girl’s job” - to which he had been promptly hauled up by the ear and made out to be an unwilling accomplice, every night, for a whole month, until he knew his way around the knife and ladle. Unaware, the whole while, that even his vehement railing against the unjust ‘punishment’ he had received was all just a part of her grand design - a patient waiting game / a guiding hand: what do you want to have tonight, Eren ? How about I teach you to dice potatoes, hm ? Or maybe we could make something sweet, what do you think ? Some apple tarts, how does that sound ? Can you do it on your own this time ? Can you show me how you made it ? How does it taste ? What did you learn ? Wasn’t that fun ? I’m so proud of you, you know.
No, he doesn’t distrust Mikasa as a chef. The problem is that he trusts her almost a little too much - the smell of that vegetable stew she had just placed in front of him is uncannily nostalgic, after all. Bordering even on the absurd. He nearly convinces himself of some kind of witchcraft, a trick of the senses / memory betraying him for an idolized ideal, that’s all, that’s all. But. He finds himself picking up the spoon regardless. He falls all-too-easily back into that old habit of not asking too many questions, at least when food is involved. Fresh food, at that - more than a starving little orphan on the street could ever hope for in the depths of a recession. He’ll just have to accept the reality that this is, apparently, another one of Mikasa’s spontaneous ‘good deeds’, which have been becoming more frequent as of lately ... Restlessness, perhaps ? He has always known Mikasa to be a very, ah, active spirit. Nevermind that most of these ‘random’ acts of kindness have been dedicated specifically to him, it seems - just another facet of her coddling, overbearing, protective mother-hen nature. Though he has not quite yet reached his threshold for refusing her at every turn ( so he will forgive her this once ).
Eren takes a tentative sip of broth - she’d had the courtesy to wait for it to cool a touch before serving, knowing full-well he’d scarf down any meal too-quick to register his tastebuds melting until he was already more than halfway through. He hums, feeling a stubborn knot in his sternum finally relax under the torrent of warmth flooding through him. This is ... exactly like Mom used to make. I didn’t think such a thing was possible, after all this time ... had Mikasa really been paying that much attention ? It’s a ... not an unwelcome feeling, but ... For whatever reason, he’s reluctant to admit how much this has moved him / shifted something inside, as though a burden has finally been unshackled, the skin raw from where it had chafed against guilt. He can’t recall the last time he ever felt such a way. And Mikasa was able to do it, with a simple soup from when we were kids ...
“It’s ... good,” he finally manages, swallowing heavily. Suddenly, the idea strikes him: possibly ill-conceived, but the words are already tumbling out of his careless lips, too late to take back. “Hey,” he continues, looking evenly at her, “you should have some, too. Doesn’t feel right, me having all this for myself when you’re the one that worked so hard to make in the first place.”
Except. He already knows her answer, sees it in the nervous wrinkle of her nose: I’m alright / I made it for you / just enjoy it, okay ? He tries not to let his annoyance show, convinces himself of his maturity, the years spanning between the here-and-now. But something is inexplicably pulling him back into his past ... not that he is resisting it. And this is not a childhood of bitter arguments and scraped knees, utensils tied haphazardly to the ends of broomsticks, the ground trembling underfoot / eyes transfixed on the haunting image of some cherished someone’s last moments in the hand of a giant marauder-- This is warm summer days and carefree laughter echoing through the streets, a parent’s unconditional affection, pillowcases suspended from a clothesline / their billowing reminiscent of far-off ocean waves. These memories are cherished, yes, but have wasted away in his mind’s eye / been buried like so much else under the rubble of his old life, the life that could have ( should have ) been. How can he be sure he is remembering correctly ? How can he be sure he is recalling the correct taste, the correct atmosphere ? When he’d last thought of his mother, was she different than as he thinks of her now ? How many of her wrinkles has he smoothed over in his imagination ? How many of his angry, hurtful words has he since swept from her brow, in an effort to preserve her forever as the saint-savior-martyr of his youth ? All along, has he been the one robbing himself of resolution ?
... He’s never been good at it, talking to Mikasa. He’s never been any good at talking in general, forever to be known as the bull-headed boy that goes about spouting whatever inane nonsense that jumps to the tip of his tongue. He’s reserved himself, recently, to speaking only in whispers / small sentences / clipped tones. Perhaps that is the greatest deception he’s ever committed himself to: a manic desire to be at once suddenly unapproachable. But especially in the earliest of hours, like today’s, his guard slackens / slips off like an ill-fitting coat, too large for his slim shoulders. He’s never been good at pretending, either, but that hardly matters when any mood he adopts nowadays never seems to be able to find its purchase against the smooth rock wall of indifference that stands ( ever-present ) between them. As though he can do no wrong - as though he hasn’t been trying.
Eren abruptly clears his throat before discreetly glancing at Mikasa from behind the thick curtain of hair falling over his face. It’s getting long. He should really cut it soon. But, ah ...
“... You’ve been eating,” he states, less like a question and more like an accusation, “-right ? I was just remembering .. when you first came to live with me and my family. You didn’t eat anything for days - Mom thought you were ‘gonna starve yourself.” It’s a cheap, underhanded tactic, but it works - is likely to work, anyways. Eren leans back in his seat, turning over a chunk of potato in his dish. He relaxes his words, feigning nonchalance / his levity tentatively genuine. “First thing we got you to choke down was some soup, just like this ... but, heh, you only agreed to because I said I wasn’t going to eat anything so long as you weren’t.” A strange twitch of his upper lip warns of a smile threatening a larger grin / something showing teeth. “I was real serious about it, too,” he adds. “Thought I could go weeks without food if I had to. If it’d make sure you came around, eventually.”
Maybe it’s selfish of him, to weaponize those particular memories against her / in an contrived effort to comfort. But it serves to make its point: he does worry about her, in his own strange fashion - in a way even he himself cannot recognize as totally altruistic in nature. Though he does not leave the anecdote unscathed, either; he can’t stop rubbing his wrists, can’t stop itching them with blunted fingernails, afraid of his newfound freedom ( after all, what would an animal born in captivity possibly know of a life meant to be lived without restraint ? ). Despite how obediently he chews and swallows, at some point the reward of her hard work turns to a mass of indistinguishable mush in his mouth / sticking to his tongue, the backs of his molars. This simple action, too, is made awkward - thanks in no small part to his social incompetence. His ears start ringing as a damming blush dusts their tips, perhaps in punishment of his childlike over-eagerness ( “I can show you how to make it sometime, if you want - Mom taught me how.” ).
Eren dips the spoon in again, holding it out carelessly - though his hand does not waver. He schools his features into something more serious / a replication of his boyish self, all those years ago, caught scowling across the dining room table by a girl who could not swallow the weight of that gaze / no more than she could the meal slipped in front of her, whose smell only sickened - which only reminded her of the home now lost to her. He remembers his mother scolding him, back then - reminding him to give her space, to let her grieve, to never expect anything more than she was capable of day-by-day, always at her own pace. But he’s never been a very patient person.
“ ... Eh ? How about it ?” He gestures again, tilting his head to one side, as though expectant. “Come on. Try some. For me ? I mean, I won’t have any more unless you take a bite ... Fair’s fair, and all that.”
non-verbal meme.
#can u tell this is the one I wrote last. can u.#I can write something purely fluffy for once. as a Punishment.#Eren whenever Mika is being stubborn: you've left me no choice. time to activate Annoying Guilt-Trippy Younger Brother Mode#love how inconsistent my portrayal is. really love that for us.#erleidn#ENCHAINED.#I ANNIHILATE; I ASH; I TERRIFY.
6 notes
·
View notes
Text
All These Things That I’ve Done
Hello everyone! Long time, no update. Let’s call it a good old-fashioned mixture of writer’s block, work, and school. I hope you enjoy this chapter! I’m not gonna lie, I certainly struggled through it. The beginning italicized bit is from Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here. Chapter word count: 3,148
Story summary: The world post-Voldemort is a complicated one to navigate: the Ministry is taken over by a Minister who does not know of Snape’s service to the Order, Dementor’s are still at Azkaban, Snape’s name remains uncleared, and, perhaps surprisingly of all to Snape, Harry seems to have respect for him now. Despite the uncertainty of his future, Snape is amazed to find that he actually has one in the first place – his years of living as a spy and a puppet to Dumbledore as well as undergoing faux obedience to Voldemort have left him in a state of mind that abandoned all hopes of living a life for himself –now, however, he realizes there is a life post-war for him after all, no matter how unsteady it may be.
Chapter summary: Severus comes to grips with being alive and with the uncertainty of his fate. Harry and Severus have more in common than they thought.
Chapter Two
Did you exchange A walk on part in the war For a lead role in a cage?
Over the next several days, Severus was left with ample time to think.
There were many places his thoughts could wander to now that all he was doing was lying in a hospital bed; after all, there were no more students under his watch, no more meetings with the Dark Lord to attend to, no more need to look behind his shoulder after every move — well, that one, perhaps, would need more time.
Severus’s time as Headmaster had been a harrowing one, one that, at many times, felt like some sort of a sick ode to his past: Minerva’s trust in him had completely evaporated, as it also had from the rest of the staff he had come to acquaint with; he rarely descended from the Headmaster’s office, and he was once again steeped with the presence of Dark Magic and Dark Wizards.
He had promised Dumbledore that he would keep the students safe, and that had been a promise he had meant, but safety was a rare luxury in the times they were in. The Carrows took pride in terrorizing the students, as if they were doing the Dark Lord the greatest favor of all; they were like cats toying with a bug under their claws, and Severus could hardly burst in and tell them to stop without blowing his cover.
Children everywhere were sporting black eyes and intense fear as they were marched around the campus; wherever he could, Severus would assist Madam Pomfrey with the students who had been sent to her bearing injuries dealt by Dark Magic, but that hardly did enough to relieve the contriteness he felt inside.
Indeed, he had spent many sleepless nights in Dumbledore’s office, kept awake by the guilt threatening to eat him alive.
“You’re doing all that you can,” Albus’s portrait had assured him, more than once, but it never made him feel any better, not really. The Headmaster’s office without Dumbledore was just a shell of what it once had been, as was Hogwarts before the Death Eaters had been welcomed inside; the school was bones in a graveyard of good days gone by, and Severus was in the center of it.
He had spent many days in that office, held many meetings; the Carrows had come to him with the names of students that refused to do as they were told and had boasted about their subsequent methods of discipline; Minerva had continually spoken her concerns to him, all veiled under a thin layer of stiff fury, disgust in her eyes every single time she could bring herself to look at him. Most of his 38th birthday had been spent in there, too, before he was called out to a meeting with Lord Voldemort.
Despite the many horrors he had faced recently — his disturbing brush with death being one of them — Severus found himself dwelling also on another year, his thoughts pulling towards a time further back in his past, a time of similar turmoil:
1981.
It had been a period of darkness, anxiety, and stress, and not just for him — the entirety of the population had been panicking, fearful to even speak of Lord Voldemort, let alone say his name. The distress that he had felt in the air over the past year was all too alike to the kind felt during 1981 and the years building up to it.
He could clearly remember the moment he had found out that the Dark Lord was targeting the Potters and how his life had subsequently been sent into a whirlwind of changes — approaching Dumbledore, swearing his allegiance to the man, desperately doing all that he could to save Lily and her family from the fate he felt he had very much set into motion —
And yet it had all been for nothing, so it seemed.
All in one night, Lily and James were murdered, the Dark Lord had vanished, Sirius was sent to Azkaban, and Peter was dead… A list of names that fit right in with the litany of dead and damaged people making up his generation.
Severus himself had been left with a fading Dark Mark on his arm and no purpose in life, just waiting to answer for the sins he had committed.
The weeks following Lily’s death, he had all but become a ghost right along with her. He had drifted through the halls of Hogwarts, taught his classes, and maintained his Head of House position, but through it all had only thinly concealed his rage at the world and his intense grief — grief both for Lily, and for the sorry excuse of a life he had made for himself.
On top of it all, he’d been the youngest of the Professors by far and because of it, he felt as though he had had double the amount to prove of himself. He could tell the majority of the staff thought he was too young, too neurotic, too volatile, to teach students; he struggled socially, and mostly kept to himself. Minerva’s distrustful eye had trailed on him nearly everywhere he went, the woman having been completely unconvinced of why Albus had hired him.
Dumbledore had kept the Aurors at bay for as long as he could, but eventually Alastor Moody and a couple of his colleagues had come to collect Severus, for he had been named by one of the other Death Eaters; and so it was, at 22, he had landed in Azkaban. It was his luck that he didn’t stay long before Dumbledore yanked him back out, the man having proved his case of being a spy for the Order to the Ministry.
As he lie in the hospital bed, hidden from the outside world by curtains, the flow of time interrupted only by the mediwitches who came to deliver his healing potions, Severus couldn’t help but feel that he had escaped one cage only to be placed into another — but hadn’t that been his whole life? He had found escape from his home life at Hogwarts, and then, when Hogwarts had become another nightmare, he had his time with Lily to cherish; when that too had been crushed at his own hand, he found himself running with Death Eaters and blood purists, soon to change the course of his life forever.
In truth, Severus could barely remember what it was like, before he was a spy… before he was a Death Eater. He wasn’t sure if there ever really was a before. If there was, he knew he couldn’t exactly pinpoint when before ended and became now.
Sometimes he wondered if he was always going to be branded with Lord Voldemort’s Mark, or, if things had happened differently, he would have made different decisions.
Even amidst all of these thoughts, his mind continued to replay the moment the Aurors had dragged him away from the school grounds of Hogwarts all of those years ago, and he couldn’t help but think that he was soon to face a similar fate once again — this time, however, Dumbledore wasn’t here to save him.
Often, he fell asleep with these things still swirling in the forefront of his mind, and all he was able to do when he woke up was continue to mull them over.
————
A number of days had passed when Severus woke up to another presence in the room, disrupting the routine he had become so familiar with.
Harry was sitting in the same chair he had before, but now his eyes were idly observing the tiles on the ceiling. Truthfully, he looked as though he may drop off to sleep at any moment, but despite his apparent weariness, he still must have sensed Severus’s movement, as slight as it was, for then his eyes trailed down from the ceiling and met his.
Severus blinked at the boy, studying him for a moment, before looking away dismissively.
“I’ve been thinking,” Harry began, the unexpected initiation of conversation winning Severus’s eyes on him again.
“How were you able to keep the password as Dumbledore with all of those Death Eaters coming in and out?”
It took a moment for him to understand that he must be referring to the password needed to get into the Headmaster’s office, to the Pensieve.
“I enacted… special instruction to the Gargoyle,” he explained. “It would have permitted you to enter no matter what you may have said.”
“Oh,” Harry said. “I didn’t know it could be… instructed, or whatever.”
After a second, Severus raised an eyebrow, ever so slightly. “‘Dumbledore?’”
“First person I could think of,” he mumbled.
Severus supposed he couldn’t blame him for that.
“Oh, and another thing,” Harry added, a second later. “You knew my Aunt Petunia?”
Those were hardly the next words Severus expected him to say, and for a second, he was stunned into silence. The last thing he wanted or expected to do was dredge up memories from his childhood, particularly not of that dreadful girl.
“…You could say that.”
“Huh.” Harry crossed his arms. Then, after a moment, “She kept me in a cupboard.”
Severus blinked at him. “…What?”
“A cupboard,” he repeated, as if that would be any more clearer the second time. “The only other unoccupied bedroom in the house was used for Dudley’s — er, her son’s — toys. I got the cupboard.”
He didn’t know what to say.
“You thought I lived an easy life, didn’t you?” Harry said shrewdly. “Born with a silver spoon in my mouth, that sort of thing.”
There was a storm brewing in Harry’s tired eyes, no doubt born from the trauma and grief of all of the things that had happened to him that he had never been allowed to fully process, and it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Severus would become the listening board for the brunt of it. It wasn’t necessarily anger, no; Severus more or less got the sense that the storm inside Harry was compiled of mixed emotions and what could have been carefree childhood years gone to waste.
“Sometimes they would lock me in there,” he continued. “If I did something wrong, I mean. They might remember to feed me, might not.”
Severus watched him steadily, feeling a pang in his chest at the words. If he was reminded of his own childhood of fending for himself, he would never say, just like he would never admit that Harry was completely catching him off guard with what he was saying.
“You don’t know me, not like you always acted like you did,” Harry said. He stared at Severus with Lily’s eyes, full of conviction. “…But I suppose I don’t really know you, either. We were both wrong about each other.”
I’m sorry.
The words crawled up Severus’s formerly ravaged throat, willing themselves to be spoken aloud; they were appropriate words, something anyone else would have said, but as much as he knew he should speak them, the apology couldn’t make it out of his mouth; he had never been a person that was good at apologies, and his near-death experienced had still not changed that about him. The opportunity passed, and Severus finally tore his gaze from the boy, letting the moment go to simmer in silence.
When it was clear that Severus wasn’t going to say anything, Harry rose from his chair, a sound that scraped against the former quiet.
“The reason I came is to tell you that I went back to the Pensieve and got your memories,” he said. “I turned them in to the Ministry. They’re going to review them.”
With that, Severus watched him push past the curtains and leave.
————
Severus hadn’t expected Harry to come back.
He had barely expected to see him again after the first time he had woken up, but even less so after their last conversation — this was why he was surprised when Harry did in fact return again, and more times after that.
It seemed that after getting out a most of what he had wanted to, Harry was more liable to speak to Severus with a lack of pent up emotion, seeming to consider him with trust and perhaps even respect, which was what was most shocking of all.
Either way, Harry was quickly becoming his source of information for what was going on in the outside world.
“They’re taking their time on deciding that your memories haven’t been tampered with,” Harry had told him the third time he had come back, his tone indicating that he rather thought they were dawdling. He seemed a bit more well-rested, less emotional.
“It is difficult to determine whether or not memories have been altered,” Severus said dismissively. “Surely you know this.”
“No—well, yes, I suppose—but yours haven’t,” Harry said. “I’ve seen tampered memories before, they don’t look like that.”
Severus refrained from rolling his eyes at the boy’s naive certainty, for once managing to rein in his annoyance. “What it really depends upon is the current… political climate,” he remarked instead. “Who is the new Minister?”
“Oh. His name’s Willem Ironwood,” Harry said. “I’m not sure about him, yet. The public likes him, though. He seems like the strong leader sort. I guess that’s what everyone’s looking for, these days.”
The name rang vaguely familiar to Severus, which was a bit concerning, considering the typical manner of the crowd he had been acquainting with, but nothing of certainty could come to mind, so he let it go, for the moment.
Harry had told him, in greater detail this time, of how he survived his confrontation with Voldemort, how he had gone to the forest and taken the Killing Curse, and then how Narcissa Malfoy lied about his death.
Severus had disliked Harry for a long time. It made things easier, as was having the boy hate him in return. It was easy to picture the boy who was a nearly exact copy of his father’s image as having the same personality, one born from an arrogant, pampered life; surely, the Boy Who Lived would have grown up in one similar.
Instead, he found that it was him and the boy who had far more in common than he had ever considered. Their near-deaths had even been delivered by the same person, their fates much the same, when considered in accordance to Dumbledore’s plans.
“Why didn’t Dumbledore leave you anything to help prove you were working as a spy the whole time?” Harry asked.
The Headmaster had never expected Severus to live, but Severus couldn’t exactly hold it against him — he, too, had never considered a life after Voldemort’s death. Truly, Voldemort’s death was a concept he could never really imagine at all, as impossible as it seemed.
Dumbledore had instructed Severus to kill him, and in doing so, Severus was to become the true owner of the Elder Wand, thus keeping Voldemort’s damage potential as minimal as possible — but Tom Riddle was no fool. Both Severus and Dumbledore knew that he would work it out eventually, and then kill Severus, seeking the wand’s full potential — but by then, Harry would have had an ample lead on getting rid of horcuxes, which Voldemort didn’t even know he would be hunting.
“It was not in Albus’s plans for me to survive.”
Other days, Harry wasn’t so well off. Severus found himself listening to the rants brought to him by the boy, all about those he had cared about that died in the war, about Dumbledore and everything the man had kept from him, about what it had felt like, walking through the forest to face his death.
It was obvious the boy felt guilty, and, well, guilt was an emotion Severus knew well — the difference was that Severus deserved to carry his guilt. His guilt was his contrition, his penitence, and he never expected it to ease, never thought he would ever be due for it to. He had committed many mistakes throughout his life, mistakes he could never run from; their damage was done.
Harry, on the other hand, was just a child, and his guilt was misplaced — it was not Harry’s fault that all of those people had died, as he seemed to think. They had all died facing Voldemort and his army, fighting for their freedom, for justice in the Wizarding World — but Severus hardly found himself qualified to know how to tell the boy what he needed to hear in a way that would be sensitive, so mostly, he just let him talk, let him say whatever he felt he couldn’t to his gang of friends or to his surrogate Weasley mother. Maybe it was the fact that Severus listened and didn’t try to argue that Harry felt he could speak his mind at all.
Sometimes Harry stayed briefly, sometimes he stayed for an hour or more. Severus had been able to focus some of his thoughts on the boy and maintaining a conversation with him rather than on the memories that had begun to be relentlessly turned over in his mind, but even so, things had become to easy, too peaceful.
Calamity was surely lurking, just beneath the surface. It was just something Severus had come to expect.
————
As usual, Severus was right.
It was one morning Harry came in rather early, a look of urgency on his face.
“Professor,” he rushed. “I came as quickly as I could — they didn’t validate the memories. They want you to go to trial. The Aurors are on their way to get you now—”
It was at that moment that a hush fell over the ward outside the curtains, and somehow, that was louder than any of the routine bustle had ever been.
“Potter,” Severus began, making to tell him to leave, but it was too late. Two Aurors pushed past the curtain, led by a Healer.
A stiff second of silence passed.
“Harry Potter,” one of them said, looking Harry up and down. “Fancy seein’ you here. I thought we made it clear you weren’t to conspire with the accused.”
“I wasn’t—”
The other went over to Severus, undoing the magical ties with a couple quick flicks of his wand, beginning the next quick succession of events distracting Severus from whatever argument Harry had been attempting to make. The Auror gripped him with a tight hand, urging him from the bed and pulling him to his unsteady feet; upon standing, a weight seem to crash down on Severus’s shoulders, as if he weighed much heavier than he had before the war, but he straightened himself, unwilling to appear weak.
“Severus Snape,” the first Auror said, obviously having dismissed Harry, and gripped him by his other arm. “It’s about time.”
With that, they drug him out of the curtains and into the bright world that Severus had almost forgotten what it was like to be a part of.
Here is a great post that served as inspiration for the bit about Snape and Dumbledore’s plan regarding the Elder Wand.
I’m going to be honest; I didn’t really carefully proofread this chapter. I was too excited to post it and too tired of staring in concentration at my screen. If there’s any slip-ups on my part, forgive me. If you want to be added to future tag lists, let me know! Tag list: @madamecoyote @eruditeslytherin @moonie-writes
16 notes
·
View notes
Text
I Love You, You Pay My Rent: Chapter 16
First Chapter (Prologue)
Previous Chapter (Chapter 15)
Nico had been living with Will for long enough to slowly have developed a grudging tolerance for his friends. Or at least some of his friends. No matter what Will said he didn’t think he’d ever be able to bring himself to warm to Drew. Part of it was jealously, part of it genuine distrust and wariness he reserved for pretty much everyone he wasn’t well acquainted with. It was a survival technique. But then there was also the fact he was probably just shoving all his frustration at Will towards her.
Lou Ellen and Cecil, however, were different. Loud and often obnoxious for a start, and somehow carefree in a way Will sometimes achieved and sometimes faked, and Nico could never hope to understand. But they cared for Will, that was obvious enough, so he accepted them as a kind of necessary annoyance. It didn’t mean he didn’t jump when Lou Ellen caught his arm in the middle of a street. He frowned at her, more confused and surprised than actually angry for once, and she let go with a look of apology.
“You look stressed,” she commented.
Nico stared at her blankly for a second. Lou Ellen frowned slightly.
“Coffee?” she asked. “Or maybe green tea or something in your case since coffee might set your heart to explode -?”
Nico blinked.
“Or not?”
Nico had arrived in town far too early to meet his father. He’d been unable to spend another minute in the house in the grips of the agony of a wait, when each second felt like he’d lived a decade. He had also been terrified of being late, and that had overwritten any contrariness he might have felt, any insistence that he didn’t care what his father thought of him and his time keeping skills. Whenever he thought of his father he felt ten years old again, and desperate to please.
“Yes,” he said abruptly, and his own words surprised him. But he had time to kill and though he thought he might feel too jittery to sit, he also couldn’t keep walking up and down if only because it felt like his legs were locking up. He followed Lou Ellen distractedly into a café where he was assaulted with the smell of coffee grounds. It was a heavy scent but comforting and he fell into a chair feeling a tiny bit more settled. He was still awash on a stormy ocean on a rickety raft with a tornado incoming, but it felt like he’d at least just found a single life-preserver for all the good it would do him.
Lou Ellen had chosen the table. There was a half a cup of coffee waiting, and she picked it back up, watching him as she sipped. Something in her gaze reminded him or his father; though Lou Ellen was a more benevolent version he still felt that if she put in a little bit of work she’d probably see right through him.
“How’s everything going?” she asked.
He got the distinct impression that there was an undertone to that question, some kind of subtext he was probably supposed to pick up on but he was too tired, too distracted, to even bother attempting to work out where she was coming from.
“Good,” he lied automatically.
“Uh huh,” Lou Ellen said. There was no judgement at all in her tone, but again Nico felt something intangible just around the corner.
“You know you walked up and down outside that window about eight times before I went out and got you?” Lou Ellen asked.
“You shouldn’t have left your drink unattended,” Nico responded.
Lou Ellen raised an eyebrow.
“I can see why Will likes you,” was all she said.
Which surprised Nico because he was still having trouble figuring that out, and half the time Will himself seemed to have trouble working out exactly what the point of Nico was.
That was unfair.
Will was –
He didn’t really know what Will was.
He was edgy and he was taking it out on his boyfriend because Will was an easy target at the moment.
“He’s not what people think,” Lou Ellen added. She was watching him again. Nico hated being watched, hated being in the spotlight, it made him want to duck out to run away, change his name and face and identity and only leave his house under the cover of darkness.
And he did feel like he wanted to shrink, could feel himself unconsciously making himself smaller, hunching his shoulders into his default defensive posture. But he was also aware that, actually, he didn’t feel as exposed as usual.
One day, he thought, Lou Ellen would rule the world. And she’d do it so silently and subtly that no one would even notice she’d taken charge.
“What do people think he is?” Nico asked.
Lou Ellen’s smile flickered on.
“Interesting question,” she said. “Do you want a drink?”
Hanging out with Lou Ellen wasn’t anywhere near as terrible as Nico might have imagined it, although that might have just been because interacting with her offered a strong contrast with what was to come. She didn’t really offer any further insight into the question of what Will’s deal was though she did reaffirm that Will really did like Nico and she had added in a vaguely threatening manner that it would be a real shame if one (or both) of them screwed it all up because they were being clueless morons.
In total he spent about half an hour with her and managed to do it all without planning an exit route or a variety of implausible excuses as to why he had to leave. Either that was a testament to Lou Ellen’s social skills or a testament to his personal growth. Eventually however, as mildly pleasant as the impromptu coffee date had been, he had to stand and explain he had to go visit his father.
“Good luck,” Lou Ellen said. “And don’t worry about Will. He’d stupid but I don’t think he’s quite stupid enough to let you go.”
She seemed to think for a moment.
“At least Cecil and I won’t let him be that stupid. And I think Kayla would strangle him if he did anything to jeopardise you two. So you’re probably safe.”
Nico shrugged in vague acknowledgment.
“I mean it,” Lou Ellen said. “He really likes you Nico. Anyone can see that.”
It was a relief to hear someone say that, even if that someone wasn’t Will professing his undying love directly - a situation he had to admit may be a little unrealistic this early into a somewhat complicated relationship. If that thought was a train it usually ran along the does Will like me tracks which lead in turn to Self-Doubt and Overthinking Stations. Occasionally the thought went on a little detour to if I want him to admit he loves me do I love him? town which tended to be the sort of stop that he got to in the darkest part of the night and had him stranded there, lost and panicking until the early hours of the morning.
In some ways his father turning up was almost a blessing in disguise. At least now he had something else to overthink.
Nico couldn’t remember his father having many particular traits, hobbies or quirks and his mental image of his father could be summed as cold and formal. His choice of restaurant reflected everything Nico knew about him: it was formal, somewhat aloof and distant despite, or perhaps because of, the plush and luxurious décor.
Nico felt instantly on edge. For a moment he wondered if his father had chosen the venue deliberately to make Nico uneasy, to meet him feel like a scared little kid again. The thought probably hadn’t even crossed his father’s mind, and Nico wondered if that was worse. His father didn’t have any clue what Nico liked, or maybe he just didn’t care.
His father was already seated. Nico, who wouldn’t have changed and didn’t have anything else to wear anyway, suddenly felt more conscious than he ever had of his slightly faded black jeans and old top. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt as he sat, barely able to meet his father’s eyes. In turn his father barely acknowledged him, merely glancing over the top of the menu and casting his eyes over Nico then turning back to his food choices
“Hello father,” Nico said, a little pointedly.
“Nico,” his father said. His voice lacked any warmth, but he didn’t sound disappointed yet.
Nico had to be satisfied with that and he picked up the menu, wincing at the prices. His father spent money like it meant nothing, and Nico still wasn’t one hundred per cent sure what he actually did.
“How is school?”
Nico looked up surprised.
“I don’t go to school,” he pointed out, a slight bite in his voice.
His father did look up then, and actually put the menu down to better fix Nico with a sharp stare.
“I thought you attended with Percy?”
“Well you thought wrong,” Nico snapped. “I haven’t been to school in years.”
“What on earth are you doing with your time?”
Nico was used to justifying his life to himself. He asked himself the question almost daily. What are you doing with your life? Why do you matter? And the more morbid would anyone care if you disappeared? He had yet to come up with an answer. He wasn’t doing anything. He was drifting. He worked in a bar. It wasn’t exactly revolutionary.
“I work,” Nico answered shortly.
“You should be at school,” his father said. “A degree would greatly improve your chances in life.”
Nico felt like screaming. It wasn’t like he hadn’t wanted to go to school. Had his father missed everything that had happened? Had he missed Bianca’s death? Percy dropping out of school? Jason barely making it through and eventually moving to the other side of the freaking country to escape everything? How had he missed the fact that Nico had been working in a bar since he was legally able to and before that in cafes and shops and anywhere that would have him just to make enough to survive?
Because he wanted to get out of the restaurant and book home as quickly as possible he just made a noncommittal sound and picked his menu back up, hiding behind it.
“Your mother would not have wanted you to waste your life.”
Nico grit his teeth. His cheeks felt hot, he was holding the menu so tightly his fingers began to cramp. He was saved by a waiter turning up to take their order. His father ordered some expensive fish and sparkling water. Nico asked for a coke and a burger, and, if sniffing in derision hadn’t been beneath his father, Nico was sure he would have done so.
“Have you considered what you are going to do next? I assume you don’t want to be doing whatever it is you are doing now for the rest of your life. I certainly expect more from you. Your sister would have finished school by now. She’d be working hard.”
Nico didn’t even have the menu to slowly strangle anymore.
“Why are you here?” he bit out.
Hs father raised an eyebrow.
“I came to see you. To offer Percy my congratulations on his engagement. Do I need another reason?”
“Usually yes.”
“Nico this surliness is getting tiring. I tried to be patient after your mother and your sister but really it’s time to start growing up now.”
The napkins were fabric he discovered as he pulled one into his lap and tried to shred it.
“Their deaths were a terrible tragedy. But do you think Bianca would still be sulking? She would have stayed strong. She would not have ended up working in a bar.”
So his father did know. And all this was one big, Nico why aren’t you halfway to becoming a five star lawyer like Jason or at least pretending like you have a clue by going to college like Percy. It was a you’ll never be as good as your sister.
“You wish I had died instead of Bianca,” Nico said.
“Nico!”
He didn’t deny it. Nico stood, eyes hot and ashamed at himself for getting so frustrated. His father had never been any different. He never would be any different.
“Thanks for coming,” he said.
“Sit down Nico!”
Nico just shook his head. He threw the napkin down on the table and fled.
He had never wanted to go home more. He ran up the stairs to their door and stopped dead on the landing when he saw Jason and Percy waiting outside. Percy looked bored, slumped against the wall but Jason was standing tall and alert.
“Nico!” he said. “How did it – oh.”
Knowing Percy and Jason his entire life didn’t make it any easier to cry in front of them. He tried not to notice them exchanging glances.
“Why don’t we go back to mine,” Percy said. Nico turned to him, didn’t have to say anything before Percy held up his hands.
“We won’t make you talk but –“
“-you shouldn’t be alone right now,” Jason finished.
The only thing more frustrating than Percy and Jason’s almost constant good-natured sniping and bickering, or the times they used the word ‘bro’ out loud in actual conversation, were the times they ended up finishing each other’s sentences in joint concern over him.
“I’m not a baby,” he muttered.
But he did let them lead him back to Percy’s dorm room, if only because if they were waiting outside then maybe Will wasn’t in and they were kind of right – though he’d never admit that – for once he didn’t want to be alone.
Percy’s roommate – Grover? – was in but Percy took him to the side and after a brief muttered conversation he left saying something about needing to leave the library and or get lunch. He was about as bad at making excuses as Nico.
Once he’d gone, the three of them seemed to realise that after a period in childhood during which they had rarely been apart in their free time, they hadn’t been together in years. There was a bite in the air, unsaid things and some more recent arguments on his and Percy’s side. No one wanted to bring up the past but it was becoming apparent none of them really knew what to say. Percy quickly solved this by pulling out a bottle of tequila.
“I hate tequila,” Percy explaining, pouring them all shots rather generous shots. “It’s why it’s still here.”
He held up his shot glass.
“To crappy dads.”
They all toasted. It was something they could all get behind after all. Percy’s dad wasn’t necessarily horrible, but he wasn’t around much. Jason’s dad was some big shot something and was distant and hard to live up to. And Nico’s dad was –
He took the second shot Percy offered him, coming to the conclusion he didn’t really like tequila either.
“My dad said congratulations,” Nico said. “I hope for your sake he doesn’t feel the need to pass that message on in person.”
Percy laughed but also looked a little worried.
“Do you think I have to invite him to the wedding?”
“No,” Jason said firmly.
“It’s him or me,” Nico said at the same time.
“Oh well when you put it like that –“
Nico’s eyes narrowed but Percy just took a third shot and didn’t finish his sentence.
“No,” Percy said screwing his nose up. “It’s still terrible.”
“Besides,” Jason said returning to the previous point. “If you invited him to the wedding our dads would probably turn it into world war three.”
Percy winced.
“Point made and taken.”
Nico’s phone vibrated. He was used to ignoring messages, sometimes for days, but since Will had his number and began texting him he found himself actually checking whenever a text came through.
“Is that Will?” Jason asked. Nico looked up at him, trying to figure out what the tone behind his voice was. Percy took the opportunity to snatch the phone from his grip.
“That’s really childish,” Nico scolded as Percy leant further back and away as Nico reached for the phone. Nico’s fingertips were inches away when Percy elbowed him and managed to push him back.
“Jason!” Percy called.
Jason caught the phone out of reflex.
“Don’t you dare!” Nico said, as he scrambled up.
“Well maybe if you’d introduced me to him I wouldn’t have to –“
“You know I tried!” Nico protested. “Come on give it back. Jason!”
“What does it say?” Percy asked.
“Jason!”
“Text him back!" Percy suggested. "Invite him over!”
“Jason seriously!”
Jason glanced between Percy and Nico, phone in the palm of one hand. Nico could lunge for it but Jason had quick reflexes; he’d move it before Nico could get close.
“I’ll give it back,” Jason said ignoring Percy’s groan. “If you text him and invite him over.”
Nico debated for a moment weighing up having to introduce his boyfriend who he was currently on very uncertain standing with, against the cost of buying a new phone. Jason gave him a pointed look, waving the phone. Percy was grinning.
“Fine,” Nico said in bad grace.
He opened up the text to reply and saw that Lou Ellen had apparently told Will Nico was going to meet his father. Will was asking if he wanted Nico to come home but there was a something almost passive aggressive behind his words. Nico guessed Will didn’t like he’d had to find out from Lou Ellen.
He told Will he was fine. He didn’t invite him over. He’d just tell Jason and Percy, Will was busy.
“There,” he said.
“Do we believe he’s actually done it?” Jason asked, with far too much insight.
“Not at all,” Percy said.
Nico sighed.
“Why don’t you want us to meet him?” Jason demanded.
“I’ve met him,” Percy said.
Jason turned to look at Percy and then back to Nico, so quickly Nico was slightly concerned he’d just given himself whiplash.
“Percy introduced us,” Nico said with a shrug. “Sort of. He kind of threw him my way.”
“And look how it worked out for you!” Percy said with a grin. Nico glared at him.
“Well how do you know him?” Jason asked.
“He’s in my biology class. And he’s Connor’s brother’s friend. Besides everyone knows him even if they don’t know him.”
Jason was beginning to move from looking #offended to looking confused.
“What are you talking about Percy?”
“Come on even you all the way in LA must have heard of Will Solace.”
Jason blanched.
“Solace?” he asked.
“I hadn’t heard of him,” Nico pointed out, giving Jason a searching look. Jason met his eyes, all traces of the shock that had only half a second before been written so deeply on his face gone.
“Yes but you live under a rock and only occasionally emerge in the dead of night. Everyone else has a vague idea who he is. Just like everyone has a vague idea who the Kardashians are. Did you know Nico watches the Kardashians? Maybe that was a bad example.”
“I wasn’t watching –“ Nico tried to explain and then gave up.
“Jason?” he added when Jason still didn’t offer an explanation for his rapid loss of colour.
Jason just shook his head.
“I didn’t realise it was Will Solace,” was all he would say, even when Percy began giving him a strange look.
“Anyway,” he continued, apparently mustering up some of his usual good humour. “I still think we should meet him. Even though one of us has apparently already met him.”
Percy shrugged good naturedly.
“Nico’s always liked me more.”
Once upon a time that might have had Nico trying to hide a blush, but now he just threw a pillow at Percy’s face. Percy protested, Jason got involved in the argument and they all got distracted from Nico’s boyfriend and relationship, which was undeniably what he wanted. But as the day wore on Jason seemed distracted and Nico noticed him on his phone several times, typing with an expression that was somehow both intent and far away. And when Nico left for home, Jason walked with him down the hall.
“How much do you like Will?” Jason asked.
It was an odd question, even for Jason who was overly invested in Nico’s wellbeing and love life.
“Why?”
Jason shook his head.
“It’s nothing,” he said. It didn’t look like nothing but Nico was too annoyed with him to care about asing further. Jason probably just thought Will was nothing but some shallow rich kid who’d drop Nico after a few months. Which to be fair was sort of what Nico had thought when he’d met him.
“Nico?” Jason had stopped at the top of the stairs. Nico had to turn to look at him, neck craned at an awkward angle.
"What?" he snapped.
“Be careful?”
Nico had begun walking down the stairs the pause had been so long and he'd been so convinced Jason wasn't going to answer. He turned back in frustration, but Jason was walking back towards Percy’s room, shoulders hunched and defensive.
"Jason!"
Jason didn't respond.
Next chapter
#its so late#my bad#i've had a cold#excuses#Will solace#will solace/nico di angelo#Nico di Angelo#solangelo#writing#fandom
15 notes
·
View notes
Text
Fear the Bear
I’ve always been a bit confused, if not agitated, by words that look like they should rhyme but don’t. It’s not their fault that they don’t fit perfectly together, but I still consider a linguistic mismatch to be strike one against pairs of words like foot and boot, or fear and bear.
October 11th is National Take Your Teddy Bear to Work Day. I know because I almost called in sick three years in a row. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a distrust, if not a dislike, of teddy bears. This could be traced back to when I was four. Reagan was in the White House. Teddy Ruxpin was on the shelves. Like most kids who spent far too much time in front of a television of that era instead of developing social skills, I had to have a Teddy Ruxpin. At least that’s what the commercials between segments of Cartoon Express on USA Network and Nickelodeon wanted me to think.
I didn’t get a Teddy Ruxpin for Christmas or my birthday in 1985, or any year after. I was disappointed and upset. Maybe this was another of my parents’ ways of teaching me that you can’t always get what you want, a traumatic yet valuable lesson for a young boy. My nephew is four now, and I wish I could teach him the same lesson I learned from Mr. Ruxpin. Sadly, he’s too busy playing with his dinosaurs or freaking out when his sister shoots him with her Nerf gun. I guess some lessons, especially those involving bears, are best left to life experience. I can’t point to the exact moment when my disappointment over not seeing Teddy Ruxpin under the Christmas tree, or not ripping one open on the anniversary of my birth turned into disdain for inanimate bear kind. But I can say that over time, I became more aware of inanimate bears like Winnie the Pooh, Paddington, the Berenst(E)ain Bears, Smokey, and Snuggle Bear, the mascot for a popular brand of fabric softener to name just a few.
It was difficult for me to understand why Winnie the Pooh couldn’t just lay off the honey, or why Paddington couldn’t keep his hand out of the damn marmalade jar. Shouldn’t social graces apply to bears too? There’s a reason gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins. How hard is it to follow the rules?
The Berenst(E)ain Bears were my first encounter with the Mandela effect. I remember their surname being Berenstein, but not everyone does. I’ve done a bit of research, and found several examples, e.g. green pepper vs. mango, Oscar Meyer vs. Oscar (Your Body is a Wonderland) Mayer, Sex in the City vs. Sex and the City, etc… The effect takes its name from memories some people have of former South African president Nelson Mandela dying in prison, which didn’t happen. There’s no consensus on whether or not the effect exemplifies a collective memory failure or alternate realities. For my purposes, it’s just another example of bears fucking with me.
Smokey was useless. All he ever did was remind people that only they could prevent forest fires. He lived in a forest that was destroyed by in a fire and resolved never to let it happen again. I’m sure Smokey had the knowledge, resources, contacts to get off his ass and do something about forest fires, but he was content to remind everyone else that they alone had the capacity to do it. He did try to reach younger audiences by rapping in a 1993 Public Service Announcement, but he cut it short after admitting to the crew that his heart just wasn’t in it. I guess he was happy being barrel-chested and stoic. I’ve never seen Smokey with a shirt on, so he’s always been comfortable sharing himself with the world, but I’ve also never seen him don a mask and oxygen tank in an effort to save his fellow woodland creatures when the shit hit the forest fan.
The whole thing reminds of Sam Kinison’s joke about Feed the Children. He rips into the host and crew of their infomercials for not offering food to the children themselves. The host would look straight into the camera and say something like, “Won’t you please help?” In reply, Sam screamed something along the lines of, “Why don’t you just give them some of the sandwiches you packed for the day? Huh? AAAAAHHHHHHH!”
Snuggle Bear used to make me so angry. For years, I outright refused to buy his fabric softener sheets because I couldn’t accept that he was always so damn happy. He seemed inauthentic. All you’d ever see on camera was Snuggle jumping out of a pile of freshly laundered towels. He’d then practically bring himself to orgasm by rubbing them against his skin while ecstatically proclaiming how snuggly soft they were. Since the camera never zoomed in for one of those classic porno shots that leaves nothing to the imagination, we were left to wonder exactly what was going on under the pile.
We also never heard anything about Snuggle’s backstory, in contrast to a well-known duck who quacks poetic about the benefits of supplemental insurance. Through the years, we’ve seen the duck in the gym working his way back from injury, risking vertigo by riding a roller coaster and break dancing among the people. All the while, Snuggle just keeps jumping out of towels to greet us with his smiling face. We don’t know what adversity if any, he’s ever confronted. Did Snuggle once live in Smokey’s forest before it burned? Did he have to fight his way through the mean trees of Sherwood because some guy kept stealing his possessions and giving them to the poor? Was he ever addicted on screen and in real life, like Robert Downey Jr. in Less Than Zero? Has he ever had to deal with a devastating high ankle sprain caused by a mistimed jump out of the towel pile? We’ll never know. Without knowing, why would anyone emotionally invest in Snuggle Bear as opposed to the insurance duck?
The pillow was the worst of all. It was covered with teddy bears in pajamas. She held it close every night, more often than she did me, especially near the end. We’d lie on the pullout bed, Zs. on one side of the crevice, me on the other. Physically, she was only inches away, but those inches might as well have been thousands of emotional miles. This is not to suggest that I sought the validation of having her embrace me as lovingly as her pillow. Rather, that feeling nothing and having nothing shown to you in return is not a desirable state to be in. I am not blameless for not minding the emotional gap that grew wider and wider between us over time. The only blameless parties are the bears on her pillow, the bears I associate with her through no fault of her own.
I got a second chance at life by coming home in June of 2011, but by that time I’d lost track of my life’s purpose. Maybe that’s why I hated the bears so much. They truly didn’t give a fuck. They were going to do what they were going to do regardless of what I thought. Teddy Ruxpin would keep reading his stories until his batteries died. No matter how bad his lip-synch job was, or who was listening. Pooh and Paddington would stay after the honey and marmalade. Boo-Boo would always stick his hand in that picnic basket. The Berenst(E)ain Bears would teach generations of children the value of kindness, no matter how they would later remember the spelling of their name. Smokey would remind people to think before doing something stupid that could start a fire. Snuggle would keep on jumping out of piles of fresh towels, reminding us that laundry straight out of the dryer doesn’t have to smell like shit. Even the bears on the pillow would offer support during all-important times of sleep.
Legends of the Fall is one of my favorite movies (which also happens to be bookended by confrontations with bears). It illustrates how different the paths of men’s lives can be. Alfred (Aidan Quinn) lives a more traditional life than his brother Tristian (Brad Pitt) who is a free spirit. Tristian does what he wants, and lives free from the expectations of others. Alfred does everything by the book. While reflecting on their lives toward the end of the movie, Alfred tells Tristian something that could easily sum up my feelings toward these bears if I were Alfred, and the bears were Tristian.
I followed all of the rules, man’s and God’s. And you, you followed none of them. And they all loved you more. Samuel, Father, and my… even my own wife.
The bears were living their (sometimes cartoonish) purpose. They didn’t ask for permission; they just did. They knew in their hearts that whatever they were doing was what they wanted to do. I followed most of the rules, and what did it get me? I have a great life, but one that would be better if I awakened the bear inside me, the bear that dwells within every man. I shouldn’t have felt compelled to turn a teddy bear around when no one was watching so it couldn’t look at me (though I once did). I shouldn’t fear finding a giant teddy in my chair at work this coming October 11th. All I have to fear is the bear inside me staying dormant if I make choices that compromise my power as a man. Maybe Smokey was right. Only I can prevent forest fires.
May I cease to fiddle while my forest burns.
0 notes