#not the first apple grown under the sun. but you grew and someone eats you

[yoshistory]

my former therapist told me "everything you are and become and will be is something learned; you cant be something if you didn't learn it somewhere. nothing is inherent about anyone, except for something genetic" and honestly it is still messing with me on some level

[missingartist]

The Witcher’s Mate Chapter 21

It had taken a little over ten days to reach the Witcher stronghold. At day five, Geralt had felt ready to crawl out of his skin and demanded that one of the mages conjure up a portal to take them to Kaer Morhen. The itch under his skin had grown into a raw pain gnawing at him, his dislikes for portal didn’t matter he would just cover his eyes and plunge deep into the gateway. Triss with a piteous frown as she refused to state that ‘both of you need space’ and Yennefer simply smirked and turned away. It meant Geralt spent the next five days barely sleeping or eating; he had gone through a gallon of the smelly gloop to keep the fever at bay. As soon as silver tower peaked over tops of the trees, Geralt charged Roach off in a mad dash to the castle.  Bracken and brambles tugged at his leathers, but he barely noticed them in his focus of her scent. It was everywhere, that blend of apples and the ocean, soothing and heady. But there was something different, something else mixed in with it, tangy and fresh. Zesty and fury like ginger and lime. It has a seductive edge to her usually nubile smell.

His heavy footfalls echoed through the valley as he stomped up the stone staircase and threw open the heavy oak doors as it, they were weightless. The scent of her was enough to send him into a frenzy; it was everywhere. Beads of sweat began to slide down the side of his neck; he had been able to smell her for the last two day, the slight scent on the wind. He had smelt the slight change in her scent, but he couldn’t imagine it would affect him in this way. In his half-fried brain, he half expected her to throw herself into his arms; if she had suffered the way he had, she would be a mess of need. But there was no one to welcome him, just stretch after stretch of empty halls. No Jaskier or Ciri or Vesemir. No Adva. He had caught a glimpse of his old master’s mare wandering around the field, grazing on the wild grass and weeds. Tearing from room to room he searched in vain, ever room he dismissed the scent grew stronger till, at last,  he found them on what had once been loosely called a veranda, that had been repurposed into some sort of outdoors study. Books stacked chest high. Piles of manuscript tucked neatly at the side and stacks of paper protectively held down from the wind by a furious wolves head paperweight roaring at him.

‘Where is she?’ A gruff voice barked out, breaking the three from their study.

Ciri and Jaskier eyes immediately snapped up to the tired-looking Witcher before sharing a dark look. His mentor, on the other hand, didn’t show much as look in his direction, merely turned the page and continued reading. Vesemir didn’t need to see his student to know what sort of state he was in. His voice was like gravel, and there was no energy behind it. Jaskier frowned at his friend and a twinge of guilt; he had been somewhat hard on the Witcher last time he saw him. Geralt looked exhausted, dirty and dusty, hair an unkept mess and harrowed eyes lost their glow but still held that ferrous intensity.

Ciri also saw it, but Witcher eyes also gave her the keen sight to see past beyond the surface, he was barely clinging on to his sanity, his eyes were mad and crazy. It scared her; his eyes had always been impassive seeing them so full with emotion was disturbing.

‘Cooking dinner. Apparently, they don’t like my cooking.’ Vesemir growled out at the young bard; his narrow eyes swept over them before resting on the younger Witcher. The harsh eyes soften slightly as he took in Geralt frame before hardening again, letting them full down on the page with a scowl.

‘Well someone had to tell you at some point, it pretty diabolical. Hello, sweetie, I see you have done lots of research already’ Triss smiled as she slides into the room silently trailed by the violet-eyed mage.

Triss lent in and peaked the younger girl on the cheek before dropping down exhausted into one of the seats.

‘Good. Adva and I were pressed ganged into slating the roof yesterday, I have tar in places I didn’t know it could be stuck, and Jaskier has actually been helpful for once getting all texts from the archive.’ Ciri playful smiled across at Jaskier who sat ideally tunning his lute having given up research several hours ago

‘You let her up on that death trap.’ Geralt growled inching toward the older man.

‘She is a good worker, and the roof needed doing. And don’t give me lip boy you aren’t too big to get a hiding.’ Vesemire stood, chair strapping dangerously on the stone floor as both men took the measure of the other.

It broke him to see his young ward to look so…so broken. His hair was wild and covered in blue smears. His eyes were glowing a dangerous orange and always moving, body twitching with excess energy, but he looked tired, exhausted even, deep bruises had formed underneath his eyes, making them appear sallow and hollow.

‘She could have fallen and broken her neck. She is not a servant for you to order around.’ Geralt snapped edging himself closer to his former tutor

‘Adva wanted to help out, and frankly, if you hadn’t let that mage of yours off her leash, that mate of yours wouldn’t be mopping around the castle looking for a distraction from the shit show that usually comes with your romantic relationships.’ Vesemir spat out.

‘This is not going to end well…but it will make an exciting Ballard.’ Jaskier half-whisper is stunned awe as both Witchers sized up to each other.

Geralt gazed down at the older man, their size had never really come up, there wasn’t much difference in it, but Geralt was just slightly taller, but that bit of height gave him the ability to look down at the older man. Never in his entire life had he wanted to strike him, they had always had a solid bond, a close a Witcher could get to a father and son relationship. With a silent snarl, Geralt gave him one last look before storming off toward the kitchens.

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Once upon a time when Kaer Morhen had been a flourishing Witcher stronghold, the kitchens feed hundreds of people. The hearth was large and spacious with room to roast several roasting pigs. There were three large stoves, and an open smoking pit and oven, along with a prepping bench that stretched across the large kitchen and large open window shone light from across the valley where the sun rose, and the sunset providing the kitchen with light every possible moment of the day. Back in Brightwater, this would have been her dream kitchen; it was light and airy with every possible thing she wanted or needed. The one in the brothel was windowless and had what you would barely call a roasting pit which billowed out smothering smoke that blinded and choked her. It made her sad inside to know that the kitchen would only service a handful of people anymore; it seemed such as waste.

Despite her heavy heart, she felt okay, just incredibly numb. Food had no taste; fire had no warmth; the wind could barely be felt against her skin. Even Jaskier’s silliness did not affect her. She knew he was funny, playing the jester to make her happy, it was hilarious, but she had to force herself to laugh, to smile and join in, but she felt cold inside. She was content to hide away in the kitchen pandering to Jaskier need for edible food or help repair the dilapidated castle anything that made her forgot for a brief moment. Forget that she might be a mermaid, forget about Geralt and Yennefer.

‘Adva’

She tensed as she felt Geralt’s gruff tones echo across the pantry. As soon as she turned around, she regretted it, he looked so adoring, so in sorry and it broke her heart. Quickly turning, she forced herself to focus on the meal she was preparing in front of her—a simple meal of leavened bread cakes, eggs, and spiced vegetables. The dried meal had been soaked in oils and herb and roasted in the pit with garlic and sliced figs. The Witchers had been self-sufficient here with various trees and vegetable patches planted which meant her meals could be that much more flavourful and at least better than whatever that dish Vesemire had prepared on their arrival.

‘Look I really don’t want to talk about it.’ She sighed as she placed the bread cakes in a serving bowl and slicing the meat into mouthful chunks if she turned around now she would be a goner, she knew that and kept her gaze trained on the chopping board in front of her.

‘Avda…’ Geralt croaked.

Throwing her knife down, she half screamed in frustration ‘Geralt! It's fine; I get it. You prefer Yennefer to me, it's fine. I understand I am not upset. We will find the book you can break the bond, and you can go off with her. Can we just not talk about it please I just want to forget about it.’ Tears were now welling up in her eyes and threaten to spill onto her cheeks.

‘Adva, please.’ Geralt pleaded. ‘You need to listen to me. We need to talk, please….. I know I messed up by not telling you….but I have been so confused. I have been attached to Yennefer for so long… But all I can think of is you, every fibre of me needs you. You are my soul mate….Please Adva.’

Geralt reached out his bronzed hand and grasped her forearm gently turned her to face him. Blue eyes met gold orbs, and she felt herself melt. The warmth of his hand felt good against her skin; she could help but sigh as the feeling it was the first time she had felt anything in so long, it gave her more pleasure than anything before ever had, well almost. The hungry look in his eyes took her back to that night. She wanted nothing more than to push him down on the table behind him and…. The though were more explicit than she ever thought herself capable of.

It would be so easy to full into his arms and forget the events of the last ten days, but then that violent eyed mage face entered her mind.  

‘No…just no. I can’t; I just can’t be near you right now. Please leave me alone.’

‘Adva…How can I prove to you that I don’t want her, just you, only you.’

‘You didn’t tell me. You go from Yennefer to me because of your ‘bond’, and I won't be there when you change you mind.’ Adva’s voice was barely a whisper.

‘You know that not what this is….I could never do that. Let me worship you my little flower.’

Pulling herself out from his grasp, she could look at him; she couldn’t trust herself to look at him not now. ‘Just…just stay away from me. I can’t; I just can't right now. Stay away from me.’ She whimpered out before escaping out the room into dark ache way to collect herself away from the sounds of crashing furnisher.

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‘Dinner’ Adva called, swiftly made her way to the library and pulled open the dumb waiter and immediately began to offload the food onto the table. It was not a very fancy meal but it smelt good, but she couldn’t force herself to feel hungry. A sickness bubbled in her stomach, and she carried the food to the table, bowl by bowl. She agonised over her discussion with Geralt. Part of her believed him, but the other part felt relieved; she knew this story all too well. It had happened to too many of the girls on the brothel, promises of love destroyed them, made them totally dependent and vulnerable to the men that promised them everything, only for them to be cast them off and move onto a new woman leaving behind a wreak. It happened to one girl, in particular, Soffie, a pretty young thing, 18 and bright-eyed whisked off to some exotic land but an elegant merchant. The blonde woman child followed after him and returned 18 months later looking ten years older having whore her way across the country to get home. Soffie was never the same as that her eyes lost that spark in her eyes, flirted with died eyes as she took man after man to her room. She refused to be like that, but every part of her schemed she was doing the wrong thing.

The food smelt wonderful, full of fresh herbs and toasted spiced, the buttery bread gave an oddly comforting aroma, but she felt no hunger or want to eat in fact she felt sick thinking about have to force it down her throat. Jaskier slid in next to her and Ciri wedged herself next to her, sandwiching themselves either side of her. Geralt stalker over and slide himself opposite her, staring darkly across at her.

‘Have you cleaned?’ Yennefer asked in the manner only suited to a queen, arrogant and dismissive. ‘I am glad to see you putting the creature to work.’ She sneered at the group huddled around the table.

Five pairs of eyes glared up at Yennefer as she sneered down at Adva, her eyes slide over to the prepared food, and her lips curled back over pearly white teeth. Adva was torn between wanting to shrink back in her seat and wanting to throw the plate of glazed vegetables into her perfect face or pour the bitter ale over her head and ruin the stunning dress that clung to her body. If you could call it a dress, it was a thin strip of silk that wrapped around her shoulders and dipped down to her naval where it was tied in an attractive knot and bellowed down into a floaty skirt. Truly, Adva had never wanted to harm someone as severely as she did now.

Instead, Adva lifted her shoulder and pulled on a piece of bread, nibbling on a corner. It was soft and chewy, but it turned to ash in her mouth. ‘Have you found anything?’

‘Not really, just a lot of lore and eyewitness story.’ Ciri breezed as she poured himself a long drink. ‘

‘Did you find anything more in the archives’ Adva smiled sweetly as Jaskier who was devouring a bread cake laden with the roasted vegetables and meat.

‘Just this…It an accord from the last war with the Merfold and the Humans. It nothing interesting but look at the signature.’ The bard pushed the scroll into the centre of the tabled.

It was an elegant piece of material. It was not the usual discoloured yellow but a pale green. It shimmered in the sunlight, and the smell of seawater still lingered in the air. Reaching out a pale hand Adva brushed the paper with her middle finger, the silky parchment slide across her flesh as she traced the signature on the paper. The curl of the letters spelt across the bottom of the page next to a scruffy scrawl.

‘Cersi…’

‘It appears Cersi and Mousesack acted as arbitrator between the two parties. The Empress Azalea, First of Her Name, The Protector of the Deep and Waves, Queen of Navacis, Sovereign of Sirei, Mother of all and ruler of the Great Sea met with Leopold the Ready to discuss the peace treaty between the two kingdoms.’ Ciri explained pushing the document toward the Mage and the Witcher.

Geralt skimmed the document, narrowing his eyes at the lengthy text—a mix of sonic script and Novigradian. How a text like this got into the archives was strange, it should have been locked in some vault or the archives at Oxenfurt. Underneath it was the incomplete family tree of Empress Azalea, deep crinkles wove their way onto his brow as he gazed down at the small pile of papers. A page about the full history of the high court and the great families of the Great Sea. Mermaid were notoriously private, which meant little was known about them and that their research would uncover nothing that would illuminate the situation. Something caught the corner of his eyes, something that felt important but he couldn’t exactly put his finger on it.

‘So you think that Cersi became friendly with some Mermaid who gave her a child to look after who she abandoned to a torturous mage and then brothel.’ Vesemir scoffed, scooping up another palate full of meat and vegetables.

‘Cersi put her in the brothel to protect Adva. The mermaid physic emits pheromones which could have put her in danger from others…it’s the only thing that would make sense.’ Triss smiled across at her young pupil.

The caramel eyed mage took the hand of the young mermaid. The poor girl's hand was icy cold and sweaty. For her sake, Triss hoped that Cersi had placed her in that brothel for that reason, it was the only thing that made sense, a less Cersi had a darker motive which she prayed to god she didn’t, she didn’t know how much more Adva could take.

Ciri glanced around the table, all, ever Yennefer seemed to be in deep thought, somberly munching on their food. Pondering on the fact, Ciri spoke ‘Have ever you thought that maybe Cersi is her mother? And she had an affair with a male mermaid.’

‘Titian. No, I would have smelt it’ Geralt muttered pushing the document away from him. ‘Besides being a Mage it's unlikely, most are infertile having gone through their…. Transformation.’ Geralt muttered, glancing behind him to the stoic raven-haired Mage.

Adva knew what that entailed, Cersi had spoken a little about her regret about seeking out her transformation and losing her womb. Part of her often wondered if Lord Brightwater and Cersi kept her for the temple of mages to keep her from that vicious alteration to her body. Part of her wanted to say that if she had been training in the Magely arts that she would have refused the procedure, but there was a lot, she would have changed. She would like to be taller and slimmer; she was all curves and thick body parts. She would keep her eyes and lips, and her noise though slightly too big gave her character. Her breasts were too small and hips too big. Maybe she would have changed them; her womb didn’t seem that big a sacrifice to her, hers didn’t even work anymore that’s to Tradi’s nightly beating.

Vesemir bleached loudly ‘It not impossible. Merfolk is the oldest document race. Many scholars believed they were the first race before some cast themselves out of the water and crawled onto the land. It would not be surprising if they had access to some sort of fertility magic or something. I once met a sailor who claimed that a Mermaid cast as a spell on his seed and he went on to have 13 children.’ The older man shrugged dipping his break in the mean juices.

Yennefer look down at the girl who was looking gloomily poked at her food, casting a curious eye over her figure. If that was true, the girl might be a useful tool in her pursuits of a family. A smirk stretched across her lips as the girl glanced up. The smiled faltered as Adva blue eyes met her violet orbs. A swirl of angry and hatred burnt brightly. The little fish was starting to turn into a shark.

‘Cersi smell is wholly different from Adva; it improbably they are related. Mothers and daughter usually have the same base smell.’ Geralt gruffly added.

Vesemire nodded, started to know one another piece of meat

‘What about I ask Crispin? He might have something in his book collection that could share some province.’ Adva piped up. ‘The Earl, he did say that he had a large collection of books on creatures and plants, he hinted about some rare pieces in his collection.’

‘Oh, it Crispin now?’ Geralt snapped. Jealous surged within him, she could barely speak his name, but she freely spoke about a man she barely knew.

Triss rolled her eye at the stropping Witcher, ignore the sound of several doors the slammed behind him ‘I will send a message to him, he should be back at his manor by now. He might be able to help…I hope.’

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Adva paced. Might be a word she had come to hate. Might be able to help. At this point, hope wasn’t enough. Everything that she found raised more question then answers. If she really was a Mermaid, had her parents given her to Cersi? Or was she stolen? Was Cersi her mother? The question was enough to bring her to tears. Up until now, her life had been uneventful; in the past four months, there was enough to last her a lifetime. Taking a deep breath, she inhaled the heady scent of oak and spice. Geralt. Angry tears welled up in her eyes, shining in the moonlight. Gods! Her body was burning with a need for Geralt while her mind was screaming at her to run away from Geralt and Yennefer as fast as she could. She hadn’t seen Geralt since he stormed off during dinner. Yennefer, on the other hand, had stayed in the library till they all retired for the night. Yennefer had been very quiet, but the glares she sent across the table where vicious and menacing. Part of her wanted to run a hide somewhere, but a bigger part of her wanted to rip her apart. It scared her. Never had she ever wanted to hurt anyone with such a ferocity of feeling, she could feel the energy simmer under skin throbbing away violently.

Throwing open the window, the cool breeze caressed her skin. In the darkness of the surrounding wood, a figure stood vigilant beneath a mighty oak. Even in the darkness, she could see the outline of a man bundled up in a fine black cloak his face hidden in the shadows. She didn’t know why, but it gave her an overwhelming sensation a dread. The man had no right being up here, it was the hidden sanctuary of the school of Wolf and the long-kept secret to the world, how a man had wandered up here and found it scared her. Even at this distance, she could sense the man's face twist into a scowl as he tenses himself.

She watched the shadow hesitate against underneath the door—the wind dying in the air.

Creak! The floorboard screamed under the immense weight of a heavy boot as they moved through the corridor.

Whirling around, wide eyes fell on the door. The thick line of light shone out across the darkens floor shifted as a figure passed over it. She knew, she just knew who it was. The figure shifted outside the door wavering on the threshold. Geralt was looming in front of the door. Her breath caught in her chest as she watches the shadow shift from side to side. A soft groan vibrated through the wood as a weight lent against it. They both knew they could sense the other separated by a thick strip of wood. All he had to do was to turn the handle. All she has to do was to turn the handle. But they didn’t. A low growl grew from behind the door, shaking as it built in intensity, making the air thick with electricity.

Adva gulped as she watched the shadow retreat from the door before the warm orange glow disappeared descending her into darkness, only the pale light of the new moon illuminating her room. Turning back, the figure was gone leaving the lonely oak tree surrounded by a deep dark shadow. Blinking several times, she refocused on the patch of dirt where the man stood to find nothing but a lonely branch waving in the wind.

She was losing her mind, squeezing her eyes shut, she slipped under the quilted blanket, snuggled down into the bed and flung the cotton over blanket on top of her shivering body as anxiety twisted and knotted in her stomach.

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I am so sorry I have taken so long to update. I finally got my qualification, and I am now a teacher! This has meant I have been trying to set up my classroom and set out a lesson for next year and as a lot of them are practical and need equipment, it meant I had to try and sources all the stuff. So much fun! --__-- After about Jully 22nd I should be able to relax and get back into a solid update a week.

Just to let you know shit is going down next chapter so please stay tuned!!

As always please leave comments and likes. If you want me add you to the tag list please direct message me. Lots of Love!

@threepupsinapuddle @broco8 @introvertedmouse @luxyash @vikingsbifrost @pastelblogsposts @wastingmypotential @whitespring21 @ayamenimthiriel @wonderlandfandomkingdom @shesthelastjedi @fandom-lover-4 @sageandberries-png

[flying-elliska]

salut ellie! someone once asked you about your writing and you recommended falling in love with language and finding ways of writing you love. i was wondering, what books and/or writing styles are you in love with? it's just so interesting to know what somehow had an impact on the way you're writing bc i honestly adore your style

wow do you remember that ? that is such a flattering question oh my god. well, i’m still working on it. some of my favorites are (i’m very eclectic lmao) : 

- His Dark Materials (it’s a fantasy book series ‘for kids’ but it’s actually insanely deep and philosophic) is pretty much the first book series that made me fall in love with stories, and made me want to write. I think I found it when I was 10, and it completely shaped me. It’s so ambitious and clever, it never talks down to the reader, brings up those amazing worlds and philosophical concepts and is still accessible to kids. Most of all it is so committed to atmosphere, to making it vivid, to really make you go through what the characters are. I’m thinking of it and I can remember exactly certain passages in an almost sensory way : the witch Serafina Pekkala describing what it feels like to feel the Aurora Borealis on her bare skin as she is flying through the arctic. The polar bear Iorek giving Lyra frozen moss to help bandage his wounds after a battle. The grilled poppy heads that the Jordan College scholars at Oxford eat during a meeting. The little Gallivespians on their dragonflies and the way the sun reflects off their poisonous spurs. That’s how you make a story stick ; that’s how you can put in deep stuff without ever making it boring. I am so excited they’re making a tv series because that shit deserves some recognition. And I mean the whole plot about the importance of stories, free will, the horror of religious fundamentalism....always relevant. Philip Pullman’s stuff is great in general, I love his Sally Lockhart series, which is more adult and adventure focused, and is a great deal of fun. And of course, the sequel to HDM he’s been putting out recently. 

- I spent a lot of my teen years reading either crime novels or historical novels. (When I think of some of the stuff I read when I was 13 I’m like oh my god what were my parents doing lmao some of that was really horrible.) And I think it gave me a good feeling for suspense and setting, and how important tension is. One of my all time faves is Andrea Japp. She is a French writer who does mostly crime, involving complex/monstrous woman characters and a very sensory, poetic approach to language, often involving food, plants and poisons. My favorite by her is the “Season of the Beast”/Agnès de Souarcy chronicles, which is a crime series set in medieval times, with a cool independent lady at its core, crimes in a monastery, and this very gloomy end of times vibe that I love. I also read a lot of Scandi Noir stuff, I love the kind of ...laconic approach to life. And again : vibe. Vibe is so important. And Sherlock Holmes stories. I love the Mary Russell series that take place in that universe and are basically a big Mary Sue self insert guilty pleasure but are just. So much fun. 

- I like poetry a lot - not stuff that is too wordy, but something short, sharp and vivid. i think reading poetry is essential to feeding your inner ‘metaphor culture’. I love Mary Oliver. Rimbaud, too, that I read at 17 and rocked my world. One of my underrated faves is  Hồ Xuân Hương, a Vietnamese poet from the 18th century who was adept at using nature metaphors to hide both erotic stuff, irreverent jokes, and political criticism, and correspond with all the great scholars of her time under a pseudonym. Badass.  Recently I bought ‘Soft Science’ by Franny Choi, which is about cyborgs, having a female body, emotions and politics and it’s absolutely brilliant. 

- I love reading fairy tales, too. Currently reading (i always read a lot of books at once lol) Angela Carter’s Book of Fairy Tales, basically fairy tales for grown ups, collected from folklore all over the world, with an amazing kind of gruesome humor and wisdom. Norse mythology is also so damn funny. That one bit with Thor dressing up as a bride or Loki’s shenanigans...amazing. And I like fantasy, I find it very soothing to read for some reason, my fave has to be Robin Hobb and her Realm of the Elderlings series. And Terry Pratchett, especially the series with Death or the Witches. Just brilliant. Neil Gaiman too. 

- I tend to be very impatient when it comes to literary fiction, I find a lot of it is self-indulgent, dreary. I’m a genre reader through and through, I need to be amazed. I loved ‘the Elegance of the Hedgehog’ by Muriel Barbery though. Some stuff by Amélie Nothomb, Virginie Despentes occasionally (they’re French writers with a very dark, wry approach to life, tho the first is more polished acid and the second very punk rock). And ‘Special Topics in Calamity Physics’ by Marisha Pessl is pretentious as hell but a lot of fun, if you like dark academia. Salman Rushdie has a way with language that is amazing. 

- I read a lot of non-fiction. At the moment : the Cabaret of Plants (about the symbolic/socio historical meaning of plants and how they shaped history) by Richard Mabey and ‘Feminist Fight Club’ by Jessica Bennett. One I absolutely love is ‘the Botany of Desire’ by Michael Pollan in which he traces the history of four plant species (apple, potato, cannabis, tulip) and how they impacted us as much as we impacted them. I was obsessed with plants for most of my life as you can see lol (my mother is a herbalist and I wanted to become a botanist for quite a while.). Also philosophy/anthropology in little bits. I love Tim Ingold. Things about witches. Anything by Rebecca Solnit is incredible. 

- I’ve been reading a lot of YA recently, because it’s fun and quick and keeps me reading, and has a lot of good female characters. Big fave recently : Jane Unlimited by Kristin Cashore. It’s about a young bisexual woman who’s grieving and comes to this weird house full of doors, each of which leads to a different path in life, and we follow her through each choice she can potentially make, each of one becomes a different genre of story : creepy ghost story, spy story, sci-fi, cute romance, etc. It’s so innovative and it’s a story that is also bisexual culture at its core. Also I absolutely love love love love love (etc forever) the Raven Cycle series by Maggie Stiefvater. What she does with language is just so cool, because she stays simple and efficient but uses her metaphors in such a fulgurant, vivid way. Some of her lines are just. bam! genius. #goals. Also Ronan Lynch is probably THE character that helped me the most with my coming out. He’s one of my forever faves.  Of course Harry Potter, lmao, I was of the generation that pretty much grew up with him, the last book came out when I was 17. JK Rowling really should just stop rn. But I learned so much from those, about the importance of making your story feel like home, and having a clear emotional journey. And Harry is such a sarcastic little shit, I love him. And I love a Series of Unfortunate Events too, the darkly funny tone of it, the celebration of knowledge and resilience. 

- I think in terms of the classics (I had to read in school lmao), I do like Victor Hugo a lot even though some of his stuff just doesn’t fucking stop. I also like Balzac and his Comédie Humaine, he’s very observant, mean and funny when it comes to people (even though it’s depressing.) Colette is my grandma’s fave writer and she is a rockstar, I love her (also hella bi culture). Jane Austen is great, I read Pride and Prejudice in one night straight, I was so hooked. Love Jane Eyre too. I read On the Road by Jack Kerouac while hopped up on opioid pain killers and that’s probably the only way to appreciate it, but it did mark me.  

- But to be completely fucking candid, I probably read the most fanfic nowadays still. Esp since I got to college, I need to unwind when I read, and having characters you already know can be so comforting. Now, of course, there’s a lot of fanfic that is just fluff (nothing wrong with that) but I honestly really believe in the literary value of fanfic. Because some of that shit simply just really slaps and is well written. But also as a genre on its own : you just simply don’t get so much emotional nuance, and depth in most other things. Because these are characters we already know and the writers are not afraid to be self-indulgent and plot is secondary, we see shades of things that we never see anywhere else, we see relationships developping in the small things and wow that shit is breathtaking, bro, sometimes. The art of infinite variation on a theme. Even though a lot of fic writers could use a bit of stricter editing, and do stuff a bit too many unnecessary details in here, so does Victor Hugo soooooooo....

lol i could go on forever. i love book soooo much. uni kinda killed my reading appetite, I used to read several books a week when I was in middle school. hope i can get back there (although maybe not as much bc i have a life now lol.) but thinking about everything i have yet to read makes me sooooo happy. I want to get more into sci-fi, English lit classics. Basically I like stuff that’s witty, dark, political, hedonistic, with dry humor, but a warm heart. Stories that celebrate knowledge, curiosity and human weirdness. And that gets to the point. When I get bored by a book, I put it down, because I just don’t have the time. I also hate writers where you can tell that they think they’re better than other people. Misanthropy is boring. Thank you for this question anon I had a blast

[flowerflamestars]

Shovels and Roses

Elucien, SO NOT CANON, Post- ACOTAR, in the months before ACOMAF Lucien couldn’t stop walking.  It was a gods damned stupid thing to do, but he kept walking, shaking off the shudder of repulsive magic as he passed under the wall and into mortal land. It was earlier spring here than the artificial season in Tamlin’s home, if Lucien closed his eyes and breathed in the crisp air, he could almost expect to open them and see endless trees with leaves like jewels.  He didn’t want to go home, but he didn’t want to go anywhere else either.  So many things had felt hollow since the endless years after Jesmindas death. But that this- this victory, this time for rebuilding felt that way, was an ache he couldn’t shake. Mother help him with her healing hands; for Lucien, having Amarantha to hate, having Tamin’s curse to break, had given him purpose.  And now? What was there? Tam looking for enemies all over again, Feyre’s fake smile like knife to the gut, the Spring Court full again with vipers. A healing land, but every bit had rot hiding in the shadows.  He wondered if the humans would kill him if they found him. String him up on a oak, red ties for binding, ash to take his immortal heart. The sentries knew better than the follow him, they’d only report his absence the next day. Tam would think he was hunting, probably. But Feyre- his first friend in a century, who he had no idea how to be a companion to, she would notice.  Out from under the old trees, larger than he’d imagine they usually grew here, fed with the ambient magic of the wall bleeding out, there were flowers. Grass and blossoms, manicured fruit trees just starting to awaken for the year. They were apple trees, tall and proud, like a blow to the heart.  Like an idiot, he followed them, the neat rows curving as they crested down a hill, until there before him was a human estate, green roofs bright under the clear sky.  Someone had planted a riot of wildflowers along the path, mixed and sprinkled them together so that they grew as a beautiful tangle. It was so unlike the tamed, static plants of Spring, so much more like his beautiful and vicious home.  Down Lucien went, resigned to follow his legs, to see this garden planted by passionate and unbridled hands.  The first thing he saw was the foxglove- every color from blackest purple to pale blousey parchment, grown tall and crowning beds from the middle. It was healthy and happy, the poison of it stinging at his nose. Peonies like sugar, just starting to loose into shape, tangled with lavender just barely awake. And roses- unmanicured at all, climbing and crossing one another somehow both the wild delicate blooms and their larger sturdier cousins.  Lucien traced a single, bloody blossom, thinking of how they used to float in the tea of his mothers sitting room.  “Oh, don’t touch that!” A female voice roused him, sweet as summer rain. “It’s just about to open- Oh.”  He’d turned to her voice, and she’d frozen, dark eyes so wide they were swallowing her face. The human girl, young woman, he thought, rocked back a step, hands white knuckled on a shovel nearly as tall as she was.  Lucien realized what he must look like to her. Dressed for the hunt bristling with knives, a bow at his back. The metal eye and terrible scars, even the his long hair, minuscule braids pulling it back from his pointed ears. To this beautiful girl, Lucien was a nightmare.  Easily, he snapped on a courtiers smile. “Hello,” he breathed, pitching his voice soft.  Lucien bowed, the last thing he noticed were her silken blue shoes, uselessly lovely for a garden. He was thinking about the delicate color, that this girl must be a noble, before he was hit hard on the side of the head and the world went dark. — The girl had hit him with her shovel.  Lucien groaned low in his throat, opening his eyes to sky and roses. He couldn’t have been out long, he could smell the girl nearby, her nerves tinging the air. She smelled like honeysuckle and oak leaves, like roaring campfires, like the warmth of the sun- and fear.  He sat up and there she was, just out of arms reach, clutching that shovel in front of her body like a ward.  “Look,” she started, voice high and fast, “I apologize for the impulse, my lord. My sister was taken by faeries. My name is Elain, and I’ll go with you wherever you want, as long as you promise that only I’ll be punished, that the staff and the estate will be left alone.”  “Take you?” Lucien echoed. Maybe he was concussed. A faery warrior and diplomat centuries old, brought down by a human girls gardening implements.  But there was something about her face, something that kept snagging his attention. Freckles and lovely creamy skin, flushed with both fear and temper he could smell. Big brown eyes, shot with gold, a full mouth and- and her mouth. Those were Feyre’s lips, her chin too.  Cauldron boil him and mother take him.  “You are Elain Archeron?” He didn’t want to give her time to be afraid, didn’t want to scare her anymore. Not just because Feyre would kick his ass if she found out, but because- because it felt wrong, that this beautiful girl should ever have anything to fear from him. “My name is Lucien, I live in the Spring Court with your sister Feyre.”  He’d expected smiles, hoped for them. Not for the pink flush to take over her skin entirely, for her face to crumple into tears. “Feyre?” Elain breathed, the shovel clanging to ground. “Feyre is alive?”  “Alive and safe and happy,” Lucien assured too fast. Instead of replying Elain let out a sob, and buried her face in her hands.  Could he not speak to mortals at all? Did the beautiful girl, did Elain hate faeries that much? Carefully, Lucien slid to his feet, moving slow in case she looked up. More carefully still, he reached out to bump her arm, handkerchief an offering in his hand. She took it, chocolate eyes roaming his face and shakily wiped at her tears.  “Perhaps,” Lucien began, painfully aware of how tall he was, how quick and strong towering over her, “you could write Feyre a letter? I’ll carry it back with my own hands.”  Elain squared her delicate shoulders and pushed back her curling hair, gracefully pulling together her tearstained face. “Yes,” she said, the girl who’d hit him with a shovel disappearing into genteel tones. “Tea, I think? With this chill in the air. I can write while you refresh yourself.”  Lucien found himself blinking at the transition. Had he ever sat and had tea time, in his entire adult life?  Elain was still speaking, “I have a solarium this way,” She pointed toward the southeast end of the estate, down a path lined with herb gardens just starting to sprout. “The maids don’t even come in, so no one will see you there. Miss Hilfridge, our cook, has been baking these darling little cakes with dried flowers from last summer, you’ll love them.”  And so Lucien followed Elain, her bright speech filing the air, a less than pleasant contrast to his pounding head.  The solarium was as elegant as anything that existed in Spring, potted orchids and palms and citrus trees filling the space with the smell of earth and life. Elain directed him to a silk covered chaise, every bit the consummate hostess as she ensured he was comfortable there and took his weapons. Took his weapons and left the room, still chattering brightly.  Mother damn him, she’d plucked the wicked knife from his boot with a tinkling laugh. He’d been too distracted by the sound- like joy condensed, the emerald brooks of home- to even object.  When she bustled back, a laden tea tray in her hands, she’d changed into a deeply burgundy gown, the painfully charming sunhat removed to reveal barely tamed deep blond curls. She was all pale gold, flushing again as he jumped to his feet and took the tray from her, unable to watch her try to carry the burden.  Was she blushing? Lucien shouldn’t care a whit if she were, this young, delicate woman. She perched across from him and poured, her hands steady as passed him a rosebud cup, a bone china plate piled with miniature scones.  “I’ll write while you eat?” Elain asked, smiling at him. This one, Lucien thought, so much more than Feyre, would have been a lethal courtier. He inclined his head in return, smiling his Spring Court smile.  Elain was the very picture of feminine grace as she wrote, filling pages with looping elegant penmanship, teacup delicate in her other hand. She was beautiful hitting him on the head with a shovel, now, she was confounding.  She sipped and looked up, smiling to him sweetly, politely. Lucien had always been told human food was ash in immortal mouths, the truth wasn’t far from it. The scones were odd, tasteless, the berries  inside them had a strange firm crunch that was honestly unpleasant. The tea, at least, tasted like tea, if tea had been brewed from hard water, a strange tinge of earth and metal to it.  Fae senses were nothing like human, he reminded himself, continuing to eat and sip mechanically, politely. He’d been trying to focus instead on the bright smell of the blooming citrus trees, so intent on that and not offending Elain further that it took him until the dregs of his teacup to notice.

The laugh that burst from his chest was too big for the quiet room, foreign to his ears. When was the last time he’d really laughed? “Are there iron filings in my tea?” Lucien choked out, trying not to guffaw.  Elain’s smile had gone clever, and very real. If not for the pulse of fear behind it, he’d thought she liked that he’d noticed her ploy. “Only to make sure you don’t decide to go after the staff.”  He set down the cup and picked up a scone, examining the bursts of red fruit baked inside with careful eyes. “And rowan berries in the scones?” Clever girl.  Clever, beautiful girl- whose knowledge was woefully wrong.  How had she survived this long? This close to the wall, and only fairytales to guard her against the very real monsters his people could be. Lucien could not allow that to go on.  “Elain,” he began, fighting to keep the delighted laughter far from his voice. “Iron doesn’t weaken faeries.” She gone still at his tone, was watching him with those careful, sweet eyes. Was Feyre’s entire family this stupidly, wonderfully brave? “Not salt in your pockets or blessed metal, not hawthorn or rowan or oak, not red thread and not hiding your face.”  Curls were sliding down her neck as she tilted her head, thinking. “What does work?” Elain asked, voice quiet.  “Only ash wood,” Lucien promised. “Carve it into weapons, or burn it and use the ash. Even the smoke will work somewhat.”  She was looking past him, out the glass wall, to her field of a garden. Out into the trees beyond, like she could see the wall itself, that poor safeguard.  “Elain,” he started again, how did he comfort her? This beautiful, brave girl. Who’d hit him over the head and tried to poison him, who’d offered herself up to keep her servants and their families safe. Slowly, so that she could pull away, so that he wouldn’t startle her, Lucien reached for her hand. “Promise me, if any other faeries come here, you use ash or run. You run to the wall, you get through to Spring. Feyre and I will keep you safe, no matter what.”  Elain blinked, and then again, dark eyes wide enough to swallow worlds. Her hand in his was as fragile as glass, even the callouses soft, her pulse under his fingers like a sparrow.  “Okay.” Elain said, finally looking back at him. “If anything goes wrong, I’ll come to Feyre.” Lucien wasn’t hurt to be left out of the offer, but it twanged the yawning emptiness that lived in his chest.  Elain was staring at his tan skin against hers, a wrinkle forming between her brows. Had he broken some mortal convention he didn’t know? Feyre touched people- faeries- all the time, but then again, she also didn’t give a damn about rules.  Carefully, like she didn’t understand what he might do, Elain squeezed his hand and let go. In quick assured movements she folded the letter into a neat square, binding it with bright ribbon. She stood, those soft skirts that begged to be touched flowing around her. The letter was clutched in both her hands, like treasure. “You’ll take it to her?”  “No one else will touch it,” Lucien assured. Elain smiled again, that real one, her cheeks dimpling.  Silently, he followed her back out into the sunshine. Lucien couldn’t think of a single thing to say as she fearlessly walked right along side him, her hair a riot in the light, her skin nearly faery fine. She smelled like warmth itself, and sounded like to too, her wordless happy sigh as she stoked a hand down the plants they passed.  Even with Lucien slowing his long gait as much as possible to meet hers, they reached the edge of the estate, the last of the apples trees too quickly.  Elain paused to look up him, dark eyes a serious that he wanted to know more about. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, “please tell Feyre we’re all doing well, that if she can ever get away, we’re here.”  Lucien wondered if that love would still extend if Elain knew her sister was no longer human. Like an arrow to the heart, he was sure it would. The girl who had been brave enough to attack him in her garden had a fierce and unyielding spirit.  “It’s nothing,” he said, bowing once more to her. He made it three steps away, just into the thick forest shade before she stopped him.  “Lucien,” Elain called, her voice a caress on the syllables. She waited for him to turn, still smiling that dimpled, intriguing smile. “You’re welcome to come to tea again.”  Elain didn’t wait for an answer but curtsied and turned away, her skirt tangling in soft grass as she headed for home. Lucien watched her go, frozen. He was watching to make sure she made it, to make sure she was safe, he told himself.  But that bright, very real smile stayed with him. An ember in the dark, tucked away under his ribs. When he breathed, he smelled honeysuckle and thought of her audacity to try to poison him. Elain Archeron.  It wasn’t until he was nearly home, crossing to the estate grounds, that he realized she’d never returned his weapons.

[scribblessims]

Sea Change

Hello Seth.

I am not sure how you managed to reply to my last letters at all. There is no computer here to scream a blinding whiteness at me even after I pull the cord up by the root. The house is dead: no doors have come.

If I am the same Anya I have always been, it is only another hollow shell that I have left behind me.

Nevertheless: order. Answers and Questions. I have noticed that I have a tendency to begin from the middle, because following my thoughts and lives forward and back is a mobius of confusion.

I found a pencil lying next to a broken telephone buried in the house basement, its sarcophagus a faded, water-warped cardboard box. I don’t know why it suddenly appeared: a gift from the house, perhaps? It was worn to a stub by the time that the house died, and I seem to have kept it, wherever I am now. Writing on the back of your letter with it is somewhat difficult.

Time has come unstuck between us: by the count I cut in the door it has been over two hundred days since I sent my last letter, since I set out for my last trip to the Night Garden, since I killed the house.

Yes, I killed the house. I didn’t mean to – I didn’t know. I reached out and I yanked what I needed to know out of what I understood and the whole thing came crashing down, houses, gardens, salami.

To answer your question: my other pen pal was, unlike me, an innocent trying to survive, a child who turned into a plant. They tried to help me, but the bitter alchemy of my eternity turned every present sent through the envelopes to dust. The world that has closed around me like a damp, clammy curtain has no room for the generosity of a world filled with other people, real or cardboard.

Before the letters stopped, Kia was very happy. In love, at home, and sustained by the sun. Then after the long months, my house finally died, and I was alone with its corpse. I never did learn the secrets of what I could send between the houses in those envelopes, or why.

The house gave me eggs and bread and tiny take out cartons of fried rice, apples and almonds and those strange little individual cups of yogurt with flavors like passionfruit and buddha’s hand and durian. I gave it nothing. Even at the end there was always something to eat, even if it was only the cardboard skins and instant ramen.

Did the house know that I had killed it? I’m not sure.

The things that grew in the night garden were not thorns and jagged rocks and other solid, intentionless instruments of natural pain. They were miasmatic, sticking inside the lungs in the dry static air, hulking in the gloom and rustling without wind. The first time I wrote to you a great root like a faceless person wrenched itself out of the side of a rock where it had been digging and chased me back to the manhole that sealed off the night garden from the way to the house. I had to wait, and watch, and sneak back in when the root being was asleep.

I wanted the secrets. I wanted a faster way to discover the half-intuited secrets in the books that I could not read, a better knowledge of when the gardens would appear, to not be afraid of the Night Garden or the emptiness around me anymore. So I ripped the root of judgement out of the night garden, from under the water and the earth that even then smelled like a grave. And as the night screamed around me I ran, and the tunnel crumbled behind me. I didn’t notice until much later that the house was fading, losing the color that it had gained beneath the greasy beigeness, the smugness of the yellow siding fading away to a haggard color, the yellow wallpaper no longer a slightly flaking skin, but smoldering and unclean with ghosts.

It blistered and peeled away in great sores, the brittle windows cracked, and the blood-rich smell of rot wafted up from the drains. The house took a very, very long time to die.

I have not seen any fireleaf – life was scarce and grey in that new place – but my skin burns all the same.

All this time since the house died I have been alone. I would welcome a cardboard person, a sculpture made of paper mâché, the house a wasp makes for her heart. I could not kill an unreal thing, a person who nothing could happen to.

We die because we actually bothered to live. The cardboard people simply stop being once they are too creased and wrinkled to stand up to the other paper dolls.

Well… you die, I suppose. Theoretically.

This makes me wonder once more If I am truly alive.

At the moment, I am more interested in your garden, and the woman who appeared to you there. I don’t think it is entirely similar to the gardens I once had, since it appears to exist in a world where there is more than one person, and I don’t think you went through a door of mine, since you are, all existential worries about being the same person aside, still writing to me, and still existing in the same sort of time and space.

I am not exaggerating about being unmade, or inhabiting a new person. I have not dropped into the same life, or a Xerox of a life, whenever I have gone through a door. But if, as I have come to suspect, all other people are ants crawling on their own separate page of the universe, and I am something without consistent substance, a subset of a subatomic particle, bouncing between these beings, perhaps it is possible that my doors, my transformations, exist perpendicular to yours. You may have gone through the sort of door that I can only approach sideways, unable to step away from the dimensionless frame to walk through.

Perhaps this is why it seems so strange to try and see myself through the eyes of any other person. I do not know if to them I am beautiful or terrifying, or if there is a difference at all – and what an angel I would make with a halo of teeth! Here with no dry wind to gnaw at my face, I will never encounter a poet to tell me if I am human.

I should tell you to be careful. You know what you are willing to do, but you do not know what will happen when you do it, what brittle piece of worldglass you might break. This would, however, be hypocritical. You do not know what will shatter if you do nothing. Thrice I have changed the space around me, and it was only the third time that I caused any harm.

Once I was a carver of stone, and I carved the weighing of the heart against the feather of truth. Ma’at spoke to me then, or so the I that was a filmy wrapper over my self believed. Perhaps he was more real than I am now, for he was not aware that he would be annihilated when he walked through the new door deep beneath the tomb. How many hearts do I have, and how many feathers? Can the good I hope to have done for Kia, the good I might do for you, outweigh the fact that I killed the house?

I do not know how to try. Perhaps I did once, when I was another person, but for now all I have is existence, a mailbox grown from the pink dry corals sprouting from a soil I cannot sense. I am still here. If I had to chose again, I would have asked more questions before I decided to tear out the root.

I am at the end of many, but not quite all things. It is dark here, the sky and ground indistinguishable, vertiginously black, a night with no horizon and no stars. Beyond the edges of humanity there is a howling quiet in my stomach, a void which turns it’s gaze from me in disgust.

Perhaps you would like it here. There are many plants and things which might exist perpendicularly to planthood. In the dark meadow of the mailbox the sea grass waves without a sea. I would, perhaps, like it much better, both here and with the house, were I not afraid of the doors – guilty over all that I have done, afraid of what I might do in the future, the people I might erase.

It seems that I do not need a door to commit that crime.

Before the house died, I could have been happy here, or if not happy, since happiness is a liquid that drips away, content. If I could know that a door would never come, that I was quit of wandering, that with the house and the letters I was not alone… Perhaps someday I would stop thinking about who I have been and what I have done. Perhaps I could detangle the order of my lives and find the first, discover what I was before the first door, unpeel myself to the center of the onion and sprout again.

I could be old again – perhaps doorless I would rejoin the progression of time, count the cycles of the earth, discover a way to make the books in the house readable, settle into every crevice of my body until one day I was so deep into myself that the separate thing that was me was no more.

I am not sure if I would be someone else then, the final days of this body, or if it would be a transcendence. Religions argue back and forth and sideways and I have long since decided that it is not a question of deserving.

The theory that each of us is eternal, an unbroken line stretching to the edges of the universe, has some appeal, as does the idea that we are a mobius strip of life repeating on and on. Today I take comfort in the idea that I may not contain an infinity, simply an unreal number to massive to measure but far too short to contain itself a thousand times over.

If that is true – if a person perpendicular to me, like you are, does not contain infinity, branching off into the stacked pages of an infinite number of universes – then perhaps you do have a choice, whether or not to go through one of your metaphorical doors. If it is not, perhaps there is one of you who was hungry instead of curious and did not go behind the roots, who did not approach the barefoot woman in the garden, who did not listen, who ran.

Or perhaps the philosophe-physicists are full of shit and we are a soup of coincidence, motes of the universe colliding to form an atom, a chemical, a strand of DNA, a chaos of neuroelectrical impulses trapped in a calcified skull, each of us not a photocopy but entirely alone in the universe. Infinity is an unattainable god that we believe in because we cannot bear the idea that someday all things will be gone and there will not even be a nothing as there was before us.

I would love to believe that in the lives I inhabit there was nothing before me, but there are only so many crimes I can commit with perfect arrogance. I have been everyone, Seth – whether I was aware that I was more or not, there is no pattern amongst the static scream. Happy, despairing, confident, anxious, alone, beloved, revered, afraid – how could they all have wanted to stop existing, to disappear? It seems too much like a malicious fairy tale, that in a moment of weakness whispering ‘I wish I were somewhere else,’ you could be snatched away and replaced with… whatever it is that I am. A changeling, a doppelganger?

Aside from you and from Kia, on the other side of a closed door between living houses, there is no one who knows what I am, what I have done, and for some strange reason you don’t seem to be afraid that I exist at all. If there is one of me, perhaps there are others? There could be an infinity of people and an infinity of doors all without my knowledge. Tommorow you could wake up a new shell for a chorus of hermit crab ghosts. You might even be a part of me – I wouldn’t mean to do it, but when the doors arrive I always go through eventually. Once it took almost a century.

I don’t want you to disappear, even if there is more than one of you.

And you – what do you want from me? Do you want me to absolve you of a crime that you have not yet committed? Do you want me to open a door for you beyond all things? Do you think that if you walked through that door with your Sarah, with a real, live non-cardboard person, she would not burn and liquefy, with no guarantee she could reassemble herself metamorphic on the other side? That’s true of you as well.

I do not want to be alone. I do not want to have killed the house, to be the magnet taken to the floppy disc of a practical infinity of people, a protozoan in the skull or a hookworm in a cardboard skin. If the woman in the garden is at all like me then she knows of doors and regrets. Perhaps she was trying to warn you that if you go looking for a door you may not like what is on the other side. She’s clearly better at it than me.

Not every story ends in fire or ice. I think. Most go through, leaving the smelling of the burning of your childhood home clinging to your hair, reeking of guilt and a white bone sky.

You can only see the ends of other people’s stories, not your own.

I have begged the mushrooms to tell me how I could have done better, or at least less harm, and they remain silent as the gibbous moon that does not live in my empty sky.

No one is listening.

[tarons-thighs-ad-infinitum]

Little John Goes to Nottingham Fair

Spring and Summer had passed since the Sheriff’s feast in Sherwood and it was now the mellow month of October. The air was cool and fresh; the crops were harvested, the young birds had grown, the wheat was milled, and apples were ripe. And even though enough time had smoothed things over and men no longer talked about the ‘horned beasts’ that the Sheriff tried to buy, he was still angry about it and couldn’t stand to hear Robin Hood’s name spoken around him.

October was also the time the Great Fair was every five years in Nottingham Town. People came from near and far throughout the country. Archery was always the main event for the day because the common Nottinghamshire men were the best longbowmen in all of England. This year, however, the Sheriff hesitated a long time before he announced the Fair because he was afraid Robin and his men might show up. At first, he didn’t want to announce the fair at all, but then he realized men would laugh and say that he was afraid of Robin Hood, so he decided to go through with it. He thought he would just offer a dumb prize that no one would care to want. The tradition was to offer 10 bucks or a barrel of ale so instead, this year, he set the best bowman prize as two fat bulls.

When Robin Hood heard what the prize was, he was angry and said “Sham on the Sheriff for offering a prize no one but shepards would want! I wanted so much to have another match in Nottingham. If I win the prize, I’d get no pleasure or profit from it.”

Then Little John spoke up and said “No, listen here, Boss. Earlier today, Will Stutely, Young David of Doncaster, and I were at the Blue Boar and we heard about this fair. But we also heard that the Sheriff offered this specific prize so that the men of Sherwood wouldn’t care to try for it. So, Boss, if you want; I think we should go and try to win this stupid prize.”

“Nah, Little John,” Said Robin, “You’re a good strong man but you’re not as smart as Stutely. And I’d rather destroy Nottingham than let you get hurt. Nevertheless, if you want to go, at least take a disguise in case someone there would know you.”

“You’re right, Boss,” Said Little John. “But all the disguise I need is a Scarlet suit instead of this Lincoln Green. I’ll pull the hood up and hide my hair and beard and then, I’m sure no one will know me.”

“I still dont think you should go,” Said Robin Hood, “But if you want to go, then go now. But don’t act a fool, Little John, because you’re my right hand man and I would be so upset if you got into trouble.”

So Little John dressed himself all in scarlet and started off to the Fair at Nottingham Town.

Fair days at Nottingham were fun and beautiful. The green grass in front of the big town gate was dotted with booths in rows and multicolored tents and there were streamers and garlands of flowers hanging everywhere and people from all around came, both upper and lower classes. Some booths played upbeat music to dance to and others had beer and ale and others had sweet cakes and candies for sale. There were sports happening outside the booths too. Some singers sang songs about the old days and played the harp. There were wrestling matches in a sawdust ring. But mostly, people gathered around a raised platform where strong men fought with staffs.

So Little John showed up to the fair. His pants and jacket were scarlet red and his hood was red and there was a red feather stuck into the side of the material. Over his shoulders, he slung a strong wooden bow and he hung a quiver of a good round of arrows across his back. Many people turned to watch a man as big as him walk past because he was broader across the shoulders than any other man there. And he was a foot taller than all the other men too. The ladies looked at him with lust because they’d never seen a more attractive young man.

First, he went to the booth with the beer and stood on a bench there. He called to anyone nearby to come drink with him. “Hey my dudes!” he cried “Who wants to drink with a big strong man like me? Come one, come all! Lets drink because the day is nice and the beer is strong. Come here my good dudes and you and you and you too! Because this round is on me. No dont look around. I mean you! You the jolly handyman and yes you too healthy beggar. Everyone should drink and be merry with me!”

As he shouted, everyone crowded around laughing while they drank. They called Little John a brave fellow and everyone swore they loved him like their brother because when entertainment is free, you love the one who deals it out.

Then he strolled to the platform where they were play fighting because he loved to fight with his staff as much as he loved to eat and drink. And here is the adventure that was sun in ballads throughout the area for a long time.

One man who was in these fights ended up knocking out anyone who tried to fight him. This man’s name was Eric of Lincoln. He was very famous and sang about in ballads. When Little John reached the stand he found that no one was fighting because Eric was boldly walking up and down the platform, swinging his staff and boasting loudly: “Now who wants to come and fight for the girl he loves most against a good Lincolnshire man like me? How about you boys? Come on! Or else your girls aren’t that pretty and you have no need to fight for them. Or your young men are lazy and chicken. Lets battle! Lincoln against Nottingham! No one who’s stepped up against me today would count as a wrestler back home.”

This made the crowd nudge one another with their elbows and say “Ned! Its your turn!” or “Go on Thomas!” but no one really wanted to take a beating for no reason.

So Eric saw Little John in the crowd, a foot taller than everyone else and he called to him “Hey, You giant dude in red! Youre built like a linebacker and gotta thick head. Is your girl not good enough to fight for her sake? Honestly? I think nottingham men are spineless. So come on you giant bug. Wanna twirl with me for Nottinghams sake?”

“I would” said Little John. “But I dont have my favorite staff with me. Though it would made me so happy to crack your skull, you pompous loudmouth. It would do you good to be knocked down a few pegs.” He spoke slowly at first but his anger grew as fast and strong as a bolder rolling down a hill and at the end of it, he was raging.

Then Eric o' Lincoln laughed aloud. “Big talk for a man who wont fight me fairly.” He said “you’re clearly just as pompous. And if you’d dare to step up here, I’ll make your tongue rattle in your teeth.”

“Now,” Said Little John, “Can someone lend me a good strong staff o try and beat the snot outta this dude?” and about ten men held their staffs toward him. He picked the strongest and heaviest of the all. He sized up the staff and said “Its barely a splinter or straw of wheat compared to what I’m used to, but it’ll have to do. So here goes nothing.” So he threw the staff up onto the platform and jumped easily up after it, picking the staff up again when he was straight.

They took their places and looked each other up and down until the referee said “Fight!” They stepped forward, holding their staffs tightly in the center. Then the crowd say the most impressive quarterstaff match to ever happen in Nottingham.

At first Eric o' Lincoln thought that he would gain an easy advantage, so he said to the audience; “Watch how fast I destroy this dude.” But he didn’t find it to be all that quick after all. He struck with force and skill but he was evenly matched with Little John. He struck three times and three times Little John turned the blows away from himself. Then with a graceful backhand, he knocked Eric beneath his guard so hard that it made his head ring. Eric stepped back to clear his head and the crowd roared with pride that Nottingham had cracked Lincoln’s crown. And thats how the first round of the fight went. So the Ref yelled “Fight” again. Now Eric knew what he was up against and was wary. He was disgusted by the blow he’d taken and so in this round, neither Little John nor the Lincoln man caught a single blow under their guard. Then, after a while, they parted again, and that was round two.

For the third round, Eric tried to stay wary but he began to get mad at himself for being evenly matched. So he lost his wits and started to strike fast and fierce. It made a sound like hail on a tin roof. But in spite of everything, he couldn’t break through Little John’s guard. Finally, Little John saw his chance and took it. One more time with a quick blow, he knocked Eric upside the head, giving himself enough time to lower his right hand next to his left. Little John swung the staff like a baseball bat and struck Eric so hard across the face that he fell down and it looked like he would never move again.

People shouted so loud that everyone came running to see what the fuss was about. Little John hopped off the platform and gave the staff he borrowed back to the man that had given it to him. And that was the end of the famous fight between Little John and the famous Eric of Lincoln.

Now it was time for the archery shoot. Everyone took their places and the crowd ran to the range where the shooting was to take place. The Sheriff sat near the target on a raised platform with many powerful people around him. When the archers took their places, the referee gave the rules of the match. Each would shoot three times and whoever shot the best would win two fat steers. Twenty archers were lined up, some of them the best at the longbow in all of lincoln and nottingham, and Little John. He was taller than all the others. “Who is that stranger wearing all red?” Some said and some others answered “Its the guy who just knocked out Eric of Lincoln.” And thats how the crowd went on talking until the Sheriff heard it.

Now each man stepped forward and took their turn shooting and even though each shot well, Little John was the best of them all. He got the center circle all three times and the last shot he was only a millimeter from a dead center bullseye. “Hurray for the Tall Dude!” the crowd hooted and hollered. “Hurray for Reynold Greenleaf!" because this was the name Little John had called himself that day.

Then the Sheriff stepped down from his platform and came to where the archers were and the archers all tipped their hats respectfully as he passed by. He looked curiously at Little John but couldn’t recognize him. So he said “Hey man, there’s something familiar about your face.”

“Yeah probably.” said Little John. “I’ve seen Your Worship often.” and as he spoke, he looked steadily into the Sheriff’s eyes so that he did not suspect him.

“You’re cool my man.” Said the Sheriff. “I heard you showed Lincoln how skillful Nottingham could be today. Whats your name?”

“People call me Reynold Greenleaf, Sir.” said Little John. The old ballads that mention this say “He wasn’t lying. He was a ‘green leaf’ but the sheriff never asked from which tree.”

"Now, Reynold Greenleaf," said the Sheriff, "You’re the best Longbowman i’ve ever seen. Except for that jerk Robin Hood, who keeps getting away from me. Do you want to join my service? You’ll be paid well. Three suits of clothes a year and as much good food and beer as you want. And also a 40 dollar Christmas bonus.”

“Sure! I will gladly be part of your service!” Said Little John because he thought it would be funny to work for the Sheriff.

“You won the two fat steers fairly.” Said the sheriff. “and since I like you, I’ll add a whole barrell of good beer. I think you shoot as well as Robin Hood himself.”

"Then," said Little John, "for joy of having gotten myself into your service, I will give fat steers and brown ale to all these good folk, because I don’t need it and it’ll make them happy." Then there arose a great shout, many throwing their hats into the air, for joy of the gift.

Then they had a barbecue and roasted the steers and drank the barell of beer and they were all happy and drunk. Then when they had all eaten and drank as much as they could, and the day faded. The moon rose, all red and round, over the spires of the towers of Nottingham, they all joined hands and danced around the fires while others played bagpipes and harps. But before any of this could happen, the Sheriff and his new servant Reynold Greenleaf were already in the Castle of Nottingham.

[secret-rendezvous1d]

Full House This Christmas

DECEMBER 7TH, 2017.

Alfies first xmas ADDED: Baby Styles first Christmas and you celebrate it at Anne's house. ADDED: Ooohh you should do a cheeky “making out in the car outside of Anne’s house and getting caught by Gemma knocking on the car window” blogmas story

Okay, so, first of all; I need to issue an apology for this coming to you so late. I was on such a roll and then this one stumped a little and I just need a couple of days to really sort it out. I do like how it turned out, though. And I’ve included a number of characters that I don’t think I ever gone passed before... so, that’s an achievement within an achievement. ;))

Second of all; I just want to thank everyone for being so incredibly supportive and loving of this years Blogmas. It’s been some time since I’ve posted a lengthy story and to have so many coming out at once, I’ve realised I’ve missed it a whole lot more than I thought. I love doing my Harry Talks but I love writing stories, a little more, and it feels good to get back in that groove.

Third of all; I thank you for sticking around and giving me feedback to better everything I write. I know, sometimes, it can be a bit of a shambles so I appreciate everything that gets sent in for me to think about. 

Feedback is welcomed, as always.

Enjoy! xx

CHRISTMAS EVE, 12PM. CHESHIRE, HOLMES CHAPEL.

You always loved going back to Cheshire at Christmas-time; probably a tiny amount more than Harry loved the feeling of being back home. And when Anne had suggested a big family Christmas, sparking up the idea after Alfie had been born, it was an offer that neither of you could refuse.

Harry let the car roll down the narrow streets, located on the outskirts of Holmes Chapel, at a casual speed that allowed you to take in the all-too familiar surroundings of a small town you’d always felt welcomed in. The shops, on the high-street, were decorated with tinsel in the windows, jelly stickers were stuck up on the doors to welcome customers, christmas lights strung up and twinkling around the gutters of the bakeries, and chalkboards propped up outside the pubs to inform passersby that Sunday was doing “the best roast dinners in town!” and that booking early guaranteed you a seat. You loved listening to Harry tell Persephone all about where he grew up. Pointing out the shops he used to spend his pocket money in, taking the long way to Anne’s so he could show her the bakery that gave him his first Saturday job, driving passed the parks and telling her all about how he used to scrape his knees on the tarmac when he toppled off the slide or how he cut up his elbows when he fell over on the bark. Hearing your daughter perk up, tapping her fingers against the steamed glass of her window, decorated with drawings and faces, pointing out how the streets and the houses didn’t look anything like what she’d seen in London and that she liked how quiet it was and that it wasn’t so busy; because, for a five-year old, she liked the security of being safe when she was out with her parents and she liked to be somewhere that she could play without horns beeping or having rowdy shouts coming from the down the road or having the constant sounds of cars rolling passed the garden.

It wasn’t long before you were taking the anticipated and excited drive up the familiar street that homed his mother’s house. Already seeing her stood in her front porch, tucked up under her thick dressing gown and nursing a mug of coffee, that was decorated with the cold frost from the morning, where the sun hadn’t quite hit the area to melt the ice. Trees bare and lifeless, that would be littered with apples and leaves of the darkest greens, and standing tall in the front garden. Brown leaves falling into piles on the grass. Cars parked outside, leaving an open space for Harry to park the Rover, belonging to his aunt and uncle and his cousins, who had brought along their respected partners.

“Seff, look who’s waiting for us,” Harry said, twisting the knob of the volume button to the radio and turning down the festive music that hummed through the car, hearing a cheeky giggle come from his daughter as he took a look over his shoulder, seeing her wave frantically with a grin on her lips, “is that nana, yeah? Are you excited to spend Christmas with her again?”

“Yeah! Nana makes the best cookies and gives me loads’a chocolate ice-cream with ‘em, daddy. Said I could help her make them, too,” Persephone nodded, bouncing in her seat as she looked towards her little brother. The four-month old baby rousing from his snooze, settled comfily in his car-seat, having lulled into a sleep before the car had made it on the lengthy and tedious motorway outside London. The car coming to a halt beside an empty parking space, in the driveway built to the side of the house, as Harry pulled the keys from the ignition. “Alfie’s awake, mummy.”

“Oh, is he? I think someone might be a bit hungry, then. He didn’t eat a lot when we stopped,” you hummed, unclipping the seatbelt from around your front, carefully guiding it back into place, before pushing the side door open. Swinging your legs out and setting your feet upon the gravel, crunching stones under your weight, immediately being engulfed into a tight hug from your mother-in-law. Squeezing you to her front and swaying the both of you softly. “Hey, hi. God, I’ve missed you.”

“I wish the four of you would pop up a bit more. I miss being a mother to my sweet boy,” Anne laughed softly, pressing a kiss to your cheek before pulling away from you, adjusting the dressing gown around her before tightening the belt around the middle. Watching over your shoulder as Harry climbed out of the drivers side of the car, giving the door a bump with his hip and releasing a pent-up breath from the cold air that stuck his exposed arms. Pulling the passenger door open so he could tend to the baby, gurgling and kicking his legs out against the back of the seat, tucked up beneath his thick blankets. “Just say the words or give me a ring or even send me a text, and I’ll be on a train down to see you all, no matter what the time is.”

She wrapped her hand around the handle to Persephone’s door, helping the bubbly little girl open it, before she was jumping up and down on her feet, bouncing and rocking on her heels before wrapping her arms around her grandmother’s waist. Hugging her tightly and pushing her face into Anne’s soft dressing gown-clad tummy.

“Hi, sweet girl. Nana’s missed you. You’ve grown up so much, haven’t you, huh? Want you to slow down, I do,” Anne hummed softly, running her fingers through Persephone’s hair, “are you going to help me with the cookies and the dinner for tomorrow, yeah? Gon’a need all the help I can get.”

“Daddy said I can help him with the cranberry sauce, too. And, you said I could help with making the cookies,” Persephone reminded her, a gap between her teeth, right at the front, a tiny white tooth peeking from her gum as her adult tooth began to push through her inflamed gum, “daddy let me bring my smarties to put in them but he said that you could ‘cide on that.”

“I think we could do a mixture of smarties and chocolate chips. Think everyone would love that.”

Her tiny fingers slotted through Anne’s slender ones, holding tightly onto her hand, as she closed the door with force behind the motion, siding away from the black car as Harry closed the passenger door on the opposite side. Locking the car before disappearing, bending over, for a brief second to wrap his hand around the handle of Alfie’s car-seat, lifting his son from the floor, the baby-bag set upon his shoulder, as he scuffed around the hood with a smile.

“Lets get you all inside and in the warm. The weather’s not so nice for the little bub, is it? Ella and Gemma have been doing some research and they’ve spent all morning making a few pitchers of pink grapefruit margaritas. Non-alcoholic so everyone, including the kids, can have some, so there are some glasses waiting for you on the kitchen counter,” Anne smiled, slippers kicking up small pebbled stones as she and Persephone lead the way towards the open front door. “Everyone’s a bit excited to see your gorgeous little man, as well. Your aunt, in particular. She can’t quite believe how grown up you’ve become, Harry.”

“She said the exact same thing when Seff was born. Couldn’t quite believe how old I was and that” Harry chuckled, following you into the porch-way and letting you close the front door behind him. Clicking at the doorframe and barricading the air, present with a Jack Frost chill, from swirling into the warmth of the house. Hit directly, smack bang in the face, with the heat that came from both the fire crackling in the living room and from the heating turned up, full blast. “It’s so good to be home.”

It wasn’t long before everyone had separated into their own ways.

Everyone had moved from the hallway and situated themselves around the lower level of the house. Persephone taking up the tiny space in the middle of the sofa, cosying up between Ben and his wife, giving their cheeks kisses and letting Ben slip off her loafers to set them by the coffee table with his suede boots, whilst Matty and his wife watched from the sidelines, waiting for their time to have a snuggle with the little girl. Chatting to her about how school was going, gasping when she told them a story that had shocked her tiny mind, letting her count from one to twenty and asking her all about how she found being a big-sister, cooing when she told them stories about how she’d helped her daddy change him one night and how she shares baths with him and how she fed him the day before. Anne having gone back to busying herself in the kitchen as she worked on getting two cottage pies completed and ready for oven for dinner that evening, instructing Robin to get more firewood from the garden and to find the most expensive bottles of wine from the wine cellar to make a change from the sweet that came from the grapefruit. Rummaging through the cupboards for matching place-mats and coasters and the wine glasses kept for the best occasions. Alfie, content in being passed from Gemma and Michal, sat at the dining table, to Ella and Dee, who were stood in the kitchen, before ending up in Mike’s arms, who was leaning against the counter and waiting for the kettle to brew to make tea and coffee for those who’d accepted his offer. The four-month old smiling brightly up at his great-uncle and finding amusement in Mike’s finger coming into contact with his little nose.

“He’s just a precious little bub, isn’t he? He’s absolutely gorgeous. Congratulations,” Dee cooed, her arm holding you tight to her side as the both of you nursed glasses of the vibrant red sparkler that lingered on the lips and tasted absolutely beautiful. Sitting on your tastebuds and making you crave a follow-up glass. You hummed a gentle thank-you in appreciation, followed by a sheepish smile, before she continued. “You’ve got two adorable children, sweetheart. It’s good to see him so happy. He’s always loved kids. Me and Anne, we’ve always discussed the topic of Harry and Gem having their own kids. Knowing that Gem and Michal are on the verge of maybe trying for a baby, and getting snuggles with your little sweeties, it’s so lovely. It’s been a while since we’ve had babies in the family.”

Your eyes lingered on your husband as he stood to the side with his uncle, chatting idly about the snuffling but giggling baby each time he felt a touch to the tip of his nose, a smile bright on your lips.

“He’s been amazing, you know? When Persephone was born, we were nervous wrecks. Neither of us knew what we were getting ourselves into. We didn’t know what to do when she cried or when she was sick but he was so great with her. There are times when I just can’t believe we made them” you said softly, chest aching as you watched Harry reach for the baby, cradling him to his chest with Alfie’s head pushed into the hollow of his neck, “he’s like a professional dad. It’s unreal. Whenever I see him, I just fall more in love with him and I never thought it was possible.”

“You know he loves you a whole lot as well, right? I’m telling you, my boyfriend has never looked at me in the way that Harry looks at you. He has a twinkle in his eye and he’s never looked so happy before. Not even when he used to be up on stage and performing in front of thousands, every single night,” Ella gave your shoulder a rub before dropping his lips to your cheek, “and that’s all on you.”

CHRISTMAS EVE, 8PM.

“Do you think we brought enough food for your mum? I feel like we should have gotten those vegetarian burgers or those vegetable samosas from the curry counter. Not saying that everyone is going to be absolute carnivores and devour the meat but, what if your cousins have gone vegan or something? We don’t see or talk to them a lot, Harry.” You looked over your shoulder, twisting your body in the front passenger seat, and huffed out a heavy breath, blowing your fringe up and from in front of your face. The backseats of Harry’s car being stocked up, and packed as well as he could pack it, with party food and snacks to feast upon throughout the evening of the Christmas day. The main course already having been prepared and the adults already given their strict tasks on what they were on duty for looking after. “Your mum gave us this task to do properly, Harry. Don’t want to muck this up.”

“I think we’ve just brought the whole of Waitrose back home with us, love. There is nothing that we don’t have. Brought two of everything from the bloody freezer aisles and I’m pretty sure I pulled my groin running back to get that cheese,” he teased softly, pulling the car-keys from the ignition of the engine and hooking the key-ring around his index finger, the keys jingling whilst the metal clinked with the metallic Gucci bands around his fingers. Her head turned towards him. “And don’t you dare say we forgot the bloody vegetarian burgers. For Christ sake, just don’t say it.”

“But, Harry-”

“No,” he pushed his forefinger to your lips. Your mouth smushed against his digit as he gave you an amused smile. “If anyone was a vegetarian, mum would be making a whole different meal for them tomorrow, yeah? The only one, not eating a Christmas turkey dinner tomorrow, is our little man. He’s having a pureed Christmas dinner made up of potatoes and some chicken.”

“Harry, this isn’t funny.”

“Hey, no, no, I’m not laughing at you, Gorgeous. I’m not laughing at you. I promise,” he unclipped his seatbelt and let it swing behind him, coiling back into place at the side of his seat, before he settled himself to face you. A leg bent up, the toes of his boots nudged into the gear-stick, whilst the other stayed flat in the footwell beneath the wheel. “I think it’s great that your mother slash party host instincts are kicking in, but, we’re just the guests tonight. You’re worrying over absolutely nothing, you silly goose. Mum would have said to get anything vegan if we did have someone, in the family, who didn’t eat meat. But, she hasn’t said anything. And last time I saw Matt and Ben, they were devouring a turkey sandwich, with their wives, by a hotel pool, just a few years ago,” he reached across the console and reached for your hand, tugging it back to rest upon his thigh, “stop worrying over this. If we’ve forgotten anything, I’ll just have to pop out later tonight and hunt down a 24-hour garage or something.”

“But-”

“Please,” he huffed, squeezing your fingers with his, “stop worrying. I don’t like it when you worry over the tiniest of things. Makes me worry and, we both know how I get when we both worry. You don’t like kissing lips that have been bitten or have evidence of blood,” he snickered, taking a glance in the direction of the porch. The driveway light, having switched on upon the car’s arrival, having now turned itself off, with there being no detection of movement. The porch light being enough to get them safely up the stoney pavement, with their arms full of Waitrose bags. “I reckon we’ve got about 10 minutes before someone comes out to see what we’re doing. Or to offer their help. But I don’t think it’ll be the latter. Scotch on over here and gi’me a coupl’a kisses. I feel like I haven’t snogged you enough today.”

You snorted and rolled your head back against the headrest of your seat, nose scrunched up as you reached down to the side of your thigh and unclipped the seatbelt that kept you securely fastened to the front seat. A click being heard as you let it slide over your front and swing back into place.

“How old are you? Seventeen, got your first car, and want to shag your girl in drivers seat, huh?” You teased playfully, feeling his hand tug upon yours as you sat upright, helping you swing your leg over the console and grabbing your hips to hold you tightly, bottom lip trapped between his teeth as he situated himself, a little cosier, to give you more room to straddle his lap. Forearms resting upon his shoulders, fingers delicately, curled around his ears, as the curves of your shoes fit perfectly against the curve of the cushioned seat beside his jean-clad thighs. “I’m getting flashbacks.”

Sitting in the same position, in the same parking space, in front of the same house, of the same month, but no longer just boyfriend and girlfriend, 3-years into a relationship. Squeezing in some alone-time before you were torn apart to be squeezed and hugged by all members of his family who Anne had invited; his grandfather, having always been particularly excited to see you when he heard the news of you coming up North, being the main culprit to why Harry wouldn't have you by his side through the night, but who was he to complain?

“Pretty sure I was close to bustin’ a nut in that old car. Held a lot’a memories that old thing did, didn’t it? Seff absolutely loved that car, she did. We’re proper parents now, aren't we, huh? Gon’a have a minivan soon,” he chuckled, his warm breath, minted and smelling vaguely of the coffee that he'd brought from the supermarket café upon arrival, fanning over your face from the millimetre gap between your heads. The fronts of his lips curved up, slightly pouted, as his nose wiggled from the tip. Hands cupping your bum as you sat comfortably upon his legs. “I can see you driving a mini-van, actually. Lookin’ like such a mum. With cheerios all over the floor from the school run, smears on the windows because the kids love to draw faces on the foggy glass, odd shoes and socks left behind because they’d kick off their trainers in the sleep. And you’ve got all your old CDs in the front and the kids absolutely hate your taste in music. Just like their dad does.”

“Hey, we have the same music taste. All those CDs will be yours, anyway. Just stolen from your collection,” you grinned, pressing a set of rhythmic kisses to his lips, one after the other after the other, as your thumbs rubbed over the shells of his ears, “would’ve never given The Rolling Stones or Savage Garden a listen if it wasn’t for you. Throw in some Shania Twain, too.”

He scoffed heavily and dropped his forehead forward, his hair tickling your nose as he shook his head, “absolutely nothin’ could beat a bit of Shania Twain. What did you listen to before you met me? Sounds like utter rubbish.”

“You see, I was in with the kids. Listening to the charts and what Grimmy would play on the radio in the mornings and I’d buy the number ones from iTunes. I wasn’t living in the 80s,” you smirked, his head lifting back up. Eyebrows furrowed to show a look of offence but his lips quirked into a lopsided smile, “I mean, when I met you, you looked like you were in with the trends. Converse boots were in fashion then, weren’t they? Remember your bedroom was full of those white tattered shoes that I hate knowing that you still own.”

“Gon’a give ‘em to Seff, if her feet ever grow as big as mine,” he chuckled, “one of our kids has to end up with the good ole’ Styles feet, right? Size ten by the time they’re eighteen.”

“I hope not. Your feet get cold easily. I don’t need an alarm clock in the mornings. You nudging me with your toes is enough to startle me awake. Like they’ve been stuck in a freezer all night and you just slot them back on before I wake up,” his lips split into a cheek-aching grin, his head falling to your shoulder as your fingers raked through the hairs at the back of his neck, “I like dainty. I miss having little new baby feet in the house, you know?” You hummed in delight as he puffed out a breath from between his teeth and began peppering kisses to your neck. The collar of your striped jumper, stretched overtime from being overused and worn more than you could count throughout the winter months, having fallen to expose your collarbone. “Doesn’t mean I want to make babies now, mister. We’ve got a baby in the house already.”

“Just want to have a make-out with my missus. S’that so wrong, huh?”

You shook your head and tilted your head to the side, cheek coming flush against his hairline as his journey of kisses, sponged softly and nudged into the crooks of your collarbone and hollows of neck, began to travel up towards your jawline. Delicately pressed to your skin, tasting hints of your perfume that clung to the tiny wrinkles formed upon your neck, because, if he went any harder or introduced his teeth, you’d shatter beneath him, like fine china hitting a tiled floor, without a chance to piece you back together. His nose peeking over your soft chin, pressing a kiss to the apple curve below your bottom lip before pressing a final peck to your lipstick-stained lips. A kiss that started as a few pecks, similarly to your display of affection beforehand, and soon turned into something that had you, cautiously, pressed against the steering wheel with an elbow that was dangerously close to  the horn. A kiss that took the both of you into another world, homing tongues and teeth.

But a knock, heavy and thudding against the window, is what tore you away from each other. Eyes fluttering open as you found his green eyes and he found yours, before turning your attention to the woman standing on the other side of the door; Gemma. A tea-towel draped over her shoulder, hands disappearing under the sleeves of her thick jumper, as she shifted upon her slippered feet to keep her blood from freezing up in her veins. Her breath fogging up the window of the car.

“Alfie’s been sick all down Ella’s back after she fed him and he’s pooed his nappy and it’s gone all over his baby grow and Percy’s not liking the smell of the house because of it and mum’s fretting over your son all whilst you’re out here and snogging faces like a couple of horny teenagers. Sure you’d have slipped in a quickie, if I didn’t appear,” she scolded, her voice muffled by the glass, tapping her finger to the window, again, with a deep frown on her face. Harry’s finger pushing upon a button that made the window slide down with a creak. “Mum wants the food to put in the freezer. Sure you can stop sucking faces for an hour and help. Plenty of time to do be making more babies when there isn’t a house full of people in front of you.”

“Just fancied a smooch,” Harry retorted, pulling the button to make the window slide back up, “be in in a second.”

His sister stomped her foot and rolled her eyes, pulling the chequered tea-towel from her shoulder, and balling it up in her.

“Harry!”

CHRISTMAS EVE, 9:30PM.

The small blow-up bed, that his cousins had helped blow up over the course of the evening, fitting for one tiny person to lay upon, sat much lower than the queen-sized bed that accommodated his aching back, pushed against the bedroom wall. That sat at a reasonable height for him to perch upon without having to strain any muscles to get down and back up again. His knees pulled to his chest as he sat on the edge, his body causing a dent beneath him, Persephone’s body curled up underneath the duvet, as he made sure to sit with her until she dozed off. Chatting sleepily to him, slurring her words and interrupting herself with yawns, as hummed back in response, ears still perked to attend to any cries that may erupt from his son, fast asleep in the travel cot. Arms stretched by his head, legs covered with his blue knitted blanket, with his lips parted.

“Daddy, how does Santa know where me and Alfie are so that he can drop off our presents? What if he takes them to our house in ‘ampstead and forgets to bring them here for us to open in the morning?” his five-year old questioned, her eyelids heavy as she fought the urge to close them. Her fingers, holding onto one of his large palms, twisting his wedding back around his finger. “Daddy, what if we don’t have our presents?”

“Well, that won’t happen, little love,” he swivelled around, as best as he could, to face her, looking down at her as she cosied up to the teddy-bear she’d brought along with her, “mummy and daddy had a little chat with Santa Claus and we gave him nana’s address so that he can slide down her chimney tonight, when we’re all fast asleep, to drop all of our presents off. Told him we have a really good girl who’s waiting for her Christmas presents and he promised us that he’d deliver them to her,” Harry grinned, cupping the back of her head with his free hand and pushing back the strands that sprung free from the blue band keeping her hair in a ponytail, “pinky promised me, he did. And we both know what that means.”

“Means he can’t break it, daddy!”

“That’s right,” he nodded, his head swinging around to the bathroom door that creaked open. The flick of the light switch echoing around the en-suite as you turned off the light and pulled the door closed. Wiping your wet hands on your pyjama trousers before settling upon the bed, taking off your rings and sliding off an extra blue band to tie your own hair back. “You’re fightin’ sleep, you are, little missus. Got’a be asleep for Santa to come in the morning, haven’t we, hm?”

Persephone nodded, bringing her hands to rub at her aching eyes. His body hunching over to press a gentle kiss to her lips.

“Love you, daddy,” she whispered, a yawn soon following in suit, “see you in the mornin’.”

CHRISTMAS DAY, 7AM.

The atmosphere was cold as Harry took gentle steps down towards the lower level of the house, dodging the creaking stairs on the stairway and humming to keep his son entertained and away from the thought of craving attention from somebody. The skin of his legs covered in goosebumps as his bare feet pressed against the carpeted floor of the hallway, his mind focused on shuffling around anything in his path that would make a noise and wake someone up in the house, respecting that he wasn’t in his own home anymore. Upstairs, guesting a number of people who wouldn’t be all-too pleased about being rudely woken up so early on Christmas Day morning; hangovers reeling over them. 

Upon entering the living room, to pass through to the kitchen to warm up a bottle of milk, he could hear the soft, and barely audible, thrum of Frank Sinatra playing from an old record, and he expected to see his older sister nursing a mug of coffee and watching re-runs of old Christmas music videos or his aunt taking the job of getting presents sorted into piles around the living room, dressed in a dressing gown with slippers on her feet, and glasses upon her nose and she read tag after tag. But, instead, he was greeted by the gentle and calming face of his mother, squeezed into the corner of the sofa, presents piled around her on the floor and towering high, skimming through an old photo album, with worn out pages, filled with old film photographs of his childhood.

“What are you doing awake?” Harry murmured, a yawn following his words as he kept a slightly disgruntled Alfie content in the crook of his arm. Patting his bum softly as his feet took towards the sofa, perching down beside his mother and tucking Alfie’s feet beneath his arm. “Wasn’t expecting you to be up so early. Thought you’d be wanting a lie-in before breakfast. You slept okay, yeah?”

“Of course, yeah. I slept fine. I just, I woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep so I thought I’d come down here and get an early start on the dinner. I’ve got some bacon and sausages warming in the oven, if you’re hungry,” Anne smiled, reaching a hand over as Alfie took hold of her finger, “what are you doing awake, though? Heard you and the missus late last night.”

She looked at him with a cocked eyebrow, his cheeks flushing a bright pink, head ducking down to look at his son.

“Wasn’t anything like that, mum. Just chatting and doing some reminiscing about Persephone’s first Christmas and all that. Late night pillow talk, you know?” Harry grinned. Tired, lopsided and a little lax with his muscles. “Alfie was a bit fussy this morning and I wanted to keep my ladies asleep, for as long as possible, before everyone woke up for today. Thought I’d come down, catch up on some telly, and then help you with breakfast,” his eyes fell to her lap where a thick and overflowing leather-bound book sat upon her knees. A cup of tea, steaming on the coffee table, sitting untouched, with a couple of mince pies sat on the coaster beside it. “What one are you looking at there?”

“Just the old baby photos of you and Gemma from your first Christmas day. Yesterday gave me some time to really see the both of you as the individual adults that you both became,” she gave Alfie a large grin as he wrapped his lips around the tip of her finger, suckling on her the tip and wiping his tongue across the skin below her nail. Her eyes scouring over her grandson, soft and with a lot of love lighting up her orbs. “It made me feel a little overwhelmed, you know? You were this small once, sweet boy, and it just seems like yesterday that I was bringing you home from the hospital. Now you’ve got your own baby boy, celebrating his first Christmas, and a gorgeous little girl upstairs, who’s becoming more herself every single day, and you’re no longer my baby. No longer needing me to help you.”

“Mum,” he cooed softly, shuffling closer to her and reaching for her free hand, “m’still that little boy you loved to watch grow up. Got my own little boy to enjoy watching and you’ve got a grandson to watch grow up, yeah? He loves you already.”

“Thank you for coming to spend Christmas here this year. Especially Alfie’s first. I know you may have wanted to spend it at home, like you did with Percy’s first Christmas, and” she smiled and pressed a kiss to his cheek, “I know you like spending time with your own little family but it’s always lovely to have you back under my roof. I don’t have to miss you so much when we part ways because I know you’re only in the room next door.”

“You know I love coming back. ‘specially when v’got my own family with me, who are always just as excited to be back here as I am,” he grinned, giving her hand a squeeze before he held Alfie in her direction, “give ‘im a cuddle. You’ll be doin’ me a huge favour. Think he’d like a Christmas morning snuggle whilst I go for a wee and wake my girls up. Do you need me to go and wake Gem up or-”

“I wouldn’t. I think they’re awake but you know how your sister gets when they interrupted in the mornings,” Anne reached for the baby and cradled him to her chest, craning her neck down to press a kiss to his baby shampoo-scented, blonde hair. “Go have a lie-in yourself. I’ve got him,” she looked down at Alfie as Harry stood to his feet, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead, “nana’s got you, hasn’t she, hm? Nana’s always got you, sweet boy.”

[writingandchocolatemilk]

A World Beyond Main Street

Anonymous said : I wish you would write a fic where Prussia and someone who isn't Canada or Austria or Hungary or any of Prussia's more popular ships were on a world wide journey as humans and something bad happens

Soo how about some platonic, German Brothers brotherly love ?

On AO3. On FFn. 

The gutter groaned under Gilbert's weight.

Well, it wasn't the actual gutter, Gilbert thought, digging his nails into the metal. It was that part of the gutter that dripped down the side of the house, bringing the water from the roof to the ground. That Gilbert was attempting to climb.

"Oh, fuck," Gilbert breathed.

The whole thing gave a jolt. Gilbert released it, trying to twist, but he still slammed down on the ground. The wind rushed out of his lungs.

He lay in the grass, attempting to suck in air, writhing, back arched.

It was called a fucking downspout. Gilbert blinked the tears out of his eyes.

Plan B was pebble. Except there weren't any pebbles, so Gilbert ended up throwing his sneaker at the window.

"Ludwig!" Gilbert hopped over to his shoe and threw it again. "Damn it, Ludwig!" Gilbert whisper-yelled.

The light flicked on, and Gilbert stood crouched, ready to run if it was the wrong room.

"Gilbert?"

Gilbert waved, grin so wide it hurt his face. "Hey!"

Ludwig looked over his shoulder, back to Gilbert, and then leaned slightly out of the window. "What are you doing here?"

"We're going to find Dad!"

Gilbert couldn't see Ludwig's face in the dark, and he didn't say anything, either. Maybe he didn't want to find Dad. Maybe he was happy with his new family.

"Hey!" Gilbert gestured vaguely at Ludwig in the window. "Get dressed! We have to get far enough away so they won't find us in the morning. Dress warm, wear sneakers. Ludwig, come on!"

"Hold on." Ludwig shut the window.

Gilbert blew into his hands. Fuck, fuck. Ludwig was waking up his fosters. Or calling the fucking cops. He was taking too long—Gilbert had brought enough clothes for the both of them, but had he told Ludwig that? Shit.

Finally, there the front door opened, and Gilbert grabbed the backpack and darted over. Ludwig had an oversized coat, sneakers that were probably too small.

Gilbert pulled him into a hug.

"Fuck, I missed you."

Ludwig squeezed him. The squirt must have grown three inches since Gilbert had last seen him. "I missed you."

Gilbert laughed, wet, nearly crying. "I missed you, too." Gilbert held Ludwig at arm's length. "We're going to find Dad. Come on. I'll tell you more once we get away from this fucking prison."

Gilbert shrugged his pack further onto his shoulders, and they set off. It wasn't a bad neighborhood, all things considered. There were trees, at least, some grass here and there. Ludwig's fosters even had a yard. Lucky fuck.

"We have to cut through a bad part of town," Gilbert said, lowly. "So keep your head down, hands in your pockets."

"Where are we going?"

"We have to get out of the city."

Ludwig's eyes widened. He grabbed Gilbert's arm. "We can't leave the city."

"Why the fuck not?" Gilbert pulled away and kept walking, gesturing. "Come on. It's already later than I would have liked."

Ludwig walked at his heel. "Gilbert, what are we doing?"

"I already told you." Gilbert said, voice louder, cracking in the middle. "Come on."

Thankfully, Ludwig fell into step. Gilbert's heart pounded in his ears at every person passing them on the sidewalk. The knife in his pocket felt very heavy, and he gripped it, but it didn't make him feel any better. Just like he was a kid.

It took two hours of Gilbert frantically checking his watch to finally hit the suburbs. But even then, Gilbert couldn't shake the weight off his shoulders.

Ludwig broke. "Gilbert, where are we going?"

Gilbert looked around, chewing his lip. "Alright." He smiled. "Alright." He unzipped his backpack and grabbed the road map. "See this?" He pointed at the route, highlighted in red marker. "This is the way to Dad's house."

Ludwig looked at the map, eyebrows furrowed. "Gilbert—"

"Look, all we have to do is, like, thirty-five miles. That's nothing, especially if we're walking all morning. No one's going to expect us to go west. And I brought food and—"

"Gilbert, he doesn't want us."

Gilbert looked up at him. "Don't say that."

Ludwig's eyes were round, and he was worrying his lip. "He gave us up."

"No, our mother gave us up," Gilbert snapped. "She left him. He probably doesn't even know she—what happened to us. Our last name? Not many people have it. This had to be the guy."

Ludwig looked at the map again.

"Come on, Ludwig," Gilbert said, leaning closer, grinning. "Can you imagine? No more fucking foster houses, no more different schools. We can live together!"

"Alright."

"You mean fuck yes!"

Ludwig's mouth twitched into a smile.

Gilbert grinned back, then flipped up both their hoods up. Gilbert walked quickly, mouthing street names to himself. He had studied the route a thousand times. A thousand times. He knew the way.

First it was the fathers leaving for work, headlights in the early morning mist. Then the school buses, clean of graffiti, of thirteen-year-olds smoking dope and cigarettes. Then squealing children being wrangled into car seats.

Gilbert clenched his fists at the unfairness of it all.

It was good they were both tall for their ages; had Ludwig been shorter, some concerned mother might have stopped and asked them where they were going. But they walked by houses with lawns and trees and golden retrievers without so much as a passing glance.

Ludwig wasn't next to him.

Gilbert whirled around, but Ludwig was only a few feet behind.

"Shortstop, what're…" Gilbert saw the park, the swing-sets and slides.

Ludwig's attention snapped back to Gilbert. "Sorry," he said.

Gilbert checked his watch. They had been walking for over four hours, almost five. "Fuck it, do you want to swing?"

Gilbert marched over and threw his backpack on the ground, collapsing onto the swing gratefully. It was the most comfortable seat he had ever felt.

Ludwig swung next to him.

Gilbert jumped up and ran behind Ludwig, giving him a huge push. Ludwig let out a squawk, legs kicking wildly. Gilbert gave him another great shove, whooping. A laugh ripped from Ludwig's throat, childish and light, and Gilbert cheered.

Ludwig dug his heels into the dirt when Gilbert moved away, stopping himself. He smiled, cheeks red, hair a mess, eyes bright. "I'm hungry."

"Same. Come on." Gilbert stood and continued to walk, digging through his backpack. "Here, Poptart. I have plenty, and I have cash, so we can get pizza or burgers or something later. But right now we have to keep walking."

"Thank you."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "No problem, your majesty."

At twelve, Gilbert's feet began to blister.

At one, he took them off, walking on the asphalt in thin socks. He gave his shoes to Ludwig. They wore the same size; Gilbert was four years older.

At two-thirty, Gilbert's socks had to be replaced.

The houses grew further and further apart. It was mainly a few scattered trees, shrubbery. It was flatter than Gilbert had seen in a long time, the land stretching towards the horizon, with just gentle dips and hills. It grew flatter all the while.

It must have been fields out here, but now it was just plots of weeds. Houses were boarded up, windows, doors. The graffiti had reappeared, but instead of stray dogs, Gilbert swore he saw rabbits skipping away from them.

Gilbert's heart stopped when he heard sirens.

He grabbed Ludwig, looking around, and dragged him off the road. He kept Ludwig's head down and walked fast, leading them toward what looked like a barn.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Gilbert hissed, voice hoarse. "How did they find us, fuck, fuck."

He practically threw Ludwig into the barn, dragging the doors shut behind them. He held his ear to the door, holding his breath.

"Did you tell anybody?" Gilbert hissed. "Did you? Ludwig!"

Ludwig sat in a pile of hay and rat droppings. "I left a note," he whispered. "I just told them not to worry."

"Fuck," Gilbert said, dragging the word out.

Gilbert checked his watch. Four p.m.—so twelve hours. Would they really be after them that fast? There's no way.

The sirens neared. Gilbert felt nauseous. Felt the knife in his pocket. He wanted to cry. The noise was on top of them, in Gilbert's head, his mouth. And then…

"I think it's going," Ludwig whispered.

Gilbert slumped against the door. "Thank God."

The barn must have been used for shelter before. There were beer cans and cigarette butts. Gilbert walked around, checking for hobos. The arches of his feet burned; his heel sent shooting pain up the back of his foot. It didn't take long for him to collapse at Ludwig's side.

Ludwig's head kept dipping down, then snapping upright.

"We walked like twenty miles," Gilbert said, sitting up. He grabbed his backpack, offering it to Ludwig. "Here, eat as much as you need to, I have plenty."

Ludwig devoured the four Poptarts, a bag of chips, three apples, and three water bottles Gilbert had brought. Gilbert ate a bag of chips himself.

Gilbert leaned against the barn doors, head resting back, utterly exhausted. If anyone tried to come in, they'd have to knock him over first. Ludwig laid down, his back to Gilbert. The setting sun set his hair aflame, a halo around his head, the dust motes holy angels.

"Gilbert?"

"Fuck—" Gilbert kicked out, jolting upright. It was night now—the barn utterly dark. "Is everything okay?"

"Do you remember what Dad was like?"

Gilbert blinked, swallowed. He could feel the dust and hay coating his tongue. "Sort of. Well… I… just have… this one memory of him."

Ludwig shifted in the dark.

Gilbert let his head rest back. "I was so little, you know. I don't remember our house or… anything. But I think he…" Gilbert licked his lips. His back was sore, his feet were sore, he was starving. His neck was stiff. "He had just come home from work."

Gilbert closed his eyes. "He came home and lifted me into the air. I had run towards him. Put me on his shoulders. I remember laughing and…" He rubbed his fingers together. "Touching. His hair."

"Was he tall?"

Gilbert smiled. "Yeah. He was."

"Do… Do you remember Mom?"

The smile disappeared. "No. I don't. I don't want to, either. Neither should you."

Silence.

Gilbert cracked his neck. "Ludwig, why did you leave a note? They wouldn't have suspected anything. Is that why you took so long?"

Ludwig didn't answer for a long while. "I… I don't know. It felt like the right thing to do."

"They're only housing you for money, you know," Gilbert said stiffly.

"I know."

Gilbert checked his watch, lighting it up.

"Gilbert?"

"We have to leave in two hours, go back to bed."

Ludwig must have rolled over towards him, because his voice was louder. "I didn't know there were places without so many houses."

"What?"

"Like… There aren't any houses out here. Just giant yards. It's nice."

Gilbert laughed. "They're fields. For farms and stuff. Have you really never been out here? It's not far."

"No, none of my fosters ever brought me."

"You never just tried to run away?"

"No!" Ludwig sounded offended by the very idea.

Gilbert let his head flop back again. "Go back to bed. Love you."

"Love you."

The sun doesn't rise at four in the morning. This was the second morning Gilbert was glumly reminded of this fact when his watch buzzed him awake. It was cold, and for a long few minutes, Gilbert was sure his toes had frostbite. But after he put on the remaining pairs of socks on his feet, they warmed up enough for him to move around.

He ran water over his hands and face and changed clothes. He had Ludwig do the same, listening to the dribble of water on the barn floor.

"Why do I have to change clothes?" Ludwig whispered. "The ones I'm wearing are warmer."

"In case anyone saw us yesterday. This way, no one can identify us because of our clothes. Come on," Gilbert said, blindly handing Ludwig articles of clothing. "I want to get out there walking."

Gilbert squished his feet into Ludwig's old shoes, finding them to fit surprisingly well. They both ate an apple each as they walked, and shared the remaining bag of chips. Gilbert wanted to hold off on the last water bottle, but decided against it when Ludwig descended into a coughing fit.

"Next gas station we see, I promise," Gilbert said, "we'll get some real food."

They walked for two hours, and when the sun finally showed where they were, it was nowhere. The land spread out from either side of them to the horizon, where Gilbert thought he saw a cornfield. Clouds gathered there, trapped over the farm. For now, it was a pale lavender morning.

Other roads occasionally cut through the street they were walking on. They, too, stretched forward into the sky.

At seven, a building appeared on the horizon.

At seven-thirty, they reached the gas station. It was a twenty-four hour deal, and Gilbert purchased the old pizza from the night before and water. With the last of his money, he got Ludwig a Twinkie. They ate the pizza as they walked, grease dripping down their fingers.

"Did you get napkins?" Ludwig asked, flicking his hand.

"Nah, sorry."

The clouds finally reached them at eight-thirty. It made Gilbert strangely claustrophobic, without that endless sky.

"The air is cleaner out here," Ludwig said.

Gilbert jumped. He looked over his shoulder. Ludwig stared around, blue eyes wide. He kept swiveling his head around in giant circles, fascinated. Gilbert faced forward, feet throbbing, neck still stiff.

"It doesn't smell like cigarettes," Gilbert said. "Maybe we could just live out here. In that barn. We could start a farm. Make our own bread."

"I'd like that."

Gilbert looked over and grinned.

They came to an intersection with a lonely light directing no cars. Gilbert checked the map, just to be sure. Rain came down in fat pats on his head, the street.

Gilbert pointed. "Right, we take a left here, and Dad lives on this street."

Ludwig looked down the street, standing on the tips of his toes. "We're going to live out here?"

"I guess so," Gilbert said, putting the map away. "That's pretty rad. Come on, almost there, and then we can have a real meal and a shower."

Ludwig smiled.

The rain poured. Gilbert couldn't see ten feet in front of him. It was colder now, Gilbert's teeth chattering. Ludwig was slowing down, and he had another coughing fit, hands on his knees. Gilbert flipped his backpack to his front.

"Come on, get on my back, I'll carry you."

Ludwig blushed. "No, I can walk. I'm fine. The faster we walk, the sooner we can get out of the rain, and I'm just going to slow you down."

Gilbert bit his lip. Looked around at the puddles collecting in the ditches at the side of the road. Flipped his backpack around. "Alright."

The house was… smaller than Gilbert had imagined. He hadn't even realized it was a house until Ludwig stopped and looked at him, eyes wide. Gilbert had hoped for one of the suburb houses, something big with an SUV in front, a wreath on the door. This house was… small and squat, white, peeling paint.

Gilbert squinted through the rain. "That's our house number."

It was stupid for him to have expected anything different.

Gilbert walked to the front door, Ludwig holding his hand. They looked at each other. Gilbert squeezed Ludwig's hand. Then, he let go and knocked on the door.

The sound was very small in the rain.

A man with long, blond hair opened the door. "Can I help you?"

Gilbert couldn't speak. His throat closed on him, and his eyes grew hot and itchy. He took a shuddering breath. But still—

"Dad?" Ludwig said.

The man blinked at them. Their father. Gilbert's father.

"Dad?" Gilbert rasped. "It's us. It's Gilbert. And he's—he's Ludwig."

"Ah," their father said. "Boys."

Gilbert let out a sob, and Ludwig rushed forward, hugging his father.

Their father froze, arms raised in the air, looking down at Ludwig hugging him. Then, slowly, he reached down and patted Ludwig's back.

Gilbert couldn't move.

"Come in, out of the rain. I've just finished making breakfast," their father said, loudly, too loud. "Are you boys—"

"Yes," Gilbert croaked, "starving."

Their father served them cold scrambled eggs and bacon on paper plates. It was the best food Gilbert had ever eaten. They sat in silence, eating, staring at their father, who sat stiffly in front of them, reading a newspaper.

…

Gilbert launched himself towards his father, but was slammed against the table. He snarled, kicking back against the police officer, tears and snot blurring his vision.

"You fucker!" he screamed, trying to scratch at the hands holding him down. "You mother fucker! We're your kids!"

The officer handcuffed Gilbert, the metal cold, cold.

"I'm your kid! Don't you want me!?" Gilbert was hauled backwards, to his feet, but they wouldn't support his weight, he couldn't walk, he couldn't— "We walked for miles!" he sobbed as he was dragged through the living room.

"Please, Dad, please!"

Ludwig stood by the cruiser, eyes wide, staring at Gilbert. Gilbert felt the strength leave him, felt shame and embarrassment seep through him. Felt his cheek burn from where his father had slapped him.

Ludwig didn't look as Gilbert was put into the cruiser.